The thing about the granada scorpio is that you can get the decks and the entire back catalogue of herbie hancock, miles davis, weather report, shakatak, everything on blue note, talking loud, acid jazz, soul jazz, a good helping of the sounds of philly, some dodgy david sylvian lp’s and a bbc sound effects high fidelity gramaphone record into the back and there’s still room for a couple of birds so long as they’re fairly skinny and didn’t bring their fur coats with them you can burn your boats at the pool of london and say good bye to history as you cross tower bridge and head east along the highway to hell past the early breaking international news and by the time you dive into the lime the girls are asleep and they don’t see canary wharf lighting up the future or the fishmarket stinking out the past the millenium mills are still up for grabs and the city airport doesn’t fly by night but the road soars above the back gardens of the blessed and then lands with a roar alongside the last resting place of a thousand used car dealers mini cab graveyard and the bay windows stare stupidly at nothing wave goodbye to ilford island and shoot into pop oblivion underground underwraps underworld too late to go to hollywood terry you can’t swim with the dolphins or dance with the doves it’s pigeon shit city empty bingo hall last traffic light multiplex pizza burger thank god it’s D.I.Y. huts and out into the open fields of the promised land and on into the flat night of the flatlands outstripping white capris that have seen better days catch the tail of the vomit comet last train out of the smokey joke and rave on you crazy 25 diamond geezer the barns are bursting with corny inbred cockney barrowboy sharks running away from the jungle they built in search of the real thing and across the border into folk land dukes of hazard a guess rock and roll virgins where everything is so very old and so very new where the caravans wait patiently for their summer of misspent youth and when we can’t drive any further we park on the seafront the fish and chip shop is shut so we take off our loafers and feel the sand between our toes like so much talcum powder and taste the long weekender salty soul air and make communion with the sea and we’re born again and one of the girls wakes up and says “you’re fucking mad I don’t normally swear but it’s fucking freezing where the fuck are we and where’s my fucking fur coat?”