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Here is some random PUSH writing taken from issues 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 8 & 9 and featuring Joseph Ridgwell, Simon Dent, Carlton Burns, Anette Roller, Dickson Telfer, Raymond Gorman, Bobby Dean Ward and Kevin Williamson.

 



FOR THE BOYS ON THE RIVERBANK
by Joseph Ridgwell

 

Who should have been in school

Sunning themselves on concrete

Smoking cigarettes and inhaling Tippex thinner

Backdrop of gasworks

River Lea navigation

And Pitch and Putt

The boys staring at sky, the blue, the clouds

Waiting for something

There

Beneath the sewage pipe

Beside a dirty, litter strewn riverbank

Festooned with Giant Hogweed, Dwarf Elder, and Comfrey

Water rats scurrying

A dead mirror carp in a plastic bag

Away, the distant hum of traffic from Lea Bridge Road

And rising from the river the skeleton of an abandoned car

Electric green weeds streaming from windscreen and rusting chassis

While beyond the poignant wreck

Under shade of weeping willows

A flash of brilliant colour

Glittering fire gold and topaz

A Kingfisher on the wing

Illuminating the inner city scene

In an impossible way


 

WOOLWICH by Simon Dent

 

This aint no game of football

though Arsenal’s origins were on this manor
 

What is appreciated in me

is in how I appreciate the flow

of pain, the lack of appreciation
 

Your politicians have failed you
 

What is needed is an intelligent voice

that is from the streets
 

Knows about bleeding emotion

a heart that truly feels

wants to heal

the unloved/misguided blind
 

But no one from the street

with a balanced mind of kind

can ever make that transition (into politics)
 

Because falsehood

and lies and betrayal’s

the induction training acid-test
 

Can you lie, be false and betray because it’s the only way?

 You have to go to war on us all once you’ve got those stripes

 War and conquer: all the Free World has ever known and spread

 Your politicians have failed you

Deal with the times wisely brothers and sisters


 

WARHEAD by Carlton Burns

 

I have always admired those who have unselfishly given up their own life for the cause of freedom for those truly deserving of such freedom. I’m not speaking in obvious terms, of the long dead revolutionaries. Jesus Christ. Michael Collins. Sid Vicious. I’m smoking-talking about the ability for a modern honest face to break from the crowd and stand alone. To deal with the ridicule, the unspeakable slander. Handle a gun or two pointed in your face. And not throw up in fear, piss yourself in public. I said all of that down at the station. Not down the tube station. I didn’t get an opportunity to say fuck all when all that happened. The incident. No, I said all that now I was in the cosy warm nick. Lucky to be alive they had told me. LIKE I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL. Don’t shout son you’re in enough trouble. Like I should be grateful. That better? Yeah. That made me laugh that did. I didn’t actually laugh out loud. It was all inward activity. These cunts were dangerous. I am not a fool. But they were still not happy. With me. Even after my full and considered explanation. Wouldn’t even let me call my mum. Be a man and take what’s coming was the telepathy. Was it still all understandable? Them not being happy? I have a balanced mind. I have recently looked at the situation as it was from their point of view. I mean I might have had them doing another Stockwell. Socking it to the wrong guy. Easily done when in terror/panic mode. As we all now know. Thinking about it, yeah, I guess I should be so lucky they didn’t shoot me up there and then. Or unlucky as all will soon transpire. I was easy to spot. Because when I took off my Mexican hat – so big (as it had to be) that I looked like a young Bernie Winters when it was on – when I took off my giant hat, I was the only bod on the platform with a hand grenade Gaffer-Taped to forehead. I hadn’t meant to take the hat off. No sir. But I had a demon itch that just had to be scratched. An itch that was bang centre of the grenade kissing my sweaty forehead. I was pissed and stoned. Hence why I never saw the reaction around me. Why no one got on the train upon its arrival. Why everyone on the train got off at London Bridge, destination or no destination. I was just glad to get a seat. And as I had some quality ME-TIME I decided to roll a fat joint. Even when this wasted I still maintain particular skills of perfection. I had my hat back on and a big fat one in my hand when the train pulled into Bermondsey some five minutes later. As I stepped off of the train my first and only reaction was that this was the firing squad end scene in the Kubrick film Paths of Glory. Naturally just as in the film I was the wholly innocent party. I had no escape. There they were. Two lines of marksman. One loud hailer. DO NOT MOVE OR WE WILL KILL YOU. There was also a secondary message exclusively mine too: STAY ON THE FUCKING SPOT CUNT. And so there was little young me all set to meet my maker. Like you really get to meet someone once the lights go out. But I’m just making small talk here to show off how cool I was being. Because these brutes didn’t scare me. Bunch of wankers. Nervous wankers at that. With my joint clasped between thumb and finger I raised both my hands. Cracked a friendly smile that didn’t seem to do the trick. DO NOT MOVE OR WE WILL KILL YOU the bore repeated. I wanted to ask if the condemned man could have a last smoke like in the movies; it was a seriously good packed out number I presently held aloft. I wanted to ask this to the loud hailer and the guns primed. Well. This stand off seemed to last hours. Next thing I know I am knocked to the ground from behind. I headbutt the deck. How the hard plastic hand grenade did not penetrate my nut and exit out the back is an amazement of luck. Good job wasn’t real or someone might have got hurt. In the end I did get proper hurt. They beat the life out of me. When I was seven-years-old my mum and dad sent me to the school fancy dress also wearing a big hat. It was a tall top hat with the words TOP OF THE POPS stencilled on it. I was wearing dads old clothes that mum had chopped up to fit me. I was also wearing something else of dads; his old punk seven inch vinyl brutally sowed on. I walked about like a robot that had shit itself. I didn’t win but had old men inspecting me closely like sex pests. Made a tidy sum that day. Out of all that vinyl. Twenty years later and my sister was having a fancy dress. In a sentimental way I wanted to pay homage to that day, from the past. I wanted to go as one of dads seven inch singles. I thought my idea of the UK Subs song was genius. I reckon if I had made it, everyone at the party would have agreed. But that never happened. They made sure of that.


