That Bloody Rainbow.

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You know what gets me,? That bloody rainbow. Judy Garland crooning like she’s seen the promised land through a fog of gin and existential dread. “Somewhere over the rainbow…” she sings, like it’s a postcode you can plug into Google Maps. I’ve been over the rainbow, It’s just Slough with better lighting.

They sell you this dream, don’t they? Bluebirds flying, troubles melting like lemon drops. Lemon drops! I’ve had troubles that laughed in the face of citrus. You ever try melting debt with confectionery? Doesn’t work. Tried it once ended up sticky and bankrupt.

And what’s with the bluebirds? I’ve never seen one. Closest I got was a pigeon with a nicotine addiction. It winked at me outside Greggs. That’s not magic, that’s Newcastle.

But Judy bless her sequinned soul she believed it. Believed in a place where dreams come true and dogs don’t bark at bin men. I envy that. I do. Because me? I live in the postcode where dreams come to die of damp.

Still, I sing it. Every time. Pint in hand, voice like a broken accordion. Because maybe just maybe there’s a rainbow out there with my name on it. And if not, I’ll settle for a kebab and a cab home.


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