The Ancient Skate Punk.

The young lounge the hours on the benches of the dead: their carefully careless hair skew-wiffs caps. Scratched and battered skateboards slung at their outstretched sneakers. Energy drinks clutched in one hand, handset in the other. Sickly, sticky-blue smiles on insect faces. You rarely see anyone riding a board these days. The older guys, sure. … Continue reading The Ancient Skate Punk.

The Bristol Arm.

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Martin Kettle, once of Stoneyclough (the pronunciation, if I remember correctly, being ‘-cluff’ rather than ‘-clow’), a town a long way north of here, but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was busy sellotaping the corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan high up onto … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.