Girls Of Summer

We’re sitting drinking fruity alco-pops from pint glasses with ice and watching the girls of summer. With their bare legs and trainers and the white strap lines from yesterday’s top beneath today’s blowing across their peeling shoulders when they wait at the bar.

Later I’ll put on a tape in the bathroom and attempt to shave whilst half cut and end up slashing open my cheek or nickin’ my lip. Then spray on some poof juice and go to the park with my economy cider. I don’t think I’ll need a jacket.

It’ll still be bright when the carry outs are finished and we head to the pub to get everyone else, leaving our empties kicked behind a bush. We’ll get ‘em in there and casually saunter into the bogs and swallow. And get taxi’s down to a club. With me saluting magpies through the window on the way, in the hope that I’ll get a shag.

But I’ll wake up clamped round a girl I know, fully clothed on someone’s couch having barely slept for two hours, all sweaty and thoughtful and needing affection. And then you’ll wake up and the first thing we’ll do is to make plans to get pissed. So we’ll sit in a pub and watch the girls of summer.