Messthetics

I read a few books printed recently that can count as memoirs from “the counterculture” of the 1970s, presented from various angles. Then I read a short work from the middle of the period itself, that can be taken as an attempted manifesto for the times. Just before I was going to start writing this down, I heard about the death of Vivienne Westwood, who appears in some of these books.

Maidstoned by harefield (2019)

I first heard about this self-published book from a friend of mine who had attended art college for a short time in the early 70s. It had been recommended to him by another old friend, though neither of them were close to the people mentioned in it. Written by “harefield”, which is acknowledged as a pseudonym for Harlan T.Cockburn.

The book is dedicated “In memory of Peter McKellar”, one of the inspirational cohort described in this chronicle of a generation at Maidstone College of Art in the early 70s. Art education was changing status at this time, and what began as a Diploma course had become a BA degree when the students graduated after 3 years.

harefield starts by telling his unusual backstory: from the North-East, he’d gone to work as a volunteer teacher out in Kenya, but got sick with malaria, and had to be flown back to Blighty with severe illness and some brain damage. He spent a year doing a Pre-Diploma course in Bradford, before the move south, and in that time got married to his girlfriend to avoid being bothered by parents who objected to a non-married co-habiting relationship. As we might expect, this early marriage didn’t last very well, but it did mean that he arrived in Maidstone older than most other students and with more money, though the working partner who helped out would be moving on soon.

I’d been interested in the transformational possibilities of drugs since my schooldays when I’d started to do all that I could to get off my face and out of my head. In Africa there was excellent ganja available in pre-rolled cigarettes which came directly from a special production line at the Sportsman Cigarette factory. In fact the joints were called Sportsman Specials. As well as having National Health Service hallucinogens pumped into me in the name of science once I was back in Britain, life in Bradford offered plenty more opportunities to smoke dope and start experimenting with acid – LSD rapidly becoming my drug of choice… In Maidstone anything and everything was on tap.

This wasn’t just because of the art college, although that helped. There were other factors going for the town as a place satisfying narcotic demand and supply. Firstly, Maidstone had a large barracks and the squaddies on weekend passes liked nothing better than to get tanked up in a pub, do some coke or speed, get into a recreational fight, then finish the night with a spliff or two. They were often abetted by the transient Gypsy population who also enjoyed the same entertainment. Many Traveller families gathered for the fruit picking and hopping seasons, swelling the size of the town, and they were aways ready to get high then rumble.

Also, Maidstone had a prison right in the town, so gang members would be hanging around to visit their mates inside, or newly-released hard cases would be out looking for blow and recreation. The art students were usually a good port of call for these groups and over three years I bumped into some pretty dangerous people who carried blades and had prison tattoos across their knuckles…. [I]t was bloody dangerous, especially when the company kept was a room full of Travellers on one side, eyeing up soldiers on the other, some fingering blades in pockets, and many hallucinating to the max.

All of this took a toll on some students. Anyone romanticising how life in the 70s was indifferent to questions of safety and welfare should consider stories like these:

I was asked to deal with a student who went full-on meltdown. I wasn’t around when she initially freaked, and indeed I barely knew her. But I was around to try and mop up the mess and conduct her back to her parent’s house in the North East, and from there to a psychiatric ward when the parents proved incapable of understanding what was going on with their previously well-behaved little girl…. I really don’t know whether my fellow northerner was sick from a bad LSD trip, or what. She was seeing angels and hearing voices which were instructing her to harm herself because she was evil… The amazing thing was that someone in authority at the college sanctioned the payment for our travel, but didn’t join up any dots about why this young woman was going crazy, or seek any professional help for her. Just pack her off out of sight under the guardianship of some other young person, and hope for the best.

The education on offer at the School was a mixture of the old traditionalists hanging on whilst a variety of new ideas were being vigorously promoted, mostly by younger staff who were as keen on the same lifestyle as the students. harefield quotes some observations from his fellow graduate Steve McDade:

There was figurative and abstract painting… all this ‘academe’ was rubbished by the emerging performance scene… There were tears and fights. Distressed men and women going through the rigours of disassembling themselves in public and doing themselves up with bandages (to heal their wounds perhaps). There was rotting food in glass cases… Fine Art was disdainful of Graphic Design and Graphic Design disliked Fine Art. There were ‘lectures’ but no curriculum.

