Old Mod And Rocker Looking Back (Hello I Must Be Going)

Joe and Phil meet for a last wander with the dogs on the common. Joe's moving out West where the sun shines longer and the air is fresher.
"I'l miss ya," Phil nods grimly. "Ooh else is gonna put up with me insulting them?"
"What, the missus left at last, has she?"
"Yeah, says she's movin' out West with some bloke claims he used to be a Mod."
"Hah. Not many of them round 'ere. Mostly a bunch of dirty greasy gits in old boots."
"Oi! I'll have you know I was always clean, liked to do myself up like Marty Wilde or Billy Fury of a weekend, but even in the week I'd wash me 'ands before tea."

"And what about before meeting your bird? Bet you was always full of grease off those smokey old bikes".
"Least I 'ad some wheels, unlike your lot. Those tiny little things sounded like sewing machines."
"I don't know, used to get me about town and with the engine being covered and all, my clothes never got dirty."

"So these clothes of yours. Where'd you get them from?"
"Some I'd buy local, in Burtons—shirts mostly—but others I'd get made up. My old woman was a dab hand with a needle and thread, made me some lovely stuff. Button-down collars, took in trousers to make 'em flat fronted and all that."

"But how'd you know that they should be like that in the first place? If you didn't go down London, where'd you get the ideas for new clothes? Shops round here sold only the usual stuff for work, like."
"Well, there was the telly, though Ready Steady Go was black and white, of course. But mainly I got my look from record covers."

"Had many, did ya?"
"No, but you could always look, couldn't you? Racks of them long playing singles and albums always out on display, me and a mate would spend Saturday mornings in Jarrolds looking through the sleeves, trying to remember what we'd want done to our clothes. Suits from Burtons could be altered, you see. If there was a particularly good outfit, we'd club together to buy the record, give the sleeve to my mum to work from."

"You cheap bastard, getting your poor old mum to slave over her needle so you could swan about looking posh."
Joe grins a wide, leery, cracked smile, the memories flashing by in his mind as the river behind him glints in the weak sunlight.
"Not any more though, eh?"
Phil looks off, trying to hide the fact that he's really going to miss his old dog walking pal.
"No. 'Suppose not."