Holiday (track)
by The Just Joans

David Pope is sweating in a Glasgow garden after some unexpected seasonal summer sun. David is clammy and buzzing on Brewdog (Punk IPA in blue, industrial cans). The tins litter the garden like aluminium molehills. Alexa has been pumping out Weezer albums for three of the past four hours. The Blue Album finished 57 minutes ago but David is oblivious, still lost in a fog of unpleasant dampness. Pope is gagging for a flight to Murcia (two weeks in the sun, all inclusive - he could book it, pack it, eff off). Still slimy he pictures himself piloting the band:

“Is would you maybe
Come dancin' with me?....[BURRRRPP]
'Cause to me it doesn't matter
If your hopes and dreams are shattered
When you say something
You make me believe
In a girl who wears a dirty shirt
She knows exactly what she's worth
She knows exactly what she's worth to me”

Now he can see. Pope’s shirt isn’t dirty but it is sodden with anxiety. If he goes on holiday what has he got to live for on his return, other than September rains, the clocks going back and ‘kin Halloween. Jesus Christ, Popey, you’re almost forty and your sticky hands are trembling like a startled squirrel (red).

Slipping in and out of dehydrated consciousness, Pope eroticises over fags, birds and sandy crevices. Dank.

His claggy anguish can be heard all the way from the runway at Prestwick Airport (55°30′34″N 004°35′40″W). Slumped in a deckchair, his sister Katie is going to be p*ssed off when she returns from Xanthi to find *this*.