What even is Horsham? Horsham is spending the majority of your time at school making fart noises with your armpit then ten years later, owning your own business with 10 employees and a fleet of vans.
It’s dreading walking down West Street in the company of your own mother, because in all likelihood, you’ll pass by someone you squared up to for no real reason when you were eighteen and had drunk half your body weight in cheeky vimtos at the Lynd Cross.
It’s seeing the people who were part of the school band and wishing you had been nicer to them.
It’s being **** over and going to the Roffey Griddle so you can fetishise the working classes, safe in the knowledge that the executive car you bought on finance is waiting in the car park, waiting to spirit you and your gilet away.
It’s an Amex racking up lines at four in the morning on an ikea side table. Four childhood friends with nothing left to say to each other stood around said table listening to an obscure Drake track.
It’s getting on at Littlehaven at 6.40am, making small talk with some nutter who used to play left back for your 11-aside team when you were twelve and praying to any deity who will listen, that he gets off at Crawley if not Three Bridges.
Taking a strange kind of pride in Christ’s Hospital, wondering if anyone had ever eaten in the Beefeater more than once, a bookshelf full of footballer’s autobiographies, speaking loudly about your acca, swiping left, having no female friends, not recycling, guzzling a bellybuster full of burnt phosphorus, coming to the horrible realisation that pound for pound it’s probably one of the best places to live in the country and it’s you that is ****.