So I walk the city streets, Eastgate, Northgate, Watergate up to the Bridge
And the city walls that always hemm me in
The book I'm reading has lost appeal
The galleries and ice hockey don't grab me at all
I've lost interest in the things I shared with you
And how can I sit through an episode of Hollyoaks when I know it's somehow incomplete without your running commentary?
And how can I find the joy in 80s pop music when the whole disposable facade relies on sing-alongs with someone else?
And every evening without fail, we'd browse the Evening Leader or the Chronicle
And take comfort in the things that pass as news.
But where's the fun in current affairs with no accomplice here to share the satire with?
It's just a trivial page of local news
And how can I dream up ill-advised new recipes, when I know the sole enjoyment lied in laughing at our shared mistakes
And where does the excitement lie in tasting all the Tesco wines, when I know despite my best attempts, I'll never quite keep up with them alone
And the high street's painted black and white
Like the architects predicted nothing to celebrate
And nothing to write home about tonight
And the railways station's closing down
And the trams don't run here anymore
And I've ground to a halt
With nothing to write home about tonight
Save for the words, that you said
'I can only disappoint you'
That's perceptive I'm sure
Except I've heard it before
Local boy who made good
Then left town
For a flat by the river
With a Chateau Neuf Du Pape
And a box set of dreams
That came through early doors
