Bugger Cleveleys

bugger-cleveleys

“Bugger Bognor!” as King George the fifth said on his deathbed. Well,
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been. But “Bugger Cleveleys!” works as well.
“There’s nothing there worth saving now,” to paraphrase John Betjeman,
Just car parks, concrete, shops and racist bent nonagenarians
Who fill the streets in rugby scrums of wheelchairs that have no brakes
And draw first blood at jumble sales with walking sticks. Make no mistake
It’s Purgatory, one rung down, hell’s bilges emptied on the streets,
And rows of meat on wooden benches, shrivelled rancid in the heat.

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