 

BEHIND THE CURTAIN by Anette Roller

 

‘When my soul was in the lost-and-found, you came along to claim it; I didn't know just what was wrong with me, till you helped me name it. Now I'm no longer doubtful of what I'm living for and if I make you happy, I don't need to do more.’

He’s doing his business.
I just lay and watch the spider on the ceiling.
 
In my past life I was this spider, had my chance and was generously given my higher thought processes, but fucked it up.

Nothing is accomplished yet, the most dirty deeds are done, and the could’ve-been-golden-times are wasted.
The obvious in the shape of a sweatslippery, waxy family man in his late 30s just shags my last dignity-shells back to chalk dust. And I let him.
          He’s cut. So it takes ages.
          With each thrust he pokes deeper into my wound and his cold hands seem to drag me down into my own depths, his leaden body keeping me from breathing properly.
          The spider persists in its square angle and I wonder if it has eight eyes for its eight legs.
 
My two eyes are closed.
          I’m solely defined by the veil of my indifference.
          Numbness lulls me into a bristly cotton smelling like over aged cavern dust and I can just feel this metaphoric wound.
          He drill-circles himself horny-happily into me as if he’d await my bleeding as a result of his quality and considers my whispered conversation with the spider as joyful approval.
I want to scream.
          Wordpuke my disgust into his ecstatic face.
          Poor twat.
          It’s not him, it’s me.
          I ran over my own borders and lay down on this red velvet chaise longue for an extravagant price.
          I am extravagant.
          Sensational.
          Swallowing included.
          Without those reservations I breathe against him.
          I need my breath for my words.
          My words are freedom.
            Derrière le rideau de mon âme…
            My untouched knight in the leatherjacket appears,  Rollercoastering along my guts curves.
            Guardian angel with deepseablue eyes.

          Within one inhaling moment I’m clear, arriving at my decision as if I’d unlock the door to my home.
 
Yeah baby.
          NO.
 
I breathe him off me and look into his surprised face as he finds his fuck interrupted.
          He evaporates sweat making him look like crying and I am dry like a desert storm.
          I only can look into his eyes.
          All this naked, aroused rest of him is disgusting me in self disgust.
          ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
          Words are freedom.
          Strangely, he’s not surprised.
          He’s empathic.
          From horny to empathic in 1.0 spiders.
          ‘Keep the money’, he says.
          And with tying his tie he reminds me of all the happy customers; as soon as the door snaps I’ve forgotten them all.
 


