A land 2

In this pisspoor region, which has for centuries, from time immemorial, been nothing but the poor angsty relation of big proud lowland cities, the abode of fishery fools in hamlets, a thousand damp squib copses of grand tree, no more really than a big draughty swamp or forest and with simple sad little hills (not even respectable or brave enough to have mountains). A great tragic place full still of that half-remembered familial crackjawed embrace of quick dialects, respectable cleancut cultures all full of dull football and grey jokes of alcohol and dialect.
Sodden wet all over which makes the lush grass bloom in endless dew-wet hedgerows and makes the streets of the big towns look depressing with a secret fatigue.
All this looming, belly swell of a backwater, all these dark misers here transfixed, suspicioning and crafting nameless whispers to each other in popculture livingrooms, a fat sleepy Pseudo-America, suburban windows in the black dusk, big electric widescreens with dumb uptight families gathered round, nosey neighbours or skinny secretaries, ugly people or beautiful savage girls, big TV wires stretched over green countrysides, dumb rave kids with skinny gaunt faces and never-fulfilled hopes, violent little teenyboppers who fall pregnant and are dumb with TV in rooms, pissed on by rain. Kingdoms of Celts, some bitter and dark and mysterious breathing "fucks" into the air, some shiny and blond and giddy with some awful knowledge, in some bloodthirsty sacrament of their own.
Walk across a wet grass, go and curse your neighbour in a fatuous beery joke, go and watch TV, fall asleep.