Highbury. The clock end. Under the roof. Transit van, sick up, and the thrill of it. Living for the ruck, not the skill of it. Eyes like pissholes in snow, no sleep. Dead man's shoes on the West End sweep. Clockend born, North Bank bred. Smell of the Burger King, wrong in the head. Talk hard. Walk harder. Make the firms scatter. What's the score? Doesn't matter. Sunday morning comedown, the fear and the loathing. Wear the uniform, say nothing, that's the total oath. No moral maze, just a simple fact. War's a drug, and we're hooked on the crack. Under the gray London sky, anonymous and flat! Forget the postcode tattooed on your back! For the firms, the rows, the glorious combat— It is not where you’re from! It is where you’re at! Roddy's on the rampage, Harris in the cells. Stitch-up in the boozer, a thousand different hells. Black cabs to the battle, tooled up with a blade in the sock. Tommy Johnson's fiction, but the violence is the rock. Coke shards on the cistern, empire in decay. Same old action on a Saturday. No heaven for the bovver boys, no deep romance. Just the steam off the terraces, the mad dog glance. Same old hunger, biting at the soul! We are the invisible, making ourselves whole. Muppets on the pavement, our little kingdom... Behind the goal. Under the gray London sky, anonymous and flat! We are the creatures you breed from the council flat! For the firms, the rows, the glorious combat— It is not where you’re from! It is where you’re at! The buzz. The graft. The beautiful release. Weekend's done. What's next?