 

ELLA 21:18 by Dickson Telfer
 

Despite the crew doing their best to convince us everything’s under control, I know it’s only a matter of time before the second engine fails. It’s noisy with toil, battling with vicious winds as the cabin oscillates like a theme park ride. Oh my God, I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. It’s difficult to focus on the positives, my mind determined to convince me that my final moments should be spent analysing why my precious time hasn’t been spent living life to the full. . .even though that isn’t entirely the case. This can’t be happening! Tell me this isn’t happening! Somebody has to be taking the piss here. Fuck! The cabin drops like a kid letting go of a marble. I push back into my seat and grip the armrests, knuckles white. I look at the old woman in the window seat, straight as a board, facing forward, eyes closed. Come on T-Mobile you useless fucks! I need to speak to Shirley, I need to tell her I love her and that I’m sorry about Thursday, and to look after Holly. Oh my God, my little princess! Water bottles, books and bags tumble down the aisle, clattering into ankles and seat fixings. Stomachs jump into mouths as the cabin drops again. The old woman reaches over the empty seat between us and squeezes my hand. ‘Listen to me son. . .This is the end, isn’t it?’ ‘Probably,’ I nod, gulping. ‘I hate hearing all this screaming and swearing, it’s upsetting me,’ she says. I don’t know how to respond so I just nod again. You might as fucking-well tell me now, Connor! You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you? You’re shagging that little slut from the gym, aren’t you? Aren’t you? ‘Have you had a good life?’ she asks, squeezing my hand tighter. ‘Yeah. . .yeah, I have. I mean, there are a few opportunities I wish I had taken, which I didn’t,’ I continue, ‘but that’s just. . .just. . .What about you? Have you had a good life?’ ‘I’ve loved every minute of it,’ she says, and smiles. I can’t help but smile back, warmed by the truth in her eyes. ‘I’m Ella,’ she says. Fuck! Fuck! Shit! Shit! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! ‘I’m Mark.’ ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mark.’ ‘Likewise.’ Her nails dig into my hand and scrape short white lines into my flesh. ‘I don’t want to die in a panic,’ she says, looking deep into my eyes, the warmth her smile had brought hers now gone. ‘Listen to everyone shouting and swearing and shrieking like banshees. That’s no way to exit this wonderful world, is it? I mean, I can understand – I’m a very understanding person – but it’s just not for me. What about you, Mark?’ Mummy, I’m scared! Why is everyone screaming and swearing? What’s wrong with the aeroplane? Can’t the pilot fix it? I don’t like it, Mummy! I don’t like it! Make it stop! Make it stop, Mummy! Pleeeease! Pleeeeeeeeease! ‘Well. . .eh. . .no,’ I stammer. ‘Good. . .glad to hear it,’ Ella says, patting my hand twice then gripping it again. ‘So how about you and I go out laughing. . .Are you with me?’ ‘Eh. . .okay. . .sure, why not?’ ‘Great. . .okay, here’s what we’re going to do.’ Who did the safety checks on this plane? Eh? Surely there was a safety check done as standard? ‘Take off your shirt and vest.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Take off your shirt and vest . . . and then give them to me.  I’ll give you my dress and put a bit of make-up on you, what do you say?’ ‘Are you serious?’ I say, looking into her eyes.  She laughs at my expression. ‘Well, we want to go out laughing, don’t we? And you did say you were with me, didn’t you?’ I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know who carried out the safety checks. Please try to remain calm. We’re. . .We’re doing everything we can to sort things out here. ‘Well. . .yeah, but. . .’ ‘But what, Mark? Are you having second thoughts?’ ‘No.  No, of course not. . .eh. . .come on then, let’s get that dress off you. By the way, how did you know violet was my favourite colour?’ The joy in her expression shoots happy tingles up my spine. ‘Intuition,’ she says, tapping the side of her head, laughing heartily. Yeah, well whoever they are, they’re fucking inept! ‘Okay, Ella, darling, if you want my vest and shirt, you’re going to have to let go of my hand.’ ‘After three,’ she says, looking forward. ‘One. . .two. . .three.’ I quickly unbutton the top three buttons of my shirt and take it off like it’s a jumper. I’m embarrassed by my belly’s lack of definition but I whip off my vest, letting my hairy doughnut hang over the seatbelt. For the love of God, will somebody pleeeease doooo something! I don’t wanna die! I don’t wannaaaaa dieeeeee! ‘Okay, your turn,’ I say. Ella takes a deep breath, lets go of her armrests and quickly pulls the bottom half of her dress up past her seatbelt. She steadies herself and then pulls it over her head.  I look at her wrinkly skin and withered, sagging breasts, badly supported by a deteriorating, discoloured bra. ‘Right, give me those,’ she says, grabbing my vest and shirt, glowering at me for grimacing at her wilting body. I take the flowery violet dress and put it over my head, expecting it to smell of lavender or mothballs, but it doesn’t. Laughter bursts through my lips at Ella drowning in my shirt. ‘Looking good, Ella,’ I say. ‘Same to yourself. . .at least you will do once you’ve got that bottom half sorted.’ ‘Come here often?’ Sandra, you do realise you mean the world to me, don’t you? The absolute world. ‘Mark, do you think you could somehow tear that juice can and use it to cut off my pony tail?’ Ella says. I slice a finger cutting off little chunks of Ella’s hair with the severed can but I use what I manage to cut off to make a bandage. Ella pulls out a lipstick from her bag and waits for the turbulence to get worse to apply it to my face so it looks like it’s been done by a three year old. Look, everyone just stay calm! If we all stay calm we can get through this together, right? Panicking isn’t going to help anyone. Ella’s hysterical with laughter. She grips my hand so tight it’s like she’s trying to stop the blood flow. No! No! No! Fuuuck! No! Tears career down her cheeks and drip off her chin onto my shirt. Her rapture’s infectious, the vision of her joy distorted by my own tears as I crease up at her new choppy haircut, a chunk of it matted with my blood. As she fishes in her bag again, I laugh at the prospect of a crazy against-all-odds survival. Why are you laughing? You think this is funny, you sick fuckers! At Ella and me turning up at the airport dressed like this, everyone looking at us while we’re waiting for our bags. ‘Don’t call my friend a fucker, can’t you see she’s 109 years old?’ ‘Oh, Mark, stop it, I’m going to have a heart attack!’ She passes me an earphone. ‘Put this in, dear. Drown out that idiot.’ I stuff the earphone in my left ear. ‘What time is it?’ Ella asks. I look at my watch. ‘21:15,’ I say. ‘Keep looking at me, Mark, and keep laughing. And Mark?’ ‘Ella?’ ‘Thank you.’ She presses play. We look at each other with great big smiles on our faces and sing along to The Walker Brothers’ Make it Easy on Yourself. When the second engine fails and the plane nosedives, Ella cranks the volume as high as it’ll go and we cover our outside ears with our hands, our other hands clasped together like they’re bound with superglue. No! No! No! No! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I glance at my watch. 21:18. And think of keys. Ella and I look at each other and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. Maaaaaake iiiit eeeeasyyy on yourseee-eelf. Maaaaaake iiiit eeeeeasyyy on yo


