The Only Way Is Essex

A town like Billericay,
in Essex.

A March Saturday night.
A little bistro that serves pasta dishes,
to Gladys and Brian.

She is twin set nostalgia.
He is slacks and Argyle fantasies.

There is talk of austerity,
and muddling through.
Keeping calm and carrying on.

There is always the rugby,
their pals at the Ship.
A pint in a tankard,
just a small sherry for control.

There’s the up and coming production of Oklahoma,
at the Civic Theatre for Gladys.
She’s been a local operatic for years,
started out in the chorus,
and now promoted to playing the lead.
That Christmas card did the trick.

Brian makes the props,
pushes the scenery around,
helps the dancers a little too much
as they change in the backstage corridor.

Meanwhile,
at the all night garage on the edge of town.
Hardeep takes a punch in the ribs
for running out of bread and Rizla.
Kebab fuelled boys piss on the newspapers,
vomit on the forecourt.

Outside a lighted house,
in a road,
in a town she should never be in.
A Bacardi breezed girl with Winehouse hair,
lifts her skirt for a line of coke.

Inside that house,
the net curtains twitch,
Britannia’s permanent itch,
forever sore.

Revealed in lounge sepia,
a framed portrait.
Margaret Thatcher smiling,
almost pouting.

This is still hers.
A little winced country,
called England.