We're the sweeney love, and we ain't had our dinner.
There’s talk of a return to the 70s with mass strikes, and spangles. The police are set to run at hairy men in donkey jackets, themselves in those funny blue serge safari jackets they used to wear. There will be really, really big wagon-wheels. Both the dock workers look to come out alongside the last print worker* (recently rescued from the carbonite Murdoch The Hutt had him imprisoned within). All that otherwise remains of the working class are IT clerks and telemarketeers, neither of which are set to join in as the former are still sulking that they aren’t officially professionals whilst the latter are still confused as to why they have to phone people up rather than fight rapier-wielding members of Cardinal Richelieu’s personal guard – armed only with wet washing and/or a chicken. Those set to edit down excessively long sentences on blogs however have voted to. Oh. They’re ba. ck.
So whilst men long content that fashion favoured the bald are frantically now trying to get it back over their collar the BBC are to reboot Life On Mars (albeit without any irony, science-fiction, or Irish) as its flagship cop drama.
Rob Nott and James May have already shot The Brotherhood of Man before forcibly nailing Peter Gabriel back into Genesis, with paisley nails, with the warning that if he can’t cut it there’re plenty of tribute acts that can.
It’s curry night. I’d better go and boil up a Vesta.
Blondie and Kate Bush are on the same episode of Top Of The Pops.
Power cut!
*The print worker did shoot first.
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