Rebirth for the Weekend by P.A. Levy

P.A. Levy, having fled his native East End, now hides in the heart of Suffolk countryside learning the lost arts of hedge mumbling and clod watching.  He has been published in many magazines both on line and in print, and is an original member of the Clueless Collective to be found at:

Rebirth For The Weekend, Then Dead Again: Repeat

Do yer shitty job to pay the rent, the bills, the hp on everything you own which you don’t own ‘cos you ain’t paid for it yet ‘cos you have to stick at that shitty job Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday – thank fuck for Friday.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Oh! fucking thank you Friday.  Then the rejuvenation begins.  Headphones – check.  Full volume sonic – check.  Roll a spliff – check.  Open a beer – check.  Take a pill – check.  Take another – check.  Chemically enhanced beats and trance in zero gravity clubs.  Safe as fuck.  Now dance yer tits off.

But this ain’t new.  You’ve heard it all before.  Better.  Bigger.  Bolder.  Brighter.  Just add one scoop to your weekly wash and there you have it: Trainspotting, Human Traffic, you name it, it’s just another poundshop pirate copy rehash that you can skin-up with – No no no not hash – wanker.


  1. v. re-hashed, re-hash-ing, re-hash-es
  2. To bring forth again in another form without significant alteration.
  3. To discuss again.
  4. (re-hash)            The act or result of rehashing.

vb          (tr) to rework, reuse, or make over (old or already used material)
n            something consisting of old, reworked, or reused material

… and you thought rehash was skinning-up the butts of hashish when you’ve run out and desperate ‘cos that bailiff of an inevitable ecstasy come down starts knocking at your door, seeping into your mind and cultivating the paranoia:

hash-ish also hash-eesh
n.            A purified resin prepared from the flowering tops of the female cannabis plant and smoked or chewed as a narcotic or an intoxicant.

Need to chill out, mate.

So you turn on the television to watch repeats on BBC or on Sky or on Dave or endless reruns of sit coms on C4.  Pick up a book with respewed plots with different locations, different character names, listen to the latest guitar heavy tunes that you nurtured and grew in the sixties or the chill out tunes from the acid house daze of the nineties and you think to yourself it’s a wonderful life which it ain’t ‘cos it’s shite being Scottish, which you ain’t but it’s still shite and even though you’ve been colonised by the English, who are wankers, and you’re English – you’ve still been colonised by wankers.  They live in yer brain.  The teachers, the bosses, the old bill, the politicians, the salesmen.  Yeah the fucking salesmen like estate agents ( not a gent), like second hand car dealers ( not drug dealers chemical dealers) like the cold calling cold hearted switch yer energy bills ding dong Avon calling selling energy without amphetamine.

London calling.

London calling to all those zombies of death who have to face Monday mornings and the boss again with the truncheon thing. With projection charts.  With corporate incentives.  Happy feet, I’ve got those happy feet, which is just as well ‘cos my face is as miserable as sin, happy feet wearing the boots made for walking and one of these days these boots are gonna kick yer fucking head in then walk all over you.

After all this – give me a smile.  You’re on candid camera.  You’re a Youtube internet viral sensation.  You’re a CCTV photofit exclamation.

And the lord gods whose faces are on the pound notes and dollar bills and yen (and yearning) said you; YOU my little no-good dog turds on the soles/souls of our hand crafted leather shoes, are the scum of the earth and we are the shitcunt superstars and that is the order of things so that we inherit everything, except the scabby crap which is all yours for ever and ever.  We’re loving it.  Amen.


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