Pump up the jam / pump it up / why your feet are stomping? / And the jam is pumping / look at it get the crowd jumpin' / pump it up a little more ...

look at this naughty Ford sign, with its soft, bulbous letters and neon perimeter lighting:

Let's build a dreamland together in the sand..

Blow in her face and she'll follow you anywhere

Hit her with tangy Tiaplet Cherry, Or rich grapey Tipalet Burgandy. Or luscious Tipalet Blueberry. Its Wild!

A puff in her direction and she'll follow you anywhere.

Here's something good from my head:

It is the 20th June 1984. Somewhere in the foothills of the Bavarian Alps, a rich German businessman is gunning his jet black Porsche 911 turbo, up and up the winding roads to his bauhaus power-pad (fully glazed facade, coloured glass-block partition walls, mezzanine love-nest, cocktail bar, sun terrace).

The sun has been shining down every day for over a month. He is slurping on a can of Pepsi and nodding along to some terrible German rock music on the cassette player. The threads? Leather jacket, white shirt, grey trousers, white socks and expensive shoes. The look? Medium sized mullet and well groomed moustache (naturlich).

Upon arrival (crunchy gravel drive) he goes to the bedroom and changes into an absolutely amazing dark green addidas tracksuit with white zip. He walks through to the spotlessly clean lounge, opens the sliding doors and hits the ice-white Turnturi fitness-bike; flicks the dial to 'schwer' (hard) and pumps for 30 mins.

He glances up at the Seiko drop dial wall clock. Its 8.15pm. The match kicks off in fifteen minutes. Perfect. He sits down on the pea-green leather sofa and pours out a healthy slug of apple schnapps. 560 miles away in Paris, West Germany are about to play their last UEFA 84 group match against Spain in the Parc de Princes. The TV pundits are in confident mood, lauding Rudi Vollers' clinical brace in the 2-1 defeat of Romania. Just one point needed tonight and yet another final beckons.

The sun begins to set behind the mountains, turning the sky a luxurious red. He pours another schnapps, lights a cigarette and smiles to himself. The referee blows his whistle....

Leeds International Baths: iconic 1967 brutalist swimming pool

adjoining fitness centre with naughty concrete starburst cladding

sent to the dogs

abandoned 1954 modernist Grande Hotel in Mozambique, with olympic sized swimming pool overlooking the Indian Ocean, now occupied by over 2000 squatters?

check

unbelievable how many people there are

even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day

tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock…

Gerald loved the design of his chrome based, nikel plated, black Bakelite and beige marble alarm clock.

7.15am on the 28th of May 1924: time to get out of bed. Today Gerald was going to the British Empire Exhibition at Wembley; the greatest display of Britain’s colonial might since Hyde Park all those years ago.

In all the excitement of the hour, Gerald almost forgot his latest copy of ‘Metroland’ – a comprehensive guide to the exhibition - full of the Metropolitan Railway Company’s (MRC) brash confidence in their ability to transport the estimated 27million visitors along the line.

Baker Street to Wembley, he would be there in less than 25 minutes.

What a sight; thousands of people everywhere. But where to start? The Palace of Engineering (the worlds largest reinforced concrete building); The Flying Scotsman; The Empire Aquadome; The 150,000 capacity Empire Stadium; The India Pavilion; 58 countries on display over 216 acres…. Surely too much…

Gerald opted for the Palace of Arts, housing a series of rooms in the styles of 1750, the 1820’s and 1924. Leading furniture designer Waring & Gillow was in occupation, flaunting its replica Georgian Library, Chinese Lacquer Room, and best of all, the Bauhaus kitchen.

…1934 1944 1954 1964 1974…

tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock

The mint-blue swatch wall clock remained a mosquito-like irritant to Gerald. But he couldn’t even lift a finger. 7.15am on the 24th April 1984: time for his medicine.

After more than sixty years, the vast decaying land confined within the boundaries of Empire Way had become a bleak and foreboding sight. True, the Empire Stadium had gone on to become a national landmark, but it was surrounded by dereliction and faceless, brutal out-of-town office and retail parks. Only the Pavilion of Industry remained, unknowingly occupied by a parcel delivery service.

Gerald was in a similar state of decline. Not so far away from Wembley, in a nursing home in Southgate, he closed his eyes and lay to rest. Outside his residence, two ‘World Globe’ lights, set in classic modernist iron posts, stood tall and proud – they had in fact illuminated the entrance to the Empire exhibition for two years – and they still survive today, in this now forgotten corner of Metroland.