I’m walking through Genoa with my clothes stuck to me in black espadrilles and River Island clothes and it’s 31 degrees at ten o’clock at night and I pay 28 euros for three courses, water and wine and am I going back for the Tube, for the overpriced shit wine, and black snot? For Cameron’s
Big Society? Genoa gave the world pesto, banking and blue jeans but I take it on trust from the tourist leaflets and it’s
gullibility to think the grass is greener; the grass is just
I drink an old fashioned and I get antipasto and think of bars in London with their 9 pound cocktails of nothing and I’ve been had, it’s/
and someone knows
what the joke is/
The joke isn’t funny anymore.
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