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Comrade's Scribblings

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The Lunatic Lounge

Comrade

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I went to a private, posh school. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I did. The education was good, I had some shit times but there were just as many great times, and I would have taken that school over any of the alternatives. But some people who go to schools like that give such schools and the people who go there bad names. The posh twats, those who use money to judge the worth of those around them. They have more of it than sense or decency. Recently, I’ve been seeing a lot of that crowd out and about on nights out, and to a person they conform to the stereotype: orange, dressed in Ralph Loren, only ordering £30 bottles of champagne no matter where they are. It’s like they’re part of some big act. It’s difficult to take them for real people, it’s all such a pretence. Anyway, they all go to a place called The Ballroom, which whores itself out to those types of people. On a night out, I referred to it as ‘the lunatic lounge’ and it struck a chord in my mind. It’s what it is and it’s what they are. A bunch of absolute lunatics. It’s mad.

The Lunatic Lounge

Look sharp, that fear of the dark will have you

And those unlikely lads who you wrote off

Will come right back ‘round for a drink or two.

Then it’ll be them who looks at you and scoffs;

Better to mind who you don’t care about:

They look less good but they’re a whole shade keener

While you flout that snout about, like a trout

About as fat as a cheap pipe cleaner

What’s any of that about? Doesn’t make sense,

But, y’know, they’ve got stirling signs for eyes

Which isn’t half bad if you came from thence;

The trick’s to make sure you know it’s all lies,

Take it serious, those lunatics do –

Thinking that Ballrooms make them worthy of the walls;

Moet from the bottles, just monkeys in the zoo

Cutting the finest Columbian in the stalls

So look sharp and be lean, and brace up and be mean

Because the lunatic lounge is bloody obscene


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