Everyone should make love in a northern town
In a northern town. Chucking out time. Staggering home along the murder mile. The streets are teeming with blokes killing each other. Alcohol-fuelled animosity. Who stared at whose girl ? Who spilled whose pint ? Who gives a monkey’s ? Any excuse for a fight. Saturday night ain’t Saturday night without a fight.
The blokes lurch and swipe and punch and swear, and when one’s down, groups of vomit-splattered, shit faced G-string mini skirt Lolitas, scream and egg the blokes on, and the lads put the boot in
And we sway and stagger our way through the brawling, down to the kebab for a big greasy doner and chips. We roll home down back alleys, where loving couples are pressed up against walls ,locked in a drunken knee-trembling clinch. We roll home full of beer, scoffing kebab and kissing, exchanging chips and onions in our embrace. Then back in your cheap bedsit, we fall farting and giggling into bed and each other.
Grey skies and Sunday hangover in your dank, dismal room. It’s freezing, no heating and we’re skint and starving with no more than a packet of broken biscuits and a couple of cigarettes for breakfast. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, the pubs are shut, love can keep us occupied until the London train.
Ravage me please ! (In a Northern Town)
Brush the biscuit crumbs away,
Stub your fag out on the floor.
We’re coming up to close of play
But we’ve got time for just one more .
Strip me down!
Ravage me please
In a northern town,
Late on a Sunday afternoon
When the pubs are shut
And the world is gloom .
Make our final hours sweet
Before we trudge
Down the terraced street,
Bag and baggage through the rain
To catch the London evening train.
Enfold me in your olive arms
And oily in, I’ll ooze,
Beguile me, smile me,
Dream me away
From these cockroach bedsit blues.
Dales Street, Lancaster, September 1985