 

MANIC POP HAIKUS #1 by Raymond Gorman

 

1.

 

Winter sun draws its ice-diamond light

through a raw blue symphony of sky

earth incubates the first dreams of spring

 

2.

 

Pure infant sleeps through rose petal dreams

disarming, sweet

innocent baby girl moonbeam

 

3.

 

I see beyond the superficial I spurn the supercilious

I sift through the shifting sands of seeming

I surrender to the Source


 

WHERE’S GRANDADA? by Bobby Dean Ward

 

The site they were on was a British Heritage car park. Can you believe that? I can. They got some nerve parking their caravans where they liked. No respect and I expect nothing less from such people. They never done themselves any favours. Travellers by name but often when they find a spot they take a fancy to you can’t get them to budge an inch.

          We were still boys to some, I was just eighteen, Macca still seventeen until June, but we were big geezers and had the balls of any man who claims he has had a life of experience, been tested and passed the test. We were both from what we call the last of the true indigenous Eastenders. There ain’t many of us left. Born and bred and still walking the same streets. It’s shocking really. What’s happening to the whole manor. But what can you do?

          Macca’s Canning Town. My family are East Ham.

          We both boxed day in day out before we began to hit the drink and many preferred chemicals. That’s been our choice. No regrets.

          I boxed at West Ham Boys Club in Plaistow and Macca at the Peacock Gym in Canning Town.

          Trainer Jimmy Tibbs and West Ham boxing go together like bread and butter. He has had a tough life. Been involved in villainy that all came on top, went down, had all amount of grief. My family have always been close to Jimmy Tibbs. My dad turned pro and was a true contender all thanks to Jimmy. He’s a local legend who has done right for so many boys going off the rails over the years. It’s not about the glory, well it is, but it’s also about installing into young heads how to take control, be positive, keep a focus, maintain discipline.

          Many I know have said this:

          IF EVER A MAN DESERVERED A KNIGHTHOOD.

          But they never gave one to Bobby Moore so what chance has Jimmy Tibbs got?

          No chance.

