We skipped the train and jumped a fence. Barbed wire snagging your knee. You cried, I laughed, storms burst over Essex. I kissed the blood, as the rain soak your jeans.
Clacton beach is more sludge than sand but it’s good for racing. You challenged Neptune to single combat, but the coward never showed. Roaring, we began a victory lap of this God-damned country, but while it’s a small nation it’s still too big to circuit. We made do with wild sea dancing instead.
This was a Friday, infatuated with salt. We had until Monday to really make it count.