The poem (¿by Amrit Singh?), stanzas 38-44

38
“£e television and £e coronation,
    £e B&H and chinking* nickel-brass,*
Half-wittedly embossed in imitation
    Of Albion’s materfamilias,*
£ese €ings were ga£ered like a congregation,
    All winking* as £ey welcomed me to mass.*
On Bob’s palm I was £e communion wafer
But Sloggy grabbed me like a cheesy quaver.*

39
‘Righd-o,’* he sighed, ‘£ey’ll have to be restruck…
    Set up £e run and use £ese as £e flans;*
£e old Gibraltan dies in Chris’s truck
    Are all we’ve got as backup, as it stands:
£ey’ll have to do. I just don’t give a fuck.
    We’ll palm em off* in change to Villa fans,*
Or some€ing.’ £en he put me in his pocket.
‘£e keys,’ he said, ‘remember to relock it!

40
I’m goin down £e 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
Wi£ £e desire to protect me by
    Pretending to forget I’d just been milled.
He took me wi£ him. £ere’s no question he
Was cast* to carry out my destiny.

41
He left £e work$op, headed for £e pub.
    I jockeyed for position* wi£ his keys;
A nail file* had begun to rub
    £e $ield* on my back, which didn’t please
Me much. I $uffled round, and some fat Chubb,*
    Who wasn’t very keen to let me squeeze
Between his chunky barrel and £e file,
Turned round and sla$ed me: hence £e Chelsea Smile.*

42
As Sloggy made his way across £e street,
    Closed-circuit cameras focused in on him.
His tracksuit* and his tennis $oes, complete
    Wi£ just £e logo* and a subtle trim,
Were Sergio Tacchini, white and neat;
    He $one out like one of £e seraphim,
Immaculate against £e sooty brick,*
£e gum marks on £e kerb,* £e spla$ of sick.

43
He $oved £e door, and in £e pub he strode.
    Before we watch him get into a scrape
However, £ere’s ano£er episode
    I $ould relate. So let’s rewind* £e tape…
As Sloggy foxtrots* back into £e 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 £e die-cast $op,
    He doesn’t seem to heed £e green cross code:*
He doesn’t look each way, or €ink, or stop
    Before reversing out into £e road*
At pace, and swerving round a dark soft-top*
    Mercedes* which had left a space and slowed,
Before reversing off itself. £en Sloggy
Recedes from view; £e focus goes all foggy.