When dancing, lost in techno trance, arms flailing, gawky Bez. Then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly dawns: you're jazzing to the beeptone of a life-support machine that marks the steady fading of your day-old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue-flash road mash, stretchers, covered heads, and slippy red Macadam, and find you creeping 'neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangle bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer-drawered... Then welcome. Mmm... uu chemotherapy wig. Welcome. In Jam.
When roped to concrete, and noose your bauble, for car-powered head divorce. Then find your scheme all twunted by a Honda. And when all your taxi journeys come to this. Then welcome. Mmmm. Ooh, astonishing sod ape, welcome... in Jam.
When walk to work all swig-faced, six months since you clowned it up and old friends cross the street and no one pays you any heed except the dung-breathed men, who often now will pick you up and van you to the Fens to wrestle pigs. Then welcome. Mmm. Ooh-heh. Welcome. In Jam.
When shaky head at local paper story of a crime git, then look again and see that he is you, this long-lens shifty bugger in a park. When every phone call destroys your life even though the phone ain't got a bloody plug. And when waking, wonder where you are and find that most of you is asking where you've gone. Then welcome. Mmm. You arrested for copying dogs, welcome in Jam.
When surface from a four day crash, bluebottle-gobbed, and hear the children calling you... and rise to find they've roped your guts, so fall, you jessie. They crown you King Cantaloupe and gob you up a synapse bomb. So now, you hooting bletherskate, not clocking you've been prammed to serenade the door of your ex-wife, where pierced on glares of ice you fold to weeping topple. Then find you've wandered back to school, and frit the squabs and now here comes a teacher with a copper. Then welcome. Mmm. Ooh, fuss, fuss, fuss, fuss. Welcome. In Jam.
When dreadful duty leads you to the place where you have stored it. And when walking dog and call the children "He won't bite", then see them run, deranged by what you're dragging round and have been since you found him eyeless, stiff and putrid after seven months of, "Oh, I wonder where he's got to?". Then welcome, mmm who born dead through your own arse, welcome. In Jam.
Adam & Joe's take on Jam.
