27
$e goes,* “I wi$* my dads had took* £e time
    To concentrate and do a decent job
When £ey were making us. It’s such a crime,
    £e half-arsed* cock-up of a woman’s gob
£ey gave me, for example. Just no rhyme
    Or reason to it. Picture £is: Fat Bob
Picks up a brand-new little golden pound
And says, ‘you sure £e head’s £e right way round?’*

28
‘Fuck me’ moans Sloggy, crouching next to Bob’s
    Gigantic oily* machinery,
Which buzzes like a Sabbath gig* and €robs,
    Lending £e grimy Hurst Street scenery
A nice satanic flavour; £en he sobs,
    Ironically, of course (but £at Ribena he*
Mixed wi£ £e gin had made him feel sick),
‘I can’t believe you Bob, you’re fucking €ick.

29
‘I worry about you sometimes, mate. I doubt
    Ano£er bugger’s ever had to stop
A run and pull £e fucking blanks* all out
    For such a trivial mistake. £e top
Is meant to go £e o£er way about,
    Besides, £e bleedin artwork int much cop:*
It looks like some old bag out on £e piss.
I ask ye.* Jesus. At a time like £is!’

30
A time like what? You ask. And so you $ould.
    I can’t stand stories where you haven’t got
A clue what time of day it is. I could
    Have said a word about £e Muse and what
£e £eme is too, to make it understood
    £is is an epic poem. But it’s not.
£e only ‘mews’* £at’s ever touched £is bard
Was up £e back end of a vicar’s yard.”*

31
(I’ve heard of poets talking to £e dead*
    And getting verses from ‘£e o£er side’,*
To pass on what £eir predecessors said
    In seances where, conjured to confide
£e low-down* on £e afterlife, instead
    £ey spell out villanelles.* I’ve never tried
Myself: I’ve no need of a ouija* board
To plead for ghostly help… and be ignored.)

32
“Of counterfeits and of £e woman/man:
    £e Quean, I sing. How’s £at? Derivative,*
I know. I’ve tried too hard to make it scan,
    It’s just a $am.* But frankly I don’t give
A damn.* I’ve done about £e best I can.
    No muse, you see: I’m just a karaoke div.*
A time like what? you ask me: was it late?
Dunno, £e clock had stopped at ten past eight,*

33
But June £e second, two €ousand and €ree,
    £at was £e date: I know £at; I could see
Some program on a portable TV*
    About £e news of Edmund Hillary
On Everest, and $erpa €ingummy,*
    And how it dovetailed* wi£ £e Jubilee,
Or some€ing. Was it Coronation Day?
Whatever…” (just some way to make us pay

34
Our TV license fees* and our respects
    To all £at telegenic speciousness:
£e stately, gilt-edged pomp £at intersects
    £e nation’s gaze, till it’s as meaningless
To ask, as any play of Bertolt Brecht’s,*
    Who’s really in £e spotlight — £em or us?
Like loyal, statuesque domestic grooms,
We hold our sofa-cades* in living rooms,

35
£eir weal€ electroplated* on our faces
    As we spark our B&H cigarettes.
£at’s what £e light in Tarantino’s* case is,
    Nostalgia for a golden-age £at $eds
A homely glow on us, like £e fireplaces
    We ‘upgraded’* wi£ television sets,
And filtertips,* American sitcoms,*
Positive economics,* and atomic bombs.

36
TV’s a stand-in for £e Briti$ sun.*
    We bronze our features* in its beta rays.*
And as it reaches its meridian,
    We’re mad enough to keep it in our gaze
Until some lasting damage can be done:
    Our skin anneals;* our eyes begin to glaze.
I sound like one of £ose self-righteous saddos,*
But turn your telly round and watch £e $adows

37
Reticulating* round your furniture;
    Just give your own imagination sway
To picture its own mental signature.*
    Perhaps you’ll question what I can convey,
Redoing* Plato’s cave* in miniature,
    But is it less insane £e o£er way?*
To contemplate a source of radiation
Was once a sign of mental aberration.)