This is not a love song
This is where every young gun in Radlett has earned his stripes and lost his youth. It’s where hearts and tables were broken most Saturday nights, it’s where the Clash, The Roses and Led Zeppelin played side by side for the price of a piece of dried up garlic bread. This is where young men (and a few girls) danced around the mini roundabout in the summer of ’96, some naked and everyone drunk on the joy of our victory over Spain, sidestepping firecrackers and traffic and dreaming of a future brighter than the one we’re living.
It’s where a landlord – God bless you John – realised that a few free plates of sausages and chips did more to avert the violence than a plethora of ASBOs. It’s where I nursed a broken heart for the Summer and started laughing again whilst I forgot what I was crying about. It’s where the Friday Club met at five and stayed till midnight, where stolen kisses disappeared into the night, and the music played on long after. It’s where I found fighting and friendship, and Jim swore that he’d never, ever fucking eff and blind again, if only, if only, England won.