One of those carpet and frosted glass boozers where there’s no need for a jukebox because everyone listens to the same songs just as they drink the same brand of lager and support the same football team that’s at least four boroughs away. There’s not much happening at this point of the week, not even a pub quiz or curry night, and there is no reason why I should be here to the degree that showing my face is justification enough for a good kick in the head. There will almost certainly be George Crosses strung about the bar – little cardboard ones chained together. The area might have once been aspirational, when most sought to leave the city but not stray too far. The pub itself will remain for as long as its current clientele draws breath and the landlord will notice that his patrons aren’t getting any younger but won’t dwell on it any further than that. It’ll be a late autumn night, where the temperature hasn’t yet plummeted but the wind will carry a threat of what’s to come. The kick itself might follow a moment’s hesitation, perhaps just after a mate has said “Okay, that’s enough”, maybe the landlord himself. I’m sure Neil Young is a lovely man and didn’t even carry a touch of malice in his soul when he penned it. He cannot be blamed for all the heads that have been kicked in as the record swells and crescendoes. The same can be said for the imbecilic “so good! so good!” refrain that drained into it like a stream of piss down concrete terrace steps. All art takes leave of the artist and embarks on its own path for better or worse. That’s what I’ll think to myself as street lights fade out with the chorus.
🪴