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The Grease Megamix Closes a Party 

For a while the DJ tries to be current, but then Tiger Feet 

into Come On Eileen, then the YMCA and Pulp. 

I love Pulp. At this point I am 72% Britpop and I know 


that I am a product of this place. Queueing at the buffet, 

for half cobs of egg mayonnaise; silver-skin onions, 

cheese, pineapple; quiche stacked on white paper plates. 


The kids and the women have taken their shoes off 

and white socks skid on the chipped varnish floor, 

danger that’s so much slower than I remember. 


There’s something about the shape of this hall, 

the heat never finds its way in. There’s been a chill 

on every red wine ever served here and memories 


gather in the high roof amongst the home-pumped 

helium balloons. We know we’ll all be here again. 

The paint has worn off the sign but we can read it. 


I sat for years on the car-park wall and watched 

for the future, but after the split lines of girls and guys 

sang their drunken high notes, we go to our same homes - 


safe on wide streets without traffic, all of those summer nights. 

Emily Cotterill

(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 1)

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