The laughing sailor split the pair of aces into nonsense and laughed like a leper in a whorehouse as the rain fell like a jilted nightclub singer's tears into the gutter. Just another day in N1. Just another day for Copenhagen whose eight hearts are broken, 16 eyes are bloodshot, and whose singer sounds like Jarvis Cocker with critical bronchial congestion. And so it underwhelmingly goes in the, of course, demi monde of the north London Tom Waits fixation.
The Cousteau B-side crackles into life as the cold-hearted Shylock twists the cap off another bottle, and the cliché shuffles in like a
one-legged Puerto Rican juggler with no torso in a stolen pair of
a tall crooked bookmaker's trousers. Guess it was just one of those days.
John Robinson
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