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Territorial Pissings Crouch under the flag parade, countenance slung on your houses with the pride of the homeowner in council estates and rented slums. Collect the bunting from the attic, borrow the neighbour’s ladder for this annual regime, streaked through years of habitation. Touch up those murals lads, the weather gods must listen to prayers from the other side, a hoped-for erosion sent. And sure, the wind soon wraps the flags tightly around the poles like failed candyfloss, unreadable yet intention clear by geography. |