They're both places by the sea with two-word names, fact fans ...
BOGNOR REGIS
A bouncing ball in Bognor Regis like
A bomb or like a flying fish, small and red
And hard to catch; a poor boy on his bike
Is victim – staying quiet and playing dead.
I lost my Top Trumps in the train car we
Were staying in, took me thirty years to find
Them, such a crime of childhood’s grave ennui.
And such a sadness, time chased out of mind.
Two fingers through a curtain, the police
Are on their way, the boys on bikes are out
For bouncing blood, the smell of chips and grease
And danger in an idle callow shout.
Those days seen now so blue so hard to tame,
That boy, that wild boy then always the same.
PUERTO BANUS
Oh, fucking hell, the state of it. This place …
‘Cos mostly they conspire to hide the cash
But here you see it – polish lined with waste.
This is the kind of town where fash- meets fasc-.
Poor little cat, he’s hiding ‘neath the wheel
Of a Ferrari, Porsche or something gross.
The boats where ghosts make death kneel to their deal,
Just here, just out of sight, a hidden coast.
The gold and glare, the ropes and the contracts –
The sitters with dead eyes and dangerous friends.
The sweepers and the pavement, shit and cracks,
The dealers collecting as dark descends.
The state of stateless barons, every berth
Along the brimming harbour knows its worth.
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