singing the Pogues at the top of our voices
he shows them to the roof where bar tenders somersault tequila into tall glasses
It's not my fault that I'm not able to French Polish the scratched coffee table
I know it's Emma's party and I don't want to spoil it but I think there is somebody dead in the toilet.
the muddy footsteps over our carpet, two men, one much bigger than the other,
I share a feather duvet with the headmistress of the local primary school
the old lady who was in the local newspaper after biting the arm of her mugger.
and I’d hear Steve Lamacq say ‘Sleeper are at Shepherd’s Bush Empire’ and he may have been mentioning Tolkien villages
the lady in Barnados beamed such a smile when I came in with a bin bag under each arm.
you say 'I bet all of our primary school teachers are dead by now' I think back to Mr Holland and Mrs Phillips and realise you're probaby right.
there is no time for asthma attacks or carbon monoxide poisoning, motorway pile ups or complications during minor surgery
and you hear Slade and Wham and Driving Home for Christmas by Chris Rea.
when you hear on the radio someone you like has died like Heath Ledger or Tony Hart
When I was on my sixth pint my friend Mark said he was thinking about having a haircut. I said he shouldn't. I said he suited scruffy hair.
this isn't a parody or a late night pissed up sing a long. Nothing compares to you.