Things that don’t suck, For Pete Cain. – By @GCopywrite

By Gigi Rice


Things that don’t suck, For Pete Cain. 

A few weeks ago I approached Pete with an extra curricular campaign idea I had. If you’ve been reading my previous SCABs, you’ll know that I saw someone jump in front of a tube train. Two and a half years on, I realised that being at SCA had given me the tools to hopefully be bale to change this. Pete and I chatted about the campaign idea for a good while and he very graciously shared some life stories of his. Therefore the rest of my SCAB was inspired by Pete and by an poet called Andrea Gibson who’s work I have “rewritten”. (If anyone else would like to hear my Tube mental health idea-give us a shout)

And a final salute to all of you, and the many battles big and small. 

           Things that don’t suck 

Raspberries. Waterproof plasters. James Bond being a girl. Stuck in the mud and musical bumps. Pogo sticks. Nervous laughter on first dates. Every birthday.

Realising you’re an asshole. Dog collars. Pinball machines. Christmas lights in October. Medication. The Big Issue Man. The Victoria Line southbound to Brixton. 

Stevie Nicks. Radiators. Neck-Scarves. Funfairs. Silk sashes. Bio-luminescent plankton. 

Glass jars. Spaghetti. Wide open roads and no other cars. Tomorrows. Bells. The smell of revolution and denim. Crows feet. Rats on tube tracks. Fleabag. Dandelions. Conkers.

Long tables. Holding hands and free fucking in Northern Ireland. Seasoning. Candle that you can light in churches. Answers. Trainspotting. Tumble dryers. The lyricism of Stephen Sondheim. EU flags. Starting again. Holding your breath for the entire length of the pool. Crying. The postman. Actually trying to do something with your fucking life. 

Therapy. Maltesers. Strangers. You telling me that I’m crazy but that it’s a good thing. 

Forgiving. Mistakes. Lemon trees. Big kitchen windows. Boiled eggs. Running your tongue.

Augusts. Telling the truth. Saxophones. Getting to say your last words to your Grandad and choosing them carefully. Snow. Flared trousers. Black comedy. Handwritten cards. Boys in eyeliner. Coconuts. Dark nights and the house lights on. Trick or treating. Upcycled wedding dresses. Small children believing that you can keep them safe. The word Fuck. Stitches. 

Fishermen’s rubber outfits. The time I was so in love that I would have waltzed down that aisle at eighteen. Understanding that feelings pass. Gaining weight. Flying, no matter how you get there. Lab grown jewels. Labradors. Flamenco. Contactless. Men on the moon. Carousels.

Getting another chance. The cygnet that doesn’t know it will be a swan. Hampstead Heath. 

Garlic sauce. Sharing a bed for the first time. Foreplay. Fireplaces. Anyone willing to play the triangle in a band. Sticking your head out the window of a moving car. Accepting old age. Pickled ginger. 

Ringing the bell in a cancer ward. The NHS. Yellow canaries that sing. Telling Boris Johnson to fuck off.

Hearts beating when they shouldn’t. Hearts getting faster. Hearts making science look like a twat. 

Full jars of pills. 

Staying alive. 

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