I stood behind Tosh in a taxi queue on a rainy Friday night in Brighton. He was upper class, vacant and beautiful. I feared for his safety. A policewoman came and handed him an anti-crime leaflet so it wasn’t just me. I couldn’t follow him around all night and protect him from harm so I went home and decided to immortalise him in epic ballad form just in case. Don’t get too excited. It’s not the Odyssey.
White linen, aviator shades and cowboy hat,
Made in St Tropez.
He’s on the wrong coast.
Surprised by the concept of queuing
Tosh talks like a prince,
‘Brighton’s like Vegas man!
But without the gambling.
I loved Vegas!
But I’m not into gambling,
so this is actually much better.’
Tosh’s friend is even Tosher,
‘What’s that pointy building here that looks like the Taj Mahal?
It’s a folly, yeah, an actual folly man’
Tosh could be a folly.
Tosh is aristocratic and beautiful and purposeless.
It hurts my grey eyes to look at him.
I think Tosh will probably get hurt later
It’s a shame
They will find Tosh
Broken hat and bloodied shirt
Smeared across the early morning street like a fallen angel
Or a big seagull
Depending on your capacity for romance and imagination
Tosh has no capacity for romance or imagination,
Being filled to his brim with money.