Jack Carter And the Mafia Pigeon
“They only get me on a package in and out, because that way it’s cheaper even though it includes the bill for the hotel I’m not going to use. So I have to join the un-legislative club of package creeps all the way from Euston to Luton to Palma, including, as the song says, all the stops along the way: hanging around with them at the air terminal, hanging around with them at Luton, hanging around with them at forty thousand feet, hanging around with them at Palma Airport waiting for the luggage t...o come spewing out onto the bit of fun-fair.But it’s in the air they get on my tits most, and the group that gets on them more than any other is a family I haven’t been able to get away from since the air terminal. There are nine of the bastards: a couple of kids, fathered by two mid-thirty Dagenham workers, real-life brothers; they are swaggering would-be hardcases using the fashionable manufactured folk-dialogue of the East End, hairstyles courtesy whichever North London footballer’s salon happens to be nearest, decked out in expensive machine-made holiday clobber but wear their eiderdown-like windcheaters with the Ford emblem on the breast-zip pockets and the ceremonial racing stripes rippling down each of the arms.MoreLess
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