THE HORROR OF HAYES

It's crap. A horrendous London outcrop that is in a state of listless decay. It is as if one is entering a vortex of aesthetic indifference where stunted ideas are celebrated as cultural totems. Gormless groups drift along the pavement tensed with the pointless energy of dumb youth. I have a friend who lives here, subjected to the tantrums of the unwanted local children, circling his house like witless hyenas, screaming and violently booting balls at houses and cars. A charity shop fizzing with unsavoury odours is a sanctuary of sorts. Defeated and damaged the vinyl sprawls awkwardly beneath a ledge of commonplace CD's. A Crickets LP is as mottled as a month old lettuce leaf. Nothing to be rescued here. A miserly slice of salvation appears in the form of a Helen And The Horns 12". Not quite Helen of Troy the glossy Helen McCookerybook, once of Brighton cartoon punkers the Chefs, offers up a jumpy lounge number called Footsteps At My Door. In this locality it is more likely to be the bailiffs than Xavier Cugat marching up the uneven pathway.