You appear on my front step with a box of food in your arms, smuggled rations, you check your blind spot to see if you were followed. A red face, dressed in your army coat, you’ve been at war. Left years ago, with the promise of fixing fajitas, came back a broken man. Soviet Russia, we line up. We wait.
There’s a force field, an invisible pull replacing any shred of human decency, a no-signal dead zone. The juices which tell you how to act are siphened and substituted with dickhead vibes. The last tiger loaf is shredded to clotted crumbs by savage claws, wolves prowl, eyes down.
Before there was only Waitrose, looming its shiny middle-class ass across us. Before there were thin wholemeal own-brand slices. Now the bread is fat and 59p and soaked in balsamic with cheese. We eat sundried tomatoes from the jar on a Tuesday, live like kings, Lidl class.