It's a shame that Britain is flat. That Brighton is far away. And that Beachy Head is farther still. Anyone can jump given the right song. An ipod to tune you over and out. A tide to turn you back, to front, to back, to front, to broken back. A soundtrack to your bleedin' end. Your head on the rocks, shaken and stirred. The tide can never bring you back. Just spread a little of what a whole lot was smashed. Shuffle and try again.