down in the tube station by midnight
The third choice of long narrative songs in Rock selected by Aritz Branton. The beautiful Down in the tube station by midnight by The Jam. The distant echo of faraway voices boarding faraway trains to take them home to the ones that they love and who love them forever. The glazed, dirty steps, repeat my own and reflect my thoughts. Cold and uninviting, partially naked except for toffee wrappers and this morning’s paper: Mr. Jones got run down, headlines of death and sorrow, they tell of tomorrow, madmen on the rampage.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
I fumble for change, and pull out the Queen, smiling, beguiling. I put in the money and pull out a plum behind me. Whispers in the shadows, gruff, blazing voices hating, waiting. “Hey boy”, they shout, “Have you got any money?” And I said, “I’ve a little money and a take-away curry, I’m on my way home to my wife. She’ll be lining up the cutlery, you know she’s expecting me, polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork”.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
I first felt a fist, and then a kick, I could now smell their breath. They smelt of pubs and wormwood scrubs and too many right wing meetings. My life swam around me, it took a look and drowned me in its own existence. The smell of brown leather, it blended in with the weather, it filled my eyes, ears, nose and mouth, it blocked all my senses: couldn’t see, hear, speak any longer.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
The last thing that I saw as I lay there on the floor was “Jesus saves” painted by an atheist nutter. And a British Rail poster read “have an away day, a cheap holiday, do it today!” I glanced back on my life and thought about my wife cause they took the keys, and she’ll think it’s me, the wine will be flat and the curry’s gone cold.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
Don’t want to go down in a tube station at midnight.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
I fumble for change, and pull out the Queen, smiling, beguiling. I put in the money and pull out a plum behind me. Whispers in the shadows, gruff, blazing voices hating, waiting. “Hey boy”, they shout, “Have you got any money?” And I said, “I’ve a little money and a take-away curry, I’m on my way home to my wife. She’ll be lining up the cutlery, you know she’s expecting me, polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork”.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
I first felt a fist, and then a kick, I could now smell their breath. They smelt of pubs and wormwood scrubs and too many right wing meetings. My life swam around me, it took a look and drowned me in its own existence. The smell of brown leather, it blended in with the weather, it filled my eyes, ears, nose and mouth, it blocked all my senses: couldn’t see, hear, speak any longer.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
The last thing that I saw as I lay there on the floor was “Jesus saves” painted by an atheist nutter. And a British Rail poster read “have an away day, a cheap holiday, do it today!” I glanced back on my life and thought about my wife cause they took the keys, and she’ll think it’s me, the wine will be flat and the curry’s gone cold.
And I’m down in the tube station at midnight.
Don’t want to go down in a tube station at midnight.
