I’ve been working the night shift this past week, down in Plymouth.
I quite like Plymouth – it’s where I learnt to read Morse Code many, many years ago, most of it long forgotten now. And it’s an interesting town to drive around. The main shopping precinct is called Drake Circus, after Plymouth’s most famous son and it’s easy to find yourself driving down roads named after his most well-known exploits like: Armada Way or Hold On I Just Want To Finish This Game Of Bowls Avenue.
The building that I’m working in is right in the middle of Student-land. A large block of purpose-built student accommodation flats stands next to it and many of the houses on the street are given over to the spotty-faced, work-shy herberts.
The job has gone well this week and I’ve been getting finished at about 4am. Yet, as I drive back to my hotel, I pass a constant parade of oiks all staggering back from pubs and bars and nightclubs; boys in lairy shirts and the girls in improbably tiny skirts, despite the inclement weather.
They’ll catch their death.
On Tuesday morning, I saw the Pope. Well, it was a very drunk student dressed as the pope – big hat and everything. He was stood on the rather high wall of his garden, blessing the throng that weren’t gathered below, whilst his equally pissed girlfriend sang the Lord’s Prayer to the tune of Jerusalem, from the front door.
Shouldn’t they be revising, or something?