| Monday, October 20, 2003 |
 | And then, on the train back, three yokels piled onto the tube at King’s Cross St. P. I don’t use the term lightly, but there really isn’t a better one. Long straight hair, denim jackets, four days of beard growth. There was a degree of confusion over where the tube was actually going, followed by an enthusiastic conversation on the benefits of various forms of music. Hairy metal, not shockingly, of the snakily white variety. Then George Michael. It was only when they got onto the Grumbleweeds, complete with a rendition of the theme song, that I became firm in my conviction that they were taking the piss. To be exact, they were spoofing their own status as hair metallers from Suffolk, despite being hair metallers from Suffolk.
Pomokels. These are the end times.
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