Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

15 February 2008

This was supposed to be for October but I'm a
fucker if I don't remember. Blanked it from the
mind, treat myself; be kind. I'm deaf, I had it
signed. Cut out my eyes; better off blind. October
and November bring out the desire to dismember.
Then came December and we're more, more,
more! but I'd never believe it watching us try to
score.

Posterity was the aim, the claim and the blame; the
only fucking reason he came. We're too good for
you, too good for this shitty stew. We're more than
you, we're bigger than you...

And what about puddin' and all that good lovin'?
A hotchpotch of butterscotch, the badly whipped
Angel Delight, those dry lumps such a fright.
Teasing me like a Boxing Day tree. Time was we
were the supermarket T-shirt in River Island. We
should be back on the highland.

Let 'im go, let 'im go, let 'im go

No, no, no

Let 'im show, let 'im show, let 'im show

Bit late for Christmas rhymes. Fuck it these are the
good times. For swimming in jelly, for getting
back on the telly, for painting my belly; black and
white of course. My favourite source and my
favourite sauce.

Forget the rest, we're over this test. I reckon some
failed, reckon too many railed, reckon there's some
been asleep and woke up somewhere else. I feel
like Buck Rogers or something great like jammy
dodgers.

A chance to feel smug, a time to feel good. We're
the lucky ones, all of us as we do what does. Kept
the faith ignored the wraith, that chilly touch was
asking too much.