'The fucking train is fucking late...' Sydney is Chickentown

'...you fucking wait and fucking wait.'

Another Saturday, another meltdown of the train system, which is amazing really, the fact they actually made it a whole week before the system melted down again, sending it all into total chaos.

It can't be that hard, I mean the very fact it keeps getting worse indicates it can be better, as it was better.

Other countries manage it, somehow, Last Saturday, when I couldn't go anywhere due to the last total meltdown of the train system, I tortured myself by watching a documentary all about how brilliant'y efficient Japan's trains were, always on time to the very second and almost never malfunctioning, despite, in Tokyo, dealing with many millions more people than Sydney.

Then there is the ever-worsening "nanny state" killing any life at all in this city, with the pokie-ridden pubs already almost killing love music before "noise complaints" by people living near venues known for playing live music... and the lock out laws, that somehow managed to entirely exclude the Star Casino, killing the precincts like King's Cross and sending their patrons to invade other precincts like Newtown, so what was once a gay-and-alternative-friendly area is increasingly ridden with violence.

And the whole thing, on top of rising rents and a housing shortage... it all adds up to make Sydney more and more like Chickentown of "Evidently Chickentown" by John Cooper Clarke, the punk poet from Salford just out of Manchester in England. It was presumably Salford, which was also the inspiration for Ewan McColl's folk standard "Dirty Old Town", that Clarke had in mind, but the words of his most famous poem fit a little too well in this fucking shithole.

The fucking cops are fucking keen

To fucking keep it fucking clean

The fucking chief’s a fucking swine

Who fucking draws a fucking line

At fucking fun and fucking games

The fucking kids he fucking blames

Are nowehere to be fucking found

Anywhere in Chickentown

The fucking scene is fucking sad

The fucking news is fucking bad

The fucking weed is fucking turf

The fucking speed is fucking surf

The fucking folks are fucking daft

Don’t make me fucking laugh

It fucking hurts to look around

Everywhere in Chickentown

The fucking train is fucking late

You fucking wait you fucking wait

You’re fucking lost and fucking found

Stuck in fucking Chickentown

The fucking view is fucking vile

For fucking miles and fucking miles

The fucking babies fucking cry

The fucking flowers fucking die

The fucking food is fucking muck

The fucking drains are fucking fucked

The colour scheme is fucking brown

Everywhere in Chickentown

The fucking pubs are fucking dull

The fucking clubs are fucking full

Of fucking girls and fucking guys

With fucking murder in Their eyes

A fucking bloke is fucking stabbed

Waiting for a fucking cab

You fucking stay at fucking home

The fucking neighbors fucking moan

Keep The fucking racket down

This is fucking Chickentown

The fucking train is fucking late

You fucking wait you fucking wait

You’re fucking lost and fucking found

Stuck in fucking Chickentown

The fucking pies are fucking old

The fucking chips are fucking cold

The fucking beer is fucking flat

The fucking flats have fucking rats

The fucking clocks are fucking wrong

The fucking days are fucking long

It fucking gets you fucking down

Evidently Chickentown

Dedicated to a FUCKWIT.

Yes, let no one deny
You, yes you
Are a fuckwit.
A total fuckwit.
Fuckwit
is what you are.
A total fuckwit.
Did I mention
that I think
you are
a fuckwit?
If not let me say here and now,
That
A fuckwit is what you are.
Jesus fucking christ
You are
A fuckwit.
FUCKWIT.
And,
lest there be any
misunderstanding,
Allow me to say
FUCK YOU.


"Like a nightclub in the morning, you’re the bitter end. Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend."

The best fucking poem fucking ever fucking written by fucking anyone

It is my considered opinion, avid clickers on the google ads kindly provided by my good self at the top of this blog, that John Cooper Clarke, “punk poet” and the “Bard of Salford”, is a fucking legend.

I have already drawn attention to one of his more charming poems, entitled “Twat”. And there are plenty more delightful ditties to be found on his website.

But more than anything else, Mr Cooper Clarke should be celebrated as the writer and performer of indisputably the Best Poem Ever Written By Anyone Ever.

Now, I can hear the cries of my loyal google-ad clicking fan base. Yes, Carlo Sands is also a poet.

And, yes, my masterpiece, I Kill You Now Fuck Off And Get Me A Drink, was one of those rare pieces of art that totally redefined a genre, revolutionised an art form and was so ahead of its time that time travellers from 2750s feel like backward hicks when they stumble across it.

It is true it was an important, if controversial, piece of work that bravely tackled such taboo subjects as the practice of yelling at corpses that fail to bring you a beer. Which, in my experience, is pretty much all of them.

But, if my more fanatical supporters will permit me to say so (and seriously guys, maybe you should relieve a little of that passionate energy with a few google ad clicks), it still falls short of Mr John Cooper Clarke's “Evidently Chickentown”.

Put to music by his Invisible Girls backing band for his 1980 album Snap, Crackle and Bop, featured briefly in the film clip to the Joy Division song “Transmission”, and played over the closing credits of an episode of The Sopranos, "Evidently Chickentown" is really fucking good.

It presents the most vivid picture ever provided in word form of what it is *actually like* trying to live under late monopoly capitalism.