As harefield concludes: “The old was being shaken loose before our eyes, and a new breed of tutors who weren’t tutors at all, but rather provocateurs had the run of the place.”

They weren’t entirely unaware of the wider world – one of the students (Steve Trower, who went on to a career as a landscapist) produced photorealist paintings of US bombers, which I would quite like to see but there are no surviving examples in the photographs recovered for this text. The main building was a “neo-brutalist” construction, but there was a story behind it:

The rumours were that the new school had been designed as a dual function building. It may have even won awards for its design because there was a plaque in the entrance hall. It was talked about as being a hospital for victims of the impending mass destruction in the time of ‘cold war’ hostilities. The threat of superpower aggression and warfare was still a very real issue and circulated through our lives. It affected the culture.

Forming bands and trying to keep up with the latest progressive rock was one occupation aside from art work and sexual experimentation.

Gender fluidity was the name of the game and people were keen to avoid stereotyping as to their sexuality… A new student from boring Blackpool of all places turned up, sporting blue eyeshadow. This was Steve Partridge, destined to become one of the grand old men of video art, but at this point in the vanguard of soon ubiquitous Bowie-alikes. Everyone wanted to be David Bowie. He was it, the complete embodiment of hipness, and just as importantly, of talent. If Bowie could come on as gender fluid, then hell so could we.

Not everything in this world seems so simple and good in retrospect (“the passivity of girls at this time seems extraordinary”), and harefield acknowledges he is an unreliable narrator, as this is the Second Edition of Maidstoned and he has included corrections on some stories about Peter McKellar. But most of these graduates seem to have gone on to successful and respectable careers inside various industries and institutes. They acquired quite marketable skills from all the experimentation with early video technology and music recording, and constructing imagery reusing styles and symbols detached from a wide range of sources. This was a good preparation for careers as media provocateurs, if they’d wanted to take that path. The greatest opportunity they had was when Maidstone students got the chance to put on their own exhibition at the ICA in London. This included some female students putting on a performance titled Turnip Acts. Mary Dickinson explains how she thinks this was supposed to function:

[O]ur intention was to make some sort of feminist statement. The way in which this manifested itself beggars belief: we dressed up as maids and tarts and asked various unsuspecting blokes to pose for photos with us. They were pretty obliging and one way and another everyone had a jolly good laugh. In hindsight, the only way I could explain this would be to compare it to an early form of ‘Girl Power.’ – We wear and do what we want, we are in control of our image and fuck you if you don’t like it.

I don’t remember the details of our prep for this event but the three of us were pretty committed to our work and I do remember having endless, very serious and meaningful discussions about why we were doing all this, along with lots of important female bonding and having an absolute gas.

The Peanut Factory by Deborah Price (2022)

Deborah Price starts her memoir:

I left home on a summer morning in 1975. I was eighteen and ready for change. In the afternoon I went to a pop festival in South London. In the evening I moved into a squat with my boyfriend and partied all night. Music and parties and moving every few months would become my life for the next eight years. I had no idea what I was in for…

Young Deborah had taken A-levels but wasn’t interested in further education. If she had taken that route she would have needed the co-operation of her parents, because that’s how the old grant system worked: parental income had to be declared and taken into account. But it’s clear she wanted to be away as soon as possible and home life was complicated as Mum was working abroad and her step-father was busy with his market stall. He appears at the start helping her unload her belongings at her new home, and seems to be happy to get the transition over and done with as soon as possible.

The new life she takes up with her boyfriend is the world of squatting in many derelict premises in south London, mainly around Crystal Palace (the eponymous defunct Peanut Factory was close by Gypsy Hill station).

To my shame, I never took much part in opening up the squats and tended to leave that to Joe. He would go up to the electric shop on the high street and open an account for the property under an assumed name – most recently Neil Young and Graham Parker. We never paid the bills. The only bill we did pay was the rates, as non-payment would lead to certain eviction. None of the houses I lived in had heating or hot running water, some didn’t have bathrooms and conditions were always a bit spartan. However living with friends rent-free made up for that.

To maintain this life requires a series of low-paid jobs, mostly bar work. There may be students and ex-students falling through, but most of the people in this world are outside the business of grants and benefits and do not have any authorities who might even potentially take an interest in their welfare. There are plenty of drugs in this world, but also violence and several sexual assaults, and someone also has to be sent back to the parents to recover from a traumatic experience.

