Old Durham Town.

Old Durham Town.

It is a City

Like no other,

With its Cathedral towering high

Above the river,

The castle keeps guard

Over everything.

Prince Bishops reigned down

On brow-beaten citizens

Until the enlightenment

Of St Bede

Chronicled the need

For progressive education.

Old English university towns

Are all the same

Brimming with self-importance

Historical charm

Rag-week and regattas

That do little harm

To the tourist trade.

Little Napoleans sit on high chairs

Outside smoky pubs

The Wellington

And the Red Lion

Sink beneath the weight of tradition

Warm beer, cheese and pickled onion

As the newly arrived theme pub

Thrives

Stuffed full of pretty girls all in a row

On a hen night

Birds of a feather

Happy together

Drinking cocktails

Eating curly fries and tempura prawns

In no hurry to take up any offers

From gym junkies

Pumped on steroids

Exercising poor muscle control

On the dance floor.

Coloured glass, smoked and barbequed

In memory of an old-world history

That may never have existed

Outside of Pickwick Papers.

Morning coffee shops are a haven

For the heavy reader,

Looking for Milton with

Smashed avocado on rye

Poached eggs on toast.

Bacon is paradise

But off the menu

For many

Conscious of nitrate abuse.

Elvet bridge and Crossgate teem

With youngbloods

Students on a jolly

Before the term ends

And the old miners' gala

Invokes the ghosts

Of working-class martyrdom

Coalface heroes

Who barely saw the light of day

Before their roof fell in

Or black lungs collapsed.

Brass bands and political rallies

Carry the weight of sacrifice

As the spirit of Durham slips

Into history

And England grows ever closer

To self-mockery.

An open-air museum

Carefully curated

As an educational opportunity

With fringe benefits

For the overseas student

On a high-end stipend.