          Jimmy Tibbs is still respected even though a while back he went and joined the God Squad. Which proves that even the toughest street-wise man who has been there and done it is still vulnerable to brainwashing. Won’t happen to me. Jimmy says to this day it’s the best thing that ever happened in his life and when you run into him you have to match his massive beaming grin each time just to keep up the respect for his other side, the real cockney deal that we all like to think is still lurking deep inside the man who claims he has been saved. No one takes the piss about it behind his back or anything like that. But it’s not right. We all get fucked up one time or another. It can be a way of life for some being fucked up 24/7. But it’s sad really how Jimmy found Jesus or vice versa and the way he talks about it like it’s the unfathomable truth.

          I have always been brought up to think in a healthy way. The only reason there’s religion and faith in the world etc is this. It exits in certain desperate heads so that they don’t top themselves. So they keep on believing in the big book and how there’s a better life in the next life. It’s total bollocks. There ain’t nothing waiting. It’s all about the here and now and keeping a respect for yourself and family and friends, a passionate love of life, being here. When the lights go out, they go out. The end. And the great Neil Young (old man got me into him) sang it too, ‘once you’re gone you aint never coming back’. Hey hey my my. Fucking wake up everyone and enjoy life, enjoy yourself I say.

          I had the shooter and knew what caravan the one known as Grandada would be in. He was the chief pikey in this small tribe. Real name George Feenan. He was the stinking scumbag with forty grand in dirty notes. Money won on Friday from a bare knuckle fight that took place between Mickey Johnstone and some half Polish half German geezer Franz Bena. Johnstone was supposed to Britain’s topdog knuckle fighter and Bena king of Europe. It was billed as the Champions League Final and the blood and gore took place in a field somewhere between Basingstoke and Newbury. The fight went on for five hours before Bena collapsed. A bloody red mess of destroyed flesh and bone. He might even be dead I heard. Johnstone faired little better health wise. But his reputation was intact. And that was all that mattered to him and his clan. And of course the money won.

          This lot – the five caravans – had pitched up Saturday coming back from the fight and were moving on on Monday morning. George Feenan was certainly going to be moving on before the caravan convoy went off to find a new car park to invade, if he thought we were there to fuck about. He was in for a surprise because that’s exactly what he thought. Laughing at us. He sure got one.  

          Before that all happened, some brief backstorying. Macca got a call from Billy Mason, a well respected face from Canning Town. There was a job on and he wanted us to do it. Billy said that there was forty grand in cash in two sports holdalls to go and ‘collect’ from the Grandada’s caravan.

          Grandada had the money even though it wasn’t his winnings. But we were reliably informed he had it there. He had the winnings because no one (they all foolishly thought) knew he had it. It was in transit. But about to make a serious diversion. We would go there, take the two bags of cash, return to London and all take a quarter slice of the cake. Ten each for me and Macca, ten for Billy and ten for the anonymous one to us who had set this all up, the man who’d provided the lead. But Billy was never going to hand over that ten to this grass. He was keeping twenty. End of.

          We got there just after 2am, parked up facing back the way we came. Me and Macca then took a stroll to where they were positioned. On route I could smell the arse exhaust fumes that Macca was releasing. I would have mentioned something as it was total chemical warfare. But it would have definitely hurt his pride. I needed him focussed. So I said nothing about him shitting it.

          All was set exactly as Billy said it would be. The bonus though, no one appeared to be up other than at the far back where small yellow squares indicated drawn windows. Pitch black otherwise but we had micro torches and we got to sus out the layout of the whole tribe. It did strike me right then as odd that the money would be in the nearest caravan to the point of entry and not at the back of the car park. We moved in. The first caravan, on the right. Shone a careful flash of light on the reg. This was the girl.

          Tried the door, locked. Heart now thumping so hard I could hear it. Macca’s arse in full flow again too. I knocked once. Nothing for what seemed like ages. Went to knock again. A light inside, movement on the floor, coming towards the door, a woman’s voice low and swearing and then an old fat lady appeared before us, squinting at us in the sort of dark green flowered nightgown an old person would have thought fashionable in the 1950s. She had  this one giant eyebrow. It was a mixture of six shades interwoven almost like it was intended fashion design all expensively paid for. Silver, white, ginger, red, black, brown. I noticed all of that I did. But the thin black moustache was what unsettled me the most.

          I then went to work.