Some of the other squatters are trying to live new lifestyles that would not be approved of at home. There are some older hippies still going around, but that trend is fading out as we move in to the late 70s. A new sound is turning up at gigs and festivals, dividing audiences and infuriating sound men. The band are called Johnny Moped, but they change that to The Damned by the time they finally release their first single.

I loved the concept but struggled with the sound of this new music until Andy took me aside some months later. It all seemed so raw and discordant. I’d only heard that one record, but I couldn’t make sense of it and didn’t touch anything inside of me.

’Listen to this, I think I’ve cracked it with you. It’s just been released, it’s punk moved on a bit.’

It was ‘Less Than Zero’ by Elvis Costello. I played it over and over again until the record wore out. I got the same feeling with the Sex Pistols. When I first heard ‘Anarchy In The UK’ I wanted to cry. It sounded like a rallying call. It was finally music that was part of my life, part of the London squatting scene.

…I got rid of all the vinyl that I decreed was irrelevant… I was able to give them up in public but one thing I felt strongly about was that no one was going to put Motown down. That was the holy grail of music as far as I was concerned. Otherwise, I bought cassette tapes and played them on a tinny machine – Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop mainly.

When they inevitably experiment with forming a band, which never gets beyond making tape recordings at home, she insists it can’t be punk because ‘I’m too old for punk. I’m nineteen. That’s for sixteen-year-olds.’ But she enjoys travelling in to central London and looking in Vivienne Westwood’s store and other trend centres.

There are troubles with angry neighbours, troubles with drug dealers, and also trouble with the police, who don’t need much excuse to put any scruffy young people in the back of a van and later discover evidence of soft drugs on them. The chance to move into council property in Peckham turns out to be not such a great opportunity when they see what they’re getting.

There were washing line where it was clear in the past it had been a pleasant patch of green. A place where neighbours met and children played and people looked out for each other. Now there were burnt out cars and heaps of old rusting fridges and bits of washing machines.

The council worker saw my look of horror and sighed.

’There’s a reason why they’re hard to let,’ he said. ‘This isn’t Dulwich.’

As the years go by Deborah found more interesting work at a zoo and then helping in what would now be called “outreach”, travelling around “the more deprived parts of London with a horse box and a selection of animals to show children who had never seen anything like them.” There is also a chance to be creative and increasingly independent:

Joe and I drifted further apart. He started working in an adventure playground in Lambeth and we decided to have our own personal money for the first time.

We did come together to perform in a street theatre group for children called ‘Show Off Shows’. A friend wrote a great slapstick sketch involving a mother and father in a café with a policeman. It had some political undertones and some effective props including pretend ‘sick’ that made the children in the audience scream in horror. We got some funding from Lambeth and performed at a festival in Kew Gardens and at the launch of the refurbished Lambeth Walk.

…Our last performance was down in the squats where we used to live off Gypsy Hill.

’Teenagers Alley,’ Joe called it. ‘We were the first,’ he sniffed.

The empty houses were now occupied. A thriving scene had emerged with the three squatted streets. The Peanut Factory was operating as a community centre. Joe and I performed at a street party in the area. We were both working full-time and didn’t have the energy to expand the theatre group, so that was our swan song.

Something called “alternative comedy” is mentioned a few times as we move in to the 80s, so perhaps the theatre group could have turned into something else. Instead we have an increasing sense that the squatting world is passing away as its toughest graduates have matured and become ready for a wider world. New fashions and new people are turning up in night life, there is new music and new faces like Boy George can be seen around, before they become famous.

New Romantics were in full bloom; I loved this movement as it involved taking a lot of time and effort to get ready. It was in sharp contrast to what was going on in the streets at the time. There was unemployment, social injustice, poverty, riots, filthy streets from bin strikes, yet we could spend a whole day making outfits, spraying our hair, and putting on makeup for a night out. The glamour and decadence went hand in glove with the grime and hard times. When I was younger and living at home, I was a member of the Worker’s Revolutionary Party, an extreme left-wing group led by Vanessa Redgrave and her brother Corin. Now my life was my political activism as I lived in a squat, worked with unemployed youth for the GLC, and went out clubbing. Getting dressed up and partying was a living protest against cuts and poverty. It was fingers up to the government.