Inspired by the wonders of working class life in northern England in the late ’70s, it describes life for ordinary people in the “developed” world everywhere.

It may also have served as inspiration of a sort to a post of mine entitled “Dear Motherfuckers” — but I warn Mr Cooper Clarke now, he wont ever see so much of a cent of my google ad revenue.




“The reason I like to do this number is, quite simply, I can't do this on TV. They wont let me do it on TV because last time I did it, the beep operators sued for repetitive strain injury. Also, my swear box doubles as a high-yield pension scheme.”


Evidently Chickentown

The fucking cops are fucking keen
To fucking keep it fucking clean
The fucking chief's a fucking swine
Who fucking draws a fucking line
At fucking fun and fucking games
The fucking kids he fucking blames
Are nowehere to be fucking found
Anywhere in Chickentown

The fucking scene is fucking sad
The fucking news is fucking bad
The fucking weed is fucking turf
The fucking speed is fucking surf
The fucking folks are fucking daft
Don't make me fucking laugh
It fucking hurts to look around
Everywhere in Chickentown

The fucking train is fucking late
You fucking wait you fucking wait
You're fucking lost and fucking found
Stuck in fucking Chickentown

The fucking view is fucking vile
For fucking miles and fucking miles
The fucking babies fucking cry
The fucking flowers fucking die
The fucking food is fucking muck
The fucking drains are fucking fucked
The colour scheme is fucking brown
Everywhere in Chickentown

The fucking pubs are fucking dull
The fucking clubs are fucking full
Of fucking girls and fucking guys
With fucking murder in Their eyes
A fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
Waiting for a fucking cab
You fucking stay at fucking home
The fucking neighbors fucking moan
Keep The fucking racket down
This is fucking Chickentown

The fucking train is fucking late
You fucking wait you fucking wait
You're fucking lost and fucking found
Stuck in fucking Chickentown

The fucking pies are fucking old
The fucking chips are fucking cold
The fucking beer is fucking flat
The fucking flats have fucking rats
The fucking clocks are fucking wrong
The fucking days are fucking long
It fucking gets you fucking down
Evidently Chickentown

Dear Kyle Sandlilands and 2Day FM management

2Day FM morning show host Kyle Sandilands, the scumbag who gives bags filled with scum a bad name, is facing media controversy again.

The April 11 Sydney Morning Herald said Sandilands’ “ seemingly unguarded comments in a recent trade industry podcast have caused further ructions within 2Day FM”.

This being the man who responded to a 14-year-old girl’s shock revelation while strapped to a lie detector live on air and questioned about her sex life that she had in fact been raped, “so have you had any other sexual experiences?”

Ever a charming fellow, Sandilands forced his 2Day FM morning radio show’s newsreader Geoff Field to resign through constant on air bullying.

Sandilands described Field as “like a step child you can't get rid of”.

Field complained to 2Day FM’s human resources about the constant public belittling. Sandilands responded in the Media Week podcast with: “He was running off down to HR . . . bitching and carrying on ... Geoff's an older gay man, easily offended.”

Field will now work on 2Day FM’s drive time show with Andy and Hamish.

Field, who addressed Sydney’s March 20 demonstration in favour of legalising same-sex marriage, has actually shown a willingness to perform acts aimed at human progress — as opposed to Sandilands’ ceaseless efforts to try to drown it in a sewer.

But it wouldn’t be right to direct all the blame at Sandilands. By his own admission, he is just doing his job.

The SMH article noted: “Sandilands says when he started on 2Day's night-time program Hot 30, management wanted someone to stir things up. ‘That's what [then program director] Jeff Allis said to me: Do what you want. Don't listen to anyone. If you don't like what the program manager says, just don't do it,’ Sandilands says.

“‘He was my get-out-of-jail-free card. So I sailed through my first five or six years at Austereo protected by the group program director. That's why I was such an arsehole to everyone and anyone.’”

But after Sandliands, already reviled for the on-air rape stunt, advised comedian Madga Szabanski that she should try a Nazi concentration camp to lose more weight, the public criticism was getting pretty extreme.

So, he had a crisis meeting with Austereo chairperson Peter Harvie.

Said Sandilands: “I was more cautious with Peter Harvie than anyone else on the planet because I’d already lost the Idol job and I was thinking this guy holds the purse strings to my other income.

“He told me ... ‘We’re in trouble and I don’t know how we’re going to get through this.’ Told me people were out for my blood. People were out for his blood.

“He came to the decision that I would continue the suspension for another few weeks and he thought it would be a good idea if the salary I earned in that time was distributed through charities...”

Sandilands, concerned as ever with the cause closest to his own heart, responded: “I didn't think that was a good idea because I wanted the money.”

So, while I am on the topic of letters to dear friends, I thought it only fair to lay off the US ruling class for a minute to focus closer to home.

I am, however, fucking lazy. Therefore, I have decided to leave it the the greatest poet I know: John Cooper Clarke. You can now enjoy the Bard of Salford in conjunction with this blog’s renowned collection of google ads, just at the top of the page (great money-spending opportunities only a click away).

This poem is not just dedicated to Sandilands, the public face of vomit, but the likes of Allis and Harvie who stick their fingers down his throat to help him spew up on air.




“Do us all a favour, here... wear this polythene bag”