I queued round the block to watch

The Young Ones, Summer Holiday,

getting in halfway through

or just before the end,

and sitting tight to watch

the whole film round again.

 

Then the programming changed.

The movies became X-rated,

and I was barred, reduced

to gazing longingly if sometimes puzzled

at the posters from my bus

on the way home from school.

 

The Sixties had turned seedy,

summer holiday skies clouded over.

Time to don a slightly-soiled mac.

Nowadays it’s a Wetherspoon’s,

frequented by the same kind

of blokes. And not a sign of Cliff.