Deborah moved away from London in the mid 80s for Brighton, finally getting qualifications and a settled career as a respectable working adult… but she always was, and the growing up happened very quickly, in the earliest chapters of this story.

The squats were full of people like that, characters who seemed to just be parachuted there. I had no idea who they really were, where they had been, and why they were there. One or two had a permanent furtive air and a way of looking over their shoulders that made me think they were on the run. There was a fair sprinkling of actual runaways as well, young rascals who had fled home. Mixed in the cocktail were earnest politicos, members of the SWP who had the houses with constant meetings and crowds of dilettante would-be artists wafting about in kimonos.

69 Exhibition Road by Dorothy Max Prior (2022)

This is another memoir from the same period as Deborah’s, but closer to the centre of London and what was going on there, and by someone a bit older and with different expectations. She was also able to pay rent for most of the time and never descended to the squatting circuit.

We begin in the first chapter with her nervous arrival at the eponymous location in late 1976, to sleep on the floor of the room rented by her friend Monika; she gets a room of her own, and then another that she shares with Andy Warren. She has to move on in 1982 when property developers take over and tear the place down. The rest of the book then tells the separate threads of what occurred in between those events and the scenes and actions she was involved with. COUM Transmissions and the Prostitution show at the ICA; the Sex Pistols and the start of punk; the world of LGBT (before that label existed) “supper clubs” in Soho; working as a stripper; working as a drummer in various minor post-punk groups and then seeing the rise of Adam & The Ants from the side of the stage. The second chapter fills in the back story up to the arrival at Exhibition Road, and is unlike the others in being told in the 3rd person rather than the conversational confessional style of the rest of the book.

You’re 19, and here you are, walking along Edgware Road, swinging your buckskin bag from your arm. Higher Education was a waste of time, you’re learning nothing you want to learn. You got chucked out of the Socialist Workers Party for wearing a dress, which marked you out as ‘not a serious contender’ so you’ve given up politics. You’re looking for something – other.

Searching for the other also makes one into one of the “others”, or rather “Them”, the new trend identified by trend-radar Peter York:

Things are shifting. Girls are stepping out. At Chaguaramas and Global Village cute young dykes in red peg trousers and those clear plastic jelly-shoes you can buy in Beaufort Market dance with each other until the 2.00am curfew, then walk hand-in-hand to Trafalgar Square to catch the night bus home.

That’s one look anyway, but there are many takes on this emerging new aesthetic, the cult with no name that Peter York has tagged ‘Them’ in an article in Harpers & Queen. There are so many variations – hair long/hair cropped, hair black/hair pink, fifties frocks or PVC trews, tie-dyed T.Rex T-shirt or Anthony Price ciré top, slutty full-face make-up or bare-faced androgyny – yet somehow we recognise each other.

Dorothy and her world have already absorbed the literature of the preceding rebel culture: “You have read The Floodgates Of Anarchy by Stuart Christie, and Jeff Nuttall’s Bomb Culture.” The new mood in this new wave invading the ICA and breaking out in to a new club culture is a further evolution of Graphic Design away from Fine Art. It delights in appropriating images and reusing them for its own products.

Often, when I’m travelling to and from the day job, I dress down, saving the costumes for their onstage revelation. But the PVC, rubber and leatherwear come in handy the rest of the time. Of course, dressed in a PVC micro-miniskirt, with visible stocking-tops, I regularly get propositioned on the streets. Especially if anywhere near Piccadilly Circus. Men are surprised when I tell them I’m not for sale. Or at least, I’m only for sale on my own terms – but I don’t say that.

The ironic postmodern punk thing has brought with it a renewed interest in slumming it in Soho or down the Hackney Road. Down with sensible dungarees and worthy outdoor music festivals in muddy fields. Hurrah for inner-city dodgy geezer/brassy bird looks and pursuits. Winkelpickers. Bleached bond hair. Striptease. Wrestling. Boxing. Greyhound racing. I remember someone – I think it was Jordan – saying we should all go greyhound racing. We embrace Len Deighton’s London. Wolf Mankowitz’ London, Diana Dors’ London. This London, in all its trashy messy mid-70s decline and fall, has become our playground. Old man pubs with bevelled glass mirrors and nicotine yellow Anaglypta wallpaper. Expresso Bongo coffee bars with their 1950s formica and bakelite intact. Chinese restaurants with red dragon décor and a late-night upstairs room full of Hong Kong gangsters playing pontoon. Who needs the tedium of the Socialist Workers Party when you can have DIY Situationism? Even a trip to the supermarket is exciting if you’re dressed for it: ‘There’s a punk in the supermarket.’ We don’t need politics, we are politics. We don’t need art, we are art. We are the writing on your wall.