          ‘Where’s grandada?’ I snarled, showing her my teeth and also the weapon. I pointed the gun at her face; a warm cool rush of gangster power warmed me, blood racing through my veins. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

          The name of the game is power. Remember that famous scene in The Exorcist where the girl comes down the stairs interrupting a social scene of boring words and begins to piss soaking the carpet? That was what I was thinking about as she stood there. Well the difference here was that it was hailstones shooting out of her piss-flaps not a gentle wand of urine and the sound of piss hitting the lino was only drowned out by the sudden barking of a dog behind us. Macca said something and I turned and eyeballed some old man coming at me with a baseball bat. He was old and laughing and about to clump me one in the boat so I shot him. Just the once. I think I got the heart. It was a good shot. One eyebrow screamed. I shot her. In panic Macca ran like fuck back to the motor. I had to step over her groaning on the floor on her back but soon there was no movement, just this big long sigh then silence. There was no bags. I could not see any bags and they were not in the overhead above the cooker where Billy said they’d definitely be. I began to open doors and drawers in a frenzy. But there was nothing.

          Now noises, voices approaching, so I exited the caravan, faces waiting, eyes on sticks, me a totally useless bandit, waving the gun but with no swag. Silhouetted by the light from the caravan I must have looked like a total prick. Someone chased after me but soon hit the deck as I fired above him. Macca had the motor purring and it was moving as I got in. No one else followed fast enough to catch us. Which was a surprise. Then it hit me. I was paralysed. We didn’t speak a word until we were in familiar territory. Then Macca nervously spoke.

          ‘What we gonna say to Billy? He’ll be on the ceiling over this. We’re fucked man. We’re so fucked.’

          Macca was almost crying. But I was the one wanting to be sick and shed a tear of self pity. I had murdered two strangers. We were deep in it. But I was the one with blood on my hands. But this is what I told him. Showed him how even though I had spent a lifetime in his shadow, his yesboy, I said it as it was right there and then.

          ‘Fuck it Macca, if Billy has a problem with events coming on top that were out of our control, then I’ll put one through his heart too.’

          Everyone in Canning Town feared Billy, but I like to think I meant every word of that. An honest intention. That far from actually being fucked, this was all the complete opposite. Word would get out on the street. I had gone up to the next level. But I knew, Macca knew, come daylight would come the truth, a fighting angry dog holding us hostage. We would be scared out of our tiny young minds and clueless as to what to do about coming home empty handed and two dead.

          You think of family. I thought of family. My family. Dad, mum, little Frank and Tony. Flesh and blood. Belonging.

          I had my eyes tightly shut and it was right then that without even thinking about what I was doing I began to pray, to Jesus. Yeah I was fucked, seriously needed help here.

          Jimmy Tibbs smiled.


 

EVIDENTLY EDINBURGH by Kevin Williamson

 

Fucking Castle Fucking Rock

Fucking Leith Fucking Walk          

Fucking Floral Fucking Clock

Fucking Gary Fucking Locke

 

Fucking Jack Fucking Jill

Fucking Calton Fucking Hill

Fucking Barry Fucking Ride

Fucking Jekyll Fucking Hyde

 

Fucking Climate Fucking Change

Fucking Pissing Fucking Rain

Fucking Trams Fucking Late

Fucking Hibees Fucking Great

 

Fucking Walter Fucking Scott

Fucking Tartan Fucking Grot

Fucking Tourist Fucking Spot

Fucking Cheap Its Fucking Not

 

Fucking Evening Fucking News

Fucking Stupid Fucking Views

Fucking John Fucking Gibson

Isnae Henrik Fucking Ibsen

 

Fucking Pandas Fucking Zoo

Fucking Never Fucking Screw

What The Fucking Fucking What?

Fucking Monkeys Never Stop

 

Fucking Student Fucking Pubs

Fucking Saunas Fucking Rubs

Fucking Arty Fucking Parties

Fucking DeepFried Fucking Smarties

 

Fucking Polis Fucking Filth

Fucking Irvine Fucking Welsh    

Fucking Greggs Fucking Pies

Fucking Same... Rules Apply

 

Fucking Potholes Fucking Roads

Fucking Gardens Fucking Closed

Fucking Palace Fucking Gold

Fucking Homeless Fucking Cold

 

Fucking Cooncil Fucking Pricks

Fucking Make Ya Fucking Sick

Fucking Wallets Fucking Full

Fucking Closing Fucking Schools

 

Fucking London M Fucking Ps

Fucking Brains Fucking Cheese

Fucking Duck Ponds Fucking Please!

Country Oan Its Fucking Knees

 

Fucking Holy Fucking Rood

Fucking Rule It Fucking Should

Fucking Vote It Fucking Could

Fucking YES It Fucking Would