Mine were gold–laced crimson Fiorucci, matching
Kate's scarlet studbright strappy stilettos.
Paris awarded those in 78 for mere money.
Our chorus The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes,
Moira Shearer something for our parents.
We were skinny & speedy in leather jackets,
knew every band with a guestlist worth gracing.
Our scene fell apart too soon, playing out
the Country & Western song of your choice.
Six months later I stepped under a taxi.
Kate joined a Welsh commune; I went nowhere.
I think the 80s happened to someone else.
Now I'm a fat Chartered Librarian in Barnet.
Kate lives in Clapham, works in Oxford St.
One day I was browsing the new releases
in Concerto Records; fairground mirror time.
In Nutters Meatfree Zone I learned that
the 80s passed Kate by in Wales then Brighton,
she doesn't like Classical or the punters,
feels cheated music is only a job. My career?
'Chartered – you sound like a City accountant.'
I examine my brogues, her brown Hush Puppies,
finger the diamond of scar tattooed on my cheek
by her Parisian instep before we broke up.
I found that shoe's partner behind the wardrobe,
had it sealed in a fluid–filled perspex box,
pass it off as Damien Hirst or Antony Serrano.
After our St. Linda Special we tally the log of
friends dead of drugs, AIDS or missing in action,
don't kiss, walk off in different directions.

I am watching Whistle Down The Wind
in Ilford Town Hall; we are translated
to an ideal 1950s. I am a foreigner here
among the good people of Essex.
Where do the 'Home Counties' stop?
In Glasgow we never knew ourselves
provincial, but Second City of Empire.
Tonight it is foggy enough for the real 50s.
Mods vs. Rockers in Margate, Whitsun 64;
first sign of aliens, then incense, bells & ragas.
Bring back conscription: El Alamein veterans
stranded between space cadets & the Patels.
Ilford's 70s went disco–daft then Punk.
In the 80s they voted for themselves.
My Afghan hat does not belong here,
sneer Wayne & Sharon: stupid old hippie.
A station poster paraphrases James Dean
for a West End Whistle translated to Dixie.
We are all nostalgic for different things;
I might feel more at home in this other South
as long as the rifle slung across his shoulders
is purely a style gesture, not a statement
of fundamental belief in different as threat
and your hat declares which side you're on.

Flavoured our tongues with Mexico,
shots of Jose Quervo with salt & lemon,
in the Hope and Anchor or Dingwalls,
falling in love with the bar staff, who taught
us to love Tequila Sunrise, put the Eagles
on the jukebox, then The Champs, Tequila!
fuelled up for Ian Dury or Dr. Feelgood
in the Hope's cellar, then Dingwalls later.
We downed Red Stripe stagefront, where
Muddy Waters is the King of Mississippi,
all he needs is that crown Queen Ida wore
when she brought her Zydeco circus to town,
& suddenly Eric Clapton is up on stage
and ready to jam with Muddy, who turns,
stares, lays down his guitar & stomps off,
slamming the dressing-room door hard.
Clapton looks like an art student again
but the band don't care, striking up a tempo
that makes Clapton sweat out some of his
best blues for years, 15 minutes of glory
for this audience, and tequila is downed,
Red Stripes are raised, some wag shouts
Slowhand to cheers all round, then too soon,
he is off stage, and through the stage door.
Muddy Waters emerges, kicks his chair aside,
grasps the mike stand, roars out the intro
to 'Mannish Boy' then the band kick in.
This is the moment we have waited for
since buying Muddy Waters at Newport
aged 12, and after the encores are over
we will storm the bar & order more tequila
till we are comatose and ready for taxis.