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July. Just July.
I just caught up with this again....
MLCM: maybe you're being provocative, but the Dylan Thomas you quoted was just fab. DT was a poet who first loved the sound of the words' collidingness, and second, what the chuff they meant. If an' all.....
John Coooper Clarke I used to see so often in the pubs when I lived in Manchester in the late 70s/early 80s.
Here's an extract from a pome called Chicken Town.
He wrote it about Hulme, where I used to live.
I've changed every "uc" to "oo" to reproduce the accent.
the fookin' pubs are fookin' dull
the fookin' clubs are fookin' full
of fookin' girls and fookin' guys
with fookin' murder in their eyes
a fookin' bloke is fookin' stabbed
waiting for a fookin' cab
you fookin' stay at fookin' home
the fookin' neighbors fookin' moan
keep the fookin' racket down
this is fookin' chicken town
the fookin' train is fookin' late
you fookin' wait you fookin' wait
you're fookin' lost and fookin' found
stuck in fookin' chicken town
the fookin' pies are fookin' old
the fookin' chips are fookin' cold
the fookin' beer is fookin' flat
the fookin' flats are full of fookin' rats
the fookin' clocks are fookin' wrong
the fookin' days are fookin' long
it fookin' gets you fookin' down
fookin' chicken town
This couplet I have quoted a thousand times to people who've asked me what Manchester is like:
the fookin' beer is fookin' flat
the fookin' flats are full of fookin' rats
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
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July. Just July.
