A Eulogy To The Not Quite Dead Yet:


Under the rubble, down by the park
Behind the market place and into the dark
Over the broken glass, huddled in fear
Clutching his retro cap made in Korea

There sits a man-child, a zero, a faded super-hero
High on plant fertiliser and strong frappuccino
Straining to remember those days of pure joy
Yes, it’s all gone Pete Tong for Shoreditch Boy

Surveying his manor, perusing his lair
From the Tabernacle Street to old ’Oxton Square
From the Rich Mix by Bethnal and the bars round by there
He had made them, and nurtured them as one of his own
And now, Christ sake, look at him – scared and alone, gazing forlornly into his mobile phone
But no-one ever rings his six hundred pound toy
It all used to be so different for Shoreditch Boy

He should’ve seen it coming that night at the Electric
Two hoxtonite fins dressed a little too eccentric
Trussed-up on gua in rage apoplectic
Squared up to a Louis Vuitton t-shirt popping a pill
And said, ‘Why don’t you fuck off back to Notting Hill!’
The bloke said, ‘I can’t. I’m from St Albans’.

And they all had a laugh, and apologised to each other on the other’s behalf
For how were they to know their stock was set to plummet on the graph
Down a quarter come September, come November down a half,
Being pushed out come the weekend to the north, west or sarf
Discarded, unwanted…like a baby giraffe
Spawned by a hippo

And to think, he’d re-appropriated the phrase ‘Oi, oi, savaloy!’
Yes, it’s all gone tits up for Shoreditch Boy

You see, he’d lost all his powers, x-ray vision, and flight
Ironic hats, kooky bangles were to him Kryptonite
He was weakened, physically repulsed at the very sight
Of Hologram triggered hands-free voice-activated shite
It used to have meaning, it used to be right
Lap-tops and crop-tops and whores of the night
Traipsing round shoreditch for electronic fights
In electronic dreams in electronic tights
With glowsticks on po-sticks and ‘Have you got a light?’
And ‘Nah, I don’t smoke dude, I write’.

Take some rice, egg, chopped vegetables, add a splash of soy
Yes, it’s all gone teppanyaki for Shoreditch boy.

He should have judged the market, seen it coming, made a run,
It couldn’t last forever, this new-age techno-fun,
It was jam-packed, elbow to elbow, of that there was no doubt,
They should’ve have had a dress-code, on the door – one in one out
There simply wasn’t room enough inside the altar of hip
Virgins, over-30’s, ad execs with ring through lip
Artists, actors, ‘bloody students’ pitching up their tent
Self-employed journo media critics driving down from Kent
And finally when they had settled, put up feet and were content
The landlord came round in his Volvo and doubled-up the rent

They’re cunts like that, landlords.

But wait, what’s this he spies
Landing from the sky
Square of jaw, sharp of suit
Cut of jib, keen of eye,
In his hand a fucking briefcase
Round his neck a fucking tie
And his feet in Spanish leather
Valentino FYI

Could it be his nemesis, come to rub it in
With the stench of Mephistopheles, Lucifer and sin
Embodiment of everything that isn’t Hoxton Fin
AntiChrist who walks alone devoid of horde or clan
There he stands – arch enemy of Shoreditch Boy – yes – it’s Business Man.

But what ho, look what happens here, an olive branch he holds
Along with a pot of hummus, sure, but a truce is being sold
‘Come, young Shoreditch Boy of yore, make way for me and mine
‘Your time is up around these parts – I’ve priced you out, you swine
‘I’ve beaten all stood in my way – chav, emo, goth and geek
‘But you my worthy adversary, a better life you seek, I’m sure

‘There is a place not fifty yards from where we are, you see
‘It is untapped, ripe for the pluck, it lies in wait for thee,
‘Pack up your troubles in your old mock-vintage Che Guevara kit bag, and settle up the bill
‘Get on the number 48, get off at Stamford Hill

‘Now before you start, I’ve done the research, they’re making money hand over fist,
‘Despite the fact the area looks like Mad Max meets Schindler’s List
‘Don’t tell me Seven Sisters Road and Clapton don’t need face-lifts
‘It’s full of sullen Tottenham fans in old aged homes with chair-lifts
‘Move your people there henceforth, this should be your mission
‘For the inhabitants of Lordship Lane, you see, bluetooth is a condition’.

So Shoreditch Boy and Business Man shook hands and flew away
They let bygones be bygones, and bagels be bagels, if only for one day
Turning tizer into Jagerbombs and milk to lychee martini
Carmelli bakery got a bowling alley, complete with Ben Eine graffiti
Hand in hand they lifted the new East-end from all its daily troubles
Setting trends, with friends in dark dead-ends by bursting all the bubbles

And soon the artists followed suit like newts in nooks and crannies
Grannies, grandpas moving out
Replaced by llama-necks and trannies
With headsets on segueways in archways
Curated by the Chapman Brothers for a laugh,
And they all came out the woodwork,
Including the baby giraffe,
The hippo took it back again, made peace and started anew,
‘The revolution has begun!’ shouted a Hasidic Jew
From a computerised restaurant,
Yes, a computerised restaurant,
Eating potpourri deer-fern with fairy lights in his sideburns,
This was beyond Thunderdome!

Under the rubble, down by the park,
Behind the market place and into the dark,
Over the broken glass, riddled with gwan,
Clutching his retro cap made in Taiwan

There sits an unborn, a foetus, an all-seeing eye,
It winks and it smiles and it sits there on high,
And out of its dreams carves a new horse of Troy
Yes, there might just be hope yet for poor Shoreditch Boy