for Grant Tarbard

 

Northern kids, their futures

predictable, they grafted dourly

five days a week down pits, in shops

and on the factory floor –

paying their way with some left

for vinyl, speed and threads.

 

Travelling miles by train each

weekend with a change of clothes

and a box of classic tracks

– minor hits and rarities

by blacks the charts ignored –

they kept the faith

 

and stormed the bouncers

– who lost their cool and didn’t get it –

once doors were open

to another drenched all nighter

at Wigan Casino, the Highland Room,

The Golden Torch, The Wheel.

 

A four four beat was all

they needed, rock steady,

relentless, and simple lyrics

that told the truth. Hallucogenics

and hopeless solos

warped the walls of bedsits

 

in never-never-land,

but lads in bags and polo shirts,

their girls in swirling skirts,

danced all night till morning.

Doing splits and fancy tricks,

they span around like dervishes.