Emerging From Gorse

Well, I’m just about to defend our corner when her mate Natalie at the back
pipes up with: «Yeah, the windy minimalism of that last track recalls some of
Labradford’s isolationist period.»
Thoroughly defeated, I retired upstairs to bed, left them to it.
However, step forward three years into my secret hayloft, shot with shafts of
afternoon sunlight. Brendan’s changed his name to Federal Metronome…
Did you see me, being escorted round the ground, Motorola in the pocket of my
Wampum jeans, over the ad for Continental, I made a comic bid for freedom…
There are a million retired liberals watching Countdown. And in the adverts
they close their eyes and they go to Umbria with Carol…
Oh Carol, oh…
Oh Carol, oh…
They subscribe to Erotic Review because it’s broadsheet acceptable,
and they can read it in bed with their partners and perhaps try out suggested
oils. Ah, but they still feel the need to board an EasyJet to Amsterdam every
now and again. 'Cos you can’t get Teenage Eskimo in Wantage…
See the keepers hanging rancid in the glade, Arconada, Pfaff and Bats and
Joseph-Antoine Bell… I hope for answers in the distance, far beyond deep sierra
Go on, ask me what we do next. Just attribute it to King Alfred and go like
this…