Don’t piss on my espadrilles

I was in the toilet of the Wetherspoons near Faringdon station, standing at one of those long trough-like urinals when it occurred to me there was a significant danger the flimsy cloth uppers of my espadrilles could easily be soaked by someone else’s splash-back.

As so often when under duress, the line of a song formed iteslf in my head:

Respect is everything and disrespect kills
So don’t piss on my espadrilles.

If I could excape the gents with dry feet then perhaps this could form the basis of my next work. Something with a gansta rap/two-step vibe perhaps, coupled with some fey 80s-retro synth-pop.

A paen to the long-maligned espadrille, first invented in the Basque County a millenium ago. Perhaps highlighting the way in which the Basques, since pre-history have earned ‘respect’ through their vigorous defence of their language, culture and territory. Or perhaps, a deconstruction of the notions of language, culture and territory as simply historically contigent, free-floating nodes in the network of difference (or pace Derrida, différance even) through which we define concepts in opposition to ‘other’.

The next lines began to percolate through the smell of urine:

So if you don’t like nothingness and you prefer Being
Then pay attention to where you’re peeing.

But how to make it clear to the listener that Being has a capital ‘B’? What rhymes with Heidegger?

With these weighty concerns foremost in mind I forgot all about my espadrilles, buttoned my fly and returned to the vestibule of the pub. My espadrilles, still-dry, didn’t leave any damp marks on the blue-patterned carpet, but I didn’t even notice.

I wrote down my feldgling verse and then my attention returned to the rivetting second half of the England–USA match …

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