They catch a cold, should London sneeze
And townsmen here, being hard as hell
Say, "Now then."
(If they know you well.)
Nearby, a place is up for sale;
Wilton Castle with its grounds
A pseudo-Tudor-Gothic pile
They only want six million pounds
And ICI with local debts
Must sell this asset if they can
Which overlooks a North Sea coast
The loveliest/ ugliest known to man.
Directly east, a stark land lies
Of Viking cliffs and seagull screams
And beaches where the tide rips in
To stripe the sand with sea-coal seams
But to the west, was industry
The castle overlooks the sight
Of smouldering flares and furnaces
Like Martian cities in the night.
Since market forces took the cash
Stripped out the shop and shut the door
The property can promise buyers
The Southbank Show they never saw.
Reckon you've got what it takes?
Like discipline and training? Good.
The Government intends to hire
You servicemen to Hollywood.
The money that the deal will fetch
At sixty pounds per man, per day
Might help to balance certain costs
Like... Oh, a recent conflict, say.
What? Ground troops into Tinseltown?
A great idea, but not quite yet.
It's extras that they're asking for
So can we have you ready, pet?
A set-top box and all for free.
The vulgar salesman calls again
With all the crap the ether holds
To help you rot your battered brain.
The sport, the pop, the rolling news
The so-called Gold from years ago.
Walk. Read a book. Do anything.
But tell the Aussie bandit: "No."
He surfaced once again this week
And speculation's turned to fact
Preserved by wind and altitude
It meant that he was quite intact.
A relic from another age
Fetched up on frozen slopes so cruel
But there he was and still in tweed.
Who? Mallory? No, Brian Sewell.Reuse content