I dreamed I was with Arthur Seaton last night
watched him swagger down streets cast in black and white
in Saturday suit, all hard bastard pretty
wondering what became of his Sunday morning city
Showing two fingers at speeding cars
kicking in windows of Yates’ wine bar
searching for factories that just weren’t there
hosed away as fast as the vomit in the square
Demolished and built on like the back to backs
he wondered why history’d given him the sack
how was he so young, yet broken and old?
burned by today, chilled by 50’s cold
between fights and ale and fat arse slander
no good times left just propaganda
I screamed ‘Alan Sillitoe’s dead’ – he looked at me then spat.
‘Alan Sillitoe?’ he said ‘Who the fuck is that?’