“Shall I mourn your decline with some Thunderbird wine and a black handkerchief. I miss your sad, Virginia whisper, I miss the voice that called my heart...” Sweet Gene Vincent
Ian Dury, that most rudely lyrical gangster, one of the finest wordsmiths that England has ever produced, limbers up with linguistic laudings and larrupings over a proper hot stepping, sleazy, saucy funky backdrop. Presenting a panorama of sex, drugs and rock n roll carried on by a neon naughty cast of characters in scenic dives across the Essex hinterland. Whevver you’re listening with a nice bit of posh from Burnham on crouch, or a seasoned up hyena in the back of your Cortina, you will be doing very well indeed.
A fabulously feral wander through cockney park life and the back of beyond ending up with a funky knees up down your local.
Prepare to be knocked down with a feather, a knowing smile on your face, and that itchy funk jerking your body awake.
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