Washed on the shore our mammoth gallow pulls in...

The slick varnished coat it has undertaken whilst travelling- licks of sea salt and sea tide rage and the poured over our fish and chips at the parade.

The flip-coin machines- pump up the volume at the drum of the 70's night in Shoreditch, the paint on the road, the shoes in the sky in Brighton, the graffiti at Playstation. Who will ever catch Banksy?

The chips and scratches of our markets and selling all those treats that for some reason we are not yet cultured enough to eat...

Our feet. Our shoes. Convenience. We bloody love it. We grab it like gargamoyles over bird's eye roast dinners or diet pills to look thinner.

Sky plus recordings of really good television shows like Emmerdale or Loose Women-

What makes them looser than the rest of us anyway?

Bang the mash on the ashes of our grandfather's- who told us stories with photographs and taught us how to use a fork- and now we teach them how to text, search the web and explain that the word "fit" does not always mean as in "marathon fit."

In the park, during the day- office folk sit in the sun in full suits and eat packaged sandwiches, waiting for the weekend to get bladdered and take the receptionist home.

Indoors kid's thumbs adapt to the future, pressed like news into fatter, flatter discs- thanks to Nintendo.

Our rivers swallow secrets. Gutless drinking, we wash down our cities mysteries and forget we ever wandered about the news. Turn the channel, run it, or simply get on at Waterloo- wake up in Paris.

Trams in Manchester remind me of Croydon. Schools in Lambeth like hospitals in Fulham, Castles in hills like those alike in the sand at Margate.

Next to the litter, the seagull and the beast that speaks for us with the sunburn and the napkin on his head.

Whilst indoor the family sit, putting together the bottle, the string and the ship...