# ten pound ninety five high street what for two fresh orange juices and two slices of dry arts carrot cake as the great london phrase has it 'they didn't see you coming mate they sent for yer' the entire high street stuffed with tanning salons nail buffing shops fancy pseudo-art galleries full of horrible generic cliched garish obvious anti generated either by human-ai / a laughably bad at photoshopper or other neckless corporate content weasel there's also the ubiquitous hive-scum slime of estate agents advertising badly insulated single bedroom shoe boxes for several thousand a month oh yeah this part of town is going places alright straight into the gold-lined pockets of smug post-yuppie scumlords who continually buy up shabby 70's looking holes fancy them up with security camera door buzzers and shiny taps before flogging them for filthy inherently exploitative profits and pricing out the working class in the bargain black ceramic bathroom tiles eventually means charging n point five mill for unchecked privilege as evidenced by the brain-dead jocks chilling at the nearby exclusive gym admiring ir hairstyles by the water fountain researchers unable to afford such wilful synthetic price hikes however can go unnaturally twist in the stale high street wind the uk housing market informed only by the golden rule oh blue-grey ash faced undead colonial micro-federated gentrification scamulatory ponzi schemers unkindly permadeff yourself or shall the republic help // republic of bob