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Something twisted this way comes,
Male voice mixed with metal
Iron in the soul – mirror shades without the wearing of:
No way none of yews is coming through to me.

Out on the rob with a one-armed bandit – scally lad (18) and an older man (30) with only the one hand. Broke into an estate agent – that will get you a house and a purposeful life of paying for it, as if.

Stolen cash, stolen fishing tackle (people pay good money to perform their solitude), and a stolen Mitsubishi pick-up that’s red rag to a pig. Police car chase through Wallasey in the early hours, racing past the use-by dates of late Victorian streets.

Forty minutes on, local cop throwing down a ‘stop stick’ (tire deflation device).

Not stopping, the vehicle ploughs, mows, drives off. Three days afterwards Clayton Ronald Williams admits causing the death of family man PC Dave Phillips (34). In courtthe charge against him is read out: murder.

A jury will decide. But who decides when adolescent alienation may be integrated into society? And please don’t define this attitude as ‘testosterone’, as if modern Man is only age-old monkey glands.

On different days this could have been Mercutio, inviting death by Tybalt with irony in his soul.  Or Johnny Rotten pantomiming the Anti-Christ. Or first across the wire and into the enemy trench. All of them shielded by the same conviction:

No way none of yews is coming through to me.