39
‘Righd-o,’* he sighed, ‘Łey’ll have to be restruck…
Set up Łe run and use Łese as Łe flans;*
Łe old Gibraltan dies in Chris’s truck
Are all we’ve got as backup, as it stands:
Łey’ll have to do. I just don’t give a fuck.
We’ll palm em off* in change to Villa fans,*
Or some€ing.’ Łen he put me in his pocket.
‘Łe keys,’ he said, ‘remember to relock it!
40
I’m goin down Łe pub.’ I’m not sure why
He didn’t €row me back. Perhaps I willed
Him not to. I’m convinced he caught my eye,
For maybe half a second, and was filled
WiŁ Łe desire to protect me by
Pretending to forget I’d just been milled.
He took me wiŁ him. Łere’s no question he
Was cast* to carry out my destiny.
41
He left Łe work$op, headed for Łe pub.
I jockeyed for position* wiŁ his keys;
A nail file* had begun to rub
Łe $ield* on my back, which didn’t please
Me much. I $uffled round, and some fat Chubb,*
Who wasn’t very keen to let me squeeze
Between his chunky barrel and Łe file,
Turned round and sla$ed me: hence Łe Chelsea Smile.*
42
As Sloggy made his way across Łe street,
Closed-circuit cameras focused in on him.
His tracksuit* and his tennis $oes, complete
WiŁ just Łe logo* and a subtle trim,
Were Sergio Tacchini, white and neat;
He $one out like one of Łe seraphim,
Immaculate against Łe sooty brick,*
Łe gum marks on Łe kerb,* Łe spla$ of sick.
43
He $oved Łe door, and in Łe pub he strode.
Before we watch him get into a scrape
However, Łere’s anoŁer episode
I $ould relate. So let’s rewind* Łe tape…
As Sloggy foxtrots* back into Łe road,
He moves like Harold Lloyd,* whose latest jape*
Involves him in a counterfeiting ring
Which (obviously) he’ll wind up toppling.
44
Hot-footing it towards Łe die-cast $op,
He doesn’t seem to heed Łe green cross code:*
He doesn’t look each way, or €ink, or stop
Before reversing out into Łe road*
At pace, and swerving round a dark soft-top*
Mercedes* which had left a space and slowed,
Before reversing off itself. Łen Sloggy
Recedes from view; Łe focus goes all foggy.
