We've got nothing in common.

St. Mary Street on match day is the closest thing this city holds to hell.
Wave your flags, yeah, crowd the pavements, yeah, neck it back, yeah, wear
your colours like they're something you've earned , oh yeah. (There'll be
another colour come midnight, rich and royal, for the faces of your countrymen.)

Talk the fight like it's your own.

fuckayemunboysfuckaye. Any drink so long as it's Brains, any excuse for a
fistfight, any shop doorway's good enough to puke in. Have you got the fire in your veins? Does it run through you like medicine?

I used to feel some pride in this. It's alright, this hopelessness, these
senseless schisms, the way we stand on our cynicism & howl gleefully
fatalistic. Part of our collective charm. Makes us real. Least we're
not fuckin' English. Least we're not. Least we're not. Who the fuck are
'we' anyway? I've got nothing in common with you. I bet you queue for hours in Argos, I bet you'd pay thirty quid for a Stereophonics ticket, I bet you know every word. Rugby crowds in pub doorways, men in suits trying to avoid heart attacks over their Bay area property developments, tracksuited kids clustered outside MacDonalds throwing chips. Not you, not you, not you either.

No, I don't feel this language in my bones, you can let me fall to the pavement and no, I won't taste home. Only thing to do is build your own family, find your own diaspora, a coalition of the unwilling to say no with. Stand up and be discounted.

Am byth, uber alles, it's not geography that breeds bastards.

Dig your head out, let the day burn your eyes.

Fuck aye mun. Fuck aye.

Jess Trash

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