“I’ve no idea really. I still class myself as a mod to be honest – not in the stereotypical sense, not in the way that people see mods. I’d rather class myself as someone who is trying to push it forward a little bit, and avoid the things that so-called mods talk about. I like a nice haircut but not all the other shit that surrounds the culture. I like a nice pair of shoes like anyone, and I still class myself as a mod, but I refuse to be bunged in with all those other fucking wankers.”
British Home Stores, commonly abbreviated to BHS and latterly legally styled BHS Ltd, was a British department store chain with branches mainly located in high streets or shopping centres, primarily selling clothing and household items. It was founded in 1928 by a group of U.S. entrepreneurs.[5]
In its later years, the company began to expand into furniture, electronics, entertainment, convenience groceries and fragrance and beauty products. The company had 164 stores throughout the United Kingdom at the time it entered administration, and 74 international stores across 18 separate territories.[6]
BHS was previously a constituent of the FTSE 100 Index, but was bought by Sir Philip Green in 2000 and taken private. The company became part of Green's Arcadia Group in 2009.
On 12 March 2015, BHS was sold to the consortium Retail Acquisitions Ltd for a nominal price of £1.[7] On 25 April 2016 it was confirmed that the chain had entered administration, following the failure to bring an estimated £60 million into the business, required to safeguard its future.[8]
On 2 June 2016 it was announced that the company would be wound down following failed attempts to find a buyer.[9] The website was closed on 25 July 2016 and all stores had closed by 28 August 2016, bringing a close to trading after 88 years.
The overseas franchises and digital business were sold during the administration period to Al Mana Group, and continue to trade. The remainder of the business went into liquidation on 2 December 2016.
Callin' all the workers plebs
You better think about the future
You better think about your neck
You better think about the shit hairdo you got mate
I work my dreams off for two bits of ravioli
And a warm bottle of Smirnoff
Under a manager that doesn't have a fuckin' clue
Do you want me to tell you what I think about you, Cunt?
I don't think that's a very good idea—do you?
You pockmarked four-eyed shit-fitted shirt, white Converse
And a taste for young girls
Don't send me home with a glint in my eye
I told my family about the fuckin' wage rise
And got fucked on
Devoured
Puked on
And sucked up
You fuckin' fly
The suction on your fly feet
Kept me pinned to the blinds
Whilst your PA rattled out e-mails
Workstation, forced to engage in flirtatious conversation
Fizzy * 3
Well just to keep the job
Just to keep fuck all from turning into a fuckin' nothin' blob
Bang it out; go on tell me what you really think
You got no chin; an' you got no balls to chin 'em with
Glass panels separate you
The mid-price handwash from the bin of used
Public toilet paper towels
We've run foul of the hidden hatred
That festers in dogs like you
Tripwire taut that makes way for the vacuum
Ya piece of fuckin' shit
My name:
Fizzy! [* 3]
Use the sheet of promise and the red shoes of Dorothy
Blanked out on the bed of thick monotony
With the usual stereotypes that fall for the lip
I fuckin' hate rockers; fuck your rocker shit
Fuck your progressive side, sleeve of tattoos
Oompa Loompa blow me down with a feather
Cloak and dagger bollocks
Fizzy! [* 3]
Ahhhh!!
