I am at the seaside and I join a crowd watching a brass band. I am the only one in the audience without white hair. I turn to a woman next to me and ask the name of the current song.
WOMAN: I think he said 'Old Greys' Cocks'.
ME: Oh. Of course. It's Coldplay's 'Clocks'.
WOMAN: Whatever it's called, it's not getting me excited.
WOMAN: I think he said 'Old Greys' Cocks'.
ME: Oh. Of course. It's Coldplay's 'Clocks'.
WOMAN: Whatever it's called, it's not getting me excited.
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In Deal last Sunday, we witnessed the British seaside at it's best. The common man fishing from the pier, a beautiful pea green sea dazzling in the full sun, watery tuna mayonnaise baguettes, and a brass band on the bandstand. And as we walked into the distance along the uncrowded prom, the band struck up 'Show me the way to Amarillo'. And I saw a future of a bandstand containing a bootleg Phil Collins or maybe, for a laugh, a Chinese Elvis.
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