It was a tradition. The dirty weekend -A secret weekend – A weekend away with a lover – Being somewhere where you shouldn’t, with someone you shouldn’t be with. It was a flirt or a fling in a cheap hotel, a weekend f*** in a bed bug room, in damp, peeling wallpaper gloom.

Let’s head to the seaside for a weekend of illicit passion. Gridlocked In Croydon – back to the 1980’s when men had perms and women wore huge shoulder pads. When the whole world was listening to Duran Duran and every bloke wanted a Ford Capri.

GRIDLOCKED IN CROYDON

 She’s got fat white thighs

An’ red raw arms,

Sweaty knickers pulled tight

Round her feminin charms,

Arse sticking like glue

To the passenger seat,

Plastic flip flops on her swelling feet .

Lookin’ so sexy,

Sittin’ up front

An’ . . . She knows what I want .

 

She’s wound the window down

Put the radio on,

Strumming out the rythm

Of a summer song,

Her fingers tappin’ on the door

Of my Ford Capri,

Gridlocked in Croydon

On the way to the sea .

Lookin’ so sexy,

Sittin’ up front

An’ . . . she knows what I want .

 

Sunday morning at the B and B,

Toast an’ a poke

An’ a cup of tea

Crumbs on her nipples

Butter on her breasts,

Bugs in the bed

An’ jam on my chest .

South sea sex

In the guest house gloom

Of an orange, formica, attic room,

She licks my jammy fingers,

Then smears them on her front

An’ . . . I know what she wants .