Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

28 March 2008

Sweet, sweet Burnley. I was after a bit of Turf more.
We needed to score. A lot of nerves and it's hard to
sing on the edge of an unfamiliar seat.

This time or last time; what rhyme? Is it lime? A
shooting star, the queue at the bar. Things I
remember; I never was a Gullies member.

We're there and it's fair, it's new and it's bare. Not
yet filled, and who'll remember or care? Us. We. Me.
You. Please do.

A big fat cheque. No call from a TV exec. Shame, I
like the fame. Can I hear my name in that great big
bowl? Can we trawl that great big shoal? Can we
score a 

Why question? It's floating by; drifting high. Quick,
grab it; I'll miss it. Grab it; I'll kiss it. Town hall
square, a mass of hair seething 'neath balcony flair.