[Nightwane]

O children of the future, conceived in the toilets of Meadowhall to be raised on cheap corn snacks and garage food, rolling empty cans down the stairwell - don't you love that sound? - while the thoughts of a bad social worker run around his head... trying to remember what he learned at training college... "Mister said you wasn't allowed in here, so why don't you get lost?" And if you're good, then when you grow up maybe... maybe you can live... live on Kelvin. Yeah you can live in Kelvin. On the promenade with the concrete walkways, where pigeons go to die.

"A woman on the 14th floor noticed that her ceiling was bulging, as if under a great weight. When the council investigated, they discovered that the man in the flat above had transported a large quantity of soil into his living room, in which several plants he had stolen from the local park were growing. When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden."

"When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden."

O God, I think the future has been deep fried, deep fried in Kelvin, and now it's rotting behind the remains of a stolen motorbike (I never touched it, honest... well, there wasn't anything else to do). We don't need your sad attempts at social conscience based on taxi-rides home at night from exhibitions. We just want your car radio, and those reflex speakers. Now. Suffer the little children to come unto me, and I will tend their adventure playground splinters and cigarette burns, and feed them fizzy orange and chips, that they may grow up straight and tall, that they may grow up to live on Kelvin.

Oh yeah, we can have ghettos too, only we use air rifles instead of machine guns. Stitch that. And we drink Diamond White. In the end, the question you have to ask yourself is: are you talking to me, or are you chewing a brick?