Heavy Ipods

Only the radio had the power
to keep my attention
for an hour each Sunday night,
just after a bath
and a bubble beard shave.

The rest of the time
I was a distraction
to the rest of the class,
well at least that's what it says
in those musty pink report books
in the loft.

The top twenty meant as much
as match of the day, James Bond or
the head rolling out in Jaws.
When it was over at 7:00pm
I was always left feeling a little depressed
called it Sunday night tummy.

Dad rarely spoke between smokes
so when he shouted upstairs
for me to come down, I did
in leaps and bounds four steps
at a time, here he said and don't
say I never give you nowt.

A brown cardboard box with blue faded art work,
it smelled of stock cupboards and warm dust.
I threw my hand around his neck going in
for an unmanly kiss, I got stubble scraped instead,
but at least it was a sign of affection.

That day my world was transformed.
It was time for me to leave the capsule
and in one black leather driving glove
I mimed the night away too My Coo ca choo.
Move over Alvin Stardust,
with my tape recorder by my side, I had arrived.