“The Mitsubishi Galant GLX Estate
is yet another diesel with a 0-60
an egg whisk would be proud of.
As for springs, they put in sods,
know what I mean, sponges a Caribbean diver
could sell to Club Meds in a market stall.”

“Hey, did you check out Rupert’s stall
at Camden Lock? Some poor dosser’s complete estate;
broken specs, a Bakelite radio, 60
rubber bands, a tin with the label rubbed off,
not to mention the eggcup complete with dried sog.
I hit the three cherries natch: check out this diver’s

watch. Two hundred meters, chrome bevel.” “You only dive
for the remote, mate. Truth is, if you stall
a Mitsu on your local council estate
yer friendly piranhas will strip it clean in 60
seconds flat. I mean: desirable, though of
course the four-wheel image is just for sods

like you.” “What is this thing with calling me a sod?
Like what the fuck have I done?” “Go take a dive
in the crapper, mate. You’re like a stall
on the proceedings. Anyway, there’s this estate
up the end of my road with tower blocks 60
stories high. It’s amazing they don’t jump off

and stuff their miserable lives. What pisses me off
though is the way no one gives a fucking sod—
‘hey, mate, fuck off, this ain’t a truckers’ dive’—
about anyone else. So I pull up and stall
at the light. OK, it’s like the entire estate
is looking at me but nobody helps. Sixty

fucking people with two fucking hands. Sixty
but no one could be arsed to get off
their fucking bums and their fucking sodden
lives and help out. One asshole takes a dive
out the door and makes a run for it. I’m still stalled
watching him run round the back of the estate—
drug run prob’ly—and fucking 60,

65 seconds later the sod makes a dive for me
with a flick knife like he’s off his head. I stall him;
of course, the whole estate’s still watching and …”