England Is Mine

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1

Life.

In this humdrum sense, is worth

avoiding.

It's the factory for the father

and the kitchen for mother.

It's arguments at the dinner table,

missing children on the news.

And through it all, a sense that

things are slowly falling apart.

Is it better to choose another

record and flip the lid on the pills,

and wait for something to happen?

Is it better to turn out the lights

climb under the covers

until sleep invites you to a

world you've always wanted.

Is it better than the one

that's in front of us?

Stop being a mad ass.

Two beers, please.

If you spent as much

time looking for a band

as you do slagging them off,

it could be you up there.

There's a reason...

Oh, come on, Steven, I was

only pulling your pisser.

Should we go to town on Saturday night?

We could go to that new club.

Not been yet.

Yeah but we'll just sit

there, like it's a funeral.

Yeah, we could pretend it's

yours, you'll like that.

I just think that there's

more to life than being...

Right, keep walking.

Pardon?

Keep walking, or you'll get taunted.

Just try and act normal for ten seconds.

You're d*ckheads.

Have you found a job yet?

No.

Well, you're not going to find

one sitting around on your arse.

There's nothing suitable.

What does that mean?

Something suitable.

Leave him alone.

He's gonna have to find a job some day.

He wants to write.

Write? He can't even write his bloody name.

Why do you always do that?

You are right.

I can't find Roxy.

No, I meant...

They've been like that for years, Angie.

Is it serious?

Do you want to talk about it?

There's no use bottling things up.

Life is too short.

For cliches.

Forget it.

You ever think it could have been awesome.

Buried in the dirt.

Dear enemy,

Manchester is a lovely place.

If you happen to be a

bed-ridden deaf mute.

The local music scene is the

sole preserve of troglodytes

whose regard for

subtlety and variation

is comparable to a pig's

passion for the slaughterhouse.

The performance was

the musical equivalent

of a prolonged bowel movement

followed by an unexpected

absence of toilet paper.

In case I haven't made myself clear,

it wasn't very good.

What about this?

I don't think so.

No it's a good job if you're not fussy.

Here's one.

Girl group seeks moaning minnie.

Now you could do that.

Not funny.

I don't know what I'm meant

to be looking for, do I?

There's no point in dragging me here

every week, just to play the c*nt.

Holly-f***ing-luya.

Yeah.

Yeah, all right.

Yeah, we will meet you tomorrow.

Great. Okay. Bye.

Got you a date.

Hey, he's quite fit.

Do you think that's him?

Leather jacket, check, red hair, check.

I don't like his shoes.

Just look him in the

eye and don't cock it up.

Just give me a minute.

You're not meeting the f***ing Pope.

Should we get out there or what?

We?

I could be your agent.

- Oh my goodness.

- Shall I count to ten?

Ten, nine, eight,

- seven, six, five...

- Fine!

Are you gonna sulk all day?

I'm not sulking.

What are you doing then?

I'm sulking.

You're the one who wouldn't talk to him.

The world is not just gonna come to you.

It might do.

You're ridiculous.

You may as well get a job in ASDA.

What, like you?

Oh, f*** off!

Mommy's boy.

You know, some of us live in the real

world with proper sh*t to deal with.

I don't need this.

Call me when you've grown a pair.

Look after your mother.

Merry Christmas, hey.

Who's gonna carve your turkey?

D*ckhead.

Are you a DJ?

What's with the record, then?

Hey, Lerch, she's talking to you.

What have you done now?

Have you got any plans for lunch, Steven?

Um, yes.

Cancel them.

You're gonna clean up this mess.

Get your sh*t together.

Nice one, knob jockey.

Get back to work, you two.

If there was ever

a revolution in England,

we'd form an orderly queue

at the guillotine.

Nothing worth doing in

life involves repetition.

It's the mind that matters.

The mind allows us to think

and feel

and see the beauty of things

where others can only see

crank bearings and spark plugs.

My little brother,

climbing that career ladder.

Please.

Chief pencil sharpener.

I'm not even listening.

Just a beer.

Ta.

I owe you an apology.

What for?

Steven Morrissey from Stratford certainly

likes the sound of his own voice.

Someone needed to say it.

Thank you.

You need to use more semicolons.

You write really well

but you shouldn't be afraid

to use more semicolons.

You know, relax the diction,

you're not Jane Austen.

Linder, we're going.

Come to our party.

Come on, we can slag off the bands we hate.

This is Steven.

He's a published writer.

Ah. Fellow Straton. Pleased to meet you.

I'm gonna collect my coat.

Be nice.

So you write then, do you?

Um...

They're just letters, I'm

not really published...

- Ah, a man of letters.

- Or a lettered man.

A lettered man would imply a man

with a PhD or similar, would it not?

Not necessarily.

A lettered man simply means

an academic in the abstract.

Would you rather be a man of letters,

or a lettered man.

You're confusing him now, Gordon.

Ready?

No.

Come on.

These are really...

They're really...

Are you trying to say you like them?

Yes, yeah.

Well...

It will all be for nothing

if I don't get it finished.

I love the silent hour of night,

for blissful dreams may then arise.

Do you have to be somewhere?

Gonna be late for work.

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