Sport 18: Autumn 1997
We're at the Golf Club discussing satanic cults.
They had a special day for the young people
who committed suicide under the Marton bridge.
As if we haven't got enough tragedies in cars.
We had bodgies and widgies, but they were harmless.
The line dancers were upset
because the stage was uneven.
It was just plain dangerous.
The man in the ice-cream van thought the line dancing
music was the best he had heard all day.
All of these young people are growing up without melody.
They just like improvising noise. And when they sing
you can't make out the words.
Anyone would think they were in pain.
Did you go? God, no!
They've got four televisions in the TAB
and I could still hear it.
The Karate Club put on a display. But they'd forgotten to organise
something to kick.
There's been four youth groups set up since the war.
They've all started with a hiss and a roar.
One boy was eating his girlfriend.
There were little kids there.
The Mayor made a plea to the young folk of the Rangitikei:
‘Please stop dying.’
I sit on the verandah and watch them walk home from school,
smoking and swearing. I wouldn't cross the road
to kick them up the arse.
I blame the parents.
I'm glad someone said that.
The TV came and talked to Gypsy
only because he had tattoos on his face
and some other guy, no one knew,
who was totally out of it,
lying in the grass in his leathers.
There were ordinary people there too.
It's supposed to become an annual thing.
I like to hear the letters hit the pile when I post them.
Yours didn't make a sound. Intercepted mid-air.
Whisked away to a steaming jug and a big black pencil.
HB, censoring me.
I'm but do.
I have. Let me can. Please
sweet . Because nothing
Yours x x
PS: Please in my .