Turnip Acts were selling themselves on their own terms near the ICA a few years earlier but now the idea has escaped from the art colleges. COUM Transmissions/Throbbing Gristle are business people who want to move on to exploiting new markets.

The thing is, many of us who had been involved in the mid 1970s thing that eventually gave way to Punk and Industrial Music had really had it up to our eyes with destruction, doom and gloom… or at least, we felt all that stuff was valid, but there had to be a bit of light and laughter too; a bit of Mamas and Papas and Abba and Ohio Express and T.Rex or whatever let into the equation. In fact, the Sex Pistols had always had that live: Glen Matlock was a real pop fan, and the first batch of Pistols songs had very good pop melodies…

Pop music had always been important to TG. People think Chris is being ironic when he cites Abba as his favourite band, but absolutely not. He loves them, totally non-ironically.

The trouble with postmodern ironists is not that a nihilistic void swirls behind the jester’s mask, but rather that they are crushingly sentimental and earnest when they allow themselves to take a breath. The dear old Pistols and Clash collapsed into tedious rock’n’roll posturing the moment they had their own tiny little pieces of mythology. Then it was all down the drain and only the dullest provincial dunces could possibly aspire to be “punk” after, ooh, one week on from the Bill Grundy interview. “Where’s Bill Grundy now?” wonders Dorothy, with no reference to the Television Personalities song, or the other track on that EP which summed up the sad aftermath of fashion.

The schemers at Industrial Music had an idea to get their first Proper Pop Hit, and that’s how “I Confess”, credited to “Dorothy” came about. I had heard this already, on the Sharon Signs To Cherry Red compilation a few years ago, but now we can get the full background story. It’s a great lost single, and it deserves to get a cover version by Saint Etienne. Surely they must wish they’d written lines like “Pierre Henry’s musique concrete/ The Dixie Cups and Subway Sect”. The angular guitar works of the band Rema-Rema have also now been compiled together on another album. There is nothing too obscure from the debris of 1975-85 that can’t be salvaged and given its own place in rock’n’roll history, solemnly respected regardless of how much its creators may have insisted they were just making fun of consumerism and its propaganda.

The shift towards chart-friendly material and the rise of acts such as Culture Club and the New Romantic bands is here in the background just as it was in The Peanut Factory. We have to wonder if young Deborah and Dorothy ever came close to meeting or at least being in the same club or at the same gig at the same time. Their music tastes overlap but are not quite the same: Dorothy says that she liked the stage theatrics of The Damned but was less keen on their music, and it seems that the cool people in Zone 1 weren’t as keen on them as audiences further out, who encountered them unexpectedly at festivals. Both of them quit London for Brighton around the mid 80s as the redevelopers were moving in the places where they had lived and partied.

The verso page of this book does state that no part of it may be reproduced anywhere without written permission, but I think it’s legitimate to use a few excerpts in what is a positive review (Deborah’s book has a slightly different text, which says that the book can be quoted in reviews). Maidstoned doesn’t have anything saying I can’t reproduce any of it. Any way I don’t care – it’s pretty small stuff to take the words of punks in retirement and add quote marks around them. It’s not like I’m wearing a T-shirt with a swastika on it and pleading ironic intent, that would be ridiculous and untenable.

Man, Not Man by Jeff Nuttall (1975)

Appearing at the same time as some of the events related in the other books, this work would have reached very few people at the time or subsequently. Although Nuttall had a novel produced by a London-based publisher later on (The Gold Hole, 1978), this was one of his many short pieces produced by small presses and now hard to come by, and only at prices that are a bit more than would be expected if we rely on the Bank Of England inflation calculator.

As with his novel Snipe’s Spinster from the same year, Nuttall is brooding over the failure of the late 60s counterculture to live up to expectations. He sets out his position concisely in the Introduction.

In ’68 the revolution failed. The revolution I mean is the one that sprang directly out of poetic vision. I think it failed because its links were faulty. The link between spiritual awareness (the original usage of the word “psychedelic”) and dialectical materialism. The link between spontaneous revolt and guerrilla warfare. The link between one crowd of communards in Frankfurt and another crowd of Yippies in San Francisco. I wanted to bring people down to earth to do the fucking job without any loss of sublimity. “Man, Not Man” was intended as the polemic necessary.

