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Sunday 16th September 2007.

I have spent a good portion of the weekend playing Taxi driver through the crazy flowing red bricked carbuncle metropolis Manchester,a feeling of being lost inside a pair of pantomime dame's knickers crept upon me as each street light came, hovered, cascaded glimmers reflecting this living city.
You either feel love or hate, for this obstinate pair of knickers,to old, worn out, to raise above the head with any sense of glee.They have been stretched that far the saggy elastic cannot even raise a sigh in protest as you try to peel them off to see what cocks are on view and who is pulling down the blinds in an effort to befuddle the population caught amongst the thread bare gusset into any sort of thinking that us the great unwashed can do better than the pin stripped suit hordes that trample over us now.
In one newspaper this morning ran a quote that the working class is no longer,i look down at my hands,what the fuck,i slip my hands into my pockets feel,what the fuck also.
My mind is still flabbergasted from the fact that Gorden Brown asked Thatcher to Downing street for tea and biscuits.The right to vote has become worthless,the polling booth might as well become a glory hole,for that is the only instance i will visit in the future.Thank goodness Thatcher did not have a cock.

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
foucaultonacid
Sep. 17th, 2007 04:10 am (UTC)
the working class may no longer exist but those of us who come from there will testify to the existence of poverty and then some...

as for thatcher returrned to no 10, at least brown is honest about it - none of this new labour bollox... it's enought o make one want to take up listening to billy bragg again
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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