Just down from the Sun pub where 'Elvis' performed last night, the man who still has his Christmas decorations up was singing Everly Brothers songs at the top of his voice while he did his ironing with the window open.
Two fifteen year old Vauxhall coupés driven by young snapback wearers sped past. The silver metallic one in front hit the speed-bump by the bus stop too quickly and its wide-arch body kit came off in one piece. The following coupé, a red one, ran over the body kit and dragged it up the road for about fifty yards, smashing it to pieces. The elderly man with the Scottish accent and the spaniel asleep in the basket attached to his walking-frame said, ‘There’re some right fucking idiots about, aren’t there?’
On the terrace of houses with more plants in the guttering than in the gardens—next door to the house with the Twix wrapper, the AAA battery, the ear-buds, and the dustpan and brush in the concreted-over yard—a man of about sixty, wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and slippers was sitting on his front step listening to The Eurythmics at very high volume. He occasionally joined in with the chorus between drags on his roll-up.
Out in the sticks, builders of all ages listen to 80s chart hits all day long and chubby young white men with no socks, beards, tattoos and flat caps say, ‘Thanks, boss’ to the Asian shopkeepers or do some cycling. A man of about 60 with a grey crew-cut and rat-tail discusses his Mercedes with another younger Mercedes owner. They both refer to their cars using the pronouns ‘she’ and 'her'.