The world will come to the same situation again. There is nowhere else for the world to go. Next time might fail as well but it will be a little nearer success. And finally we will, indeed are compelled historically and biologically, to step into the kingdom. Meanwhile seven years spent in black Yorkshire cities savouring the re-emergence of antediluvian materialism in government, education, even in some socalled art, has battered and dulled my pastoral yearning, my pantheism, has strengthened my sense of humour and my love of structure, has deepened my sense of class. Nonetheless “Man, Not Man” is a map of values which I still want to present, which I am glad Bill Butler and his friends are presenting for me, which may still be of use while all the battle is not yet lost.

The 55 or so densely typed pages of Man, Not Man have some similarity to DIY fanzines and manifestos of the punk era, but Jeff was doing all that much earlier, in the pages of My Own Mag back in the 60s. There are a few noticeable typos. A few illustrations are variations on the cover image of the human nervous system, sometimes close by some other object from the non-human world. I am not sure if the underlining is to indicate what should be italicised, so I am keeping with the text as originally presented and putting it in bold.

The content of the “polemic” are a mixture of memoir, fiction, and what can be called “theory”, segregated into 9 short chapters. “Man” is the correct term for the first term in the title of the book, since the theorising is organised around symbols of male sexual responses. There is a simple reason for this, as Nuttall explains: he is trying to come to terms with the effect of being assaulted when he was a young boy. His attacker was one of the locals who resented the social superiority of Jeff’s dad, the teacher who had arrived from elsewhere.

…revenging the helplessness of his manhood, helpless as he’d sat in school tamed by my father’s soft, naïve, urban middle-class literacy.

There was no chance to discuss this or any other youthful trauma with his parents, who were absorbed in the faraway abstractions of educated people. “My father’s eyes were full of Chamberlain and Mussolini.”

His adult reflection on these events is his clearest theoretical induction:

I don’t think it’s coincidence that nature has always presented itself to me as a progression of events which ultimately terminate in pain.

The problem of theorising about the divide between order and chaos is the sense that the theorist himself is driven and guided by subterranean impulses set in motion by past experiences. It’s not clear if he accepts any specific psychoanalytic framework, but rather takes a few simple concepts from the psychoanalysts to express his own vision of the possibilities of ego-death and transcendence. He loses himself in trances of figuration, attempting to give an analysis of consciousness in terms of analogies of solid geometry and mechanics, probably influenced by reading Hegel. When he hits his stride as a theorist he can easily pump out a string of totalising statements like this:

It seems to me that a force operates two ways. That nature, from within, precipitates a series of engulfing upheavals which re-claim the human individual. If the individual is re-claimed temporarily the upheaval may take the form of madness, of ecstasy, of delirium or of orgasm. If the individual is re-claimed permanently the individual will die. True vision is a temporary re-clamation by nature of the human individual.

Other passages meditate on Nuttall’s adult life as a family man, connecting with his long-running concern for fate of the world in the nuclear age:

It took a long time to start to enjoy my children. Children have been a painful accoutrement since Hiroshima. Conceived in a humped and desperate reflex, in a wince, born in panic into daylight shrill with menace, weaned in anxiety what sour whey, flowering into gunfire.

In his later books he mentions having to help one of his sons after he fell into drug addiction in the 80s. The new biography of him seems to have attracted some negative reaction from one of his children.

Jeff Nuttall is a thread joining these worlds. He wrote Bomb Culture and worked at Leeds College of Art in the 70s. As he told the story in Art And The Degradation Of Awareness (2001), he was exasperated by one particular student who showed no interest in his Fine Arts degree, and who quit to write an article for International Times about it. That student ended up squatting in London and fronting the post-punk group Scritti Politti under the name Green Gartside. “Messthetics” was one of the tracks on their DIY first EP. The picture at the top is of Rema-Rema, one of Dorothy’s groups active at the same time.

Messthetics, all that we know

Oh, we know what we’re doing

But we know how it sounds

Yes, we know how it sounds

We know how it sounds

At your university

The pages let you down

It helps you find your way around

In any English town

At your university

The pages are in French

It helps you find your way around

In any English town…

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