Saturday Night Beneath The Australian Palm Trees

Stamping her feet to keep warm, an away-day Magdalene eyes-up the passing trade,
"Looking for business?" She asks through a haze of cheap perfume and nicotine,
"Not tonight," I reply, "I'm picking up a partner at the front of the station."

Over streams of body fluids tainted sodium orange into Hades I step,
Here the pavements are pebbledashed with chip wrappers and empty cans that once,
Held instant courage, instant energy, instant bravado to counter the Kryptonite of the 9-5,

Ahead of me Keane, Scholes and Neville, names written across their backs,
Shout abuse at three angry faces in Radio Rentals but,
Like Siamese Fightinf Fish, their hatred is directed at their own reflections.

"Oi You!" Keane shouts in an accent more Cockfosters than Cork,
"Me," I reply, foot hovering above an invisible accelerator pedal,
"Yeah you," he slurs, "We've been washing you."

Washing me! It makes me sound like a Ford Mondeo on a Sunday morning,
I wish I could hear the B in BANG! and run like Linford or better still like Ben Johnson,
Three large doners are thrown to the ground, modern day gauntlets,
I want to deny the challenge but denial is a foreign word and these are xenophobes.

For pairs of feet serpentine back and forth across the High Street,
Passing closing down sales, half price sales, mus end soon sales,
Postes for Jesus saves, tow suits cleaned for the price of one,
Some mistake shurely, a church that dry cleans your soul and your laundry?

We pass the kebab shop, the burger shop and the chip shop,
The betting shop, the jewellers shop, the ten pieces of chicken in a bucket shop, until,
Until I make a wrong turn, a possible dead end,
I am cornered by the Black Horse, trapped by fixed interest rates and new owner mortgages.

Now's the time to think about the wife, the kids, the car that needs servicing,
Anything to anaethetize myself against the impending, inevitable pain,
I can smell their breath: a Friday night cocktail of lager and chilli sauce,
I smile weakly at their 'Made in Thailand' replica shirts, replica haircuts, replica lives.

Then they are washing me: with Nike and Reebok and Timberland,
Replica violence writ large across my face, my back, my pride,
The sound of footsteps, two Good Samaritans approach, "Help me," I cry,
"Not tonight love," Magdalene replies, "I'm taking a punter round the back of the station."