Coronation Lager, the national dish of Britain

Inside the flat roof pub.

“You must pledge allegiance to the Chaffinch”

“All Hail The Chaffinch”

We must chant his name.

“Cha-Finch. Cha-Finch. Cha-Finch”

“Behold see the stone of destiny, seated next to the Pebble of Comfort on the throne of pure Obsidian, as the golden braided privacy screen is pulled around the chaffinch as he is anointed in Jism and central reservation puddle water.”

Laud and Magnify his name”

“Cha-Finch, Cha-Finch, etc”

The television was minuscule next to the projector screen which was showing West Ham against Manchester United, the sound had been turned down for the coronation, and the crowd was getting restless because a potential handball in the box had gone to VAR. The dress code was predictably colourful; red, white and blue, with only a smattering of pink from the hair of the slag grandma barely older than myself, sneakily vaping from within her clenched fist, the vapour showing up the white powder traces under her nose. 

More pints of flat freezing Carling were ordered and poured whilst bald heads and platinum blonde straightened hair shone against the racially patriotic sequinned curtains, and a selection of Golliwogs hung from their necks above the bar.

This is England, this is what we die for, another perfectly normal day in this peculiar little island of ours.




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