Oh children of the future … conceived in the toilets at Meadowhall … to be raised on
the cheap cold slabs of garage floors … rolling empty cans down the stairway … (don’t
you love that sound?) … whilst the thoughts of a bad social worker ran through his head
… trying to remember what he learnt at training college … Lester said he wasn’t
allowed in here … so why don’t you get lost? … and if you grow up … then when you
grow up, maybe … maybe you can live … live on Kelvin … yeah you can live in Kelvin
… on the promenade with the concrete walkways … where pidgeons go to die … (a woman
on the fourteenth floor noticed that the ceiling was bulging as if under a great weight.
When the council investigated they discovered that the man in the flat above had
transported a large quantity of soil into his living-room, in which several plants he had
stolen from a local park were growing. When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a
garden. When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.) … Oh God, I think the
future’s been fried … deep fried in Kelvin … and now it’s rotting behind the remains
of a stolen motorbike … I haven’t touched it, honest … but there isn’t anything else
to do … we don’t need your sad attempts at social conscience based on taxi-rides home at
night when exhibition opens … we just want your car radio … and those Reflux speakers
… now … suffer the little children to come to me … and I will tend their adventure
playground splinters with cigarette burns and feed them fizzy orange and chips … and
then they grow up straight and tall … and then they grow up to live … on Kelvin …
yeah … we can have ghettos too … only we use air-rifles instead of machine-guns …
stitch that … and we drunk driving lights … in the end … the question you have to
ask yourself is … are you talking to me … or are you chewing a brick?