The Fonz, the man with so much class it was impossible not to want to be the exact same
The moment he walked on into a room you just knew, knew full well that a different kind of ordeal – the perfect ordeal – had been usurped
Thumbs up all round, girls flocking like there’s no tomorrow
High-heels on hiatus
Explicit, hate the game not the player
No sorrowful stories to tell of here
Cheers, his henchmen – sideshows all of their own but a happy second place nonetheless
Distant yet close enough for some kind of comfort
Witnessing the truest case in the world of ‘the dog that got the bone’
Eager as ever to impress the man in the leather jacket, comedic humour aside explicit rumours time and time again
Forever unfolding, all in the name of jest
“Do tell, girls!”
Happy Days
A ridiculous way with words, absurd in fact
Taking copious numbers on back to his love-shack upon the hill
Poor ol’ Richie Cunningham, strumming away on his hapless guitar in the background
Too many separate, agonisingly memorable sounds – rounds of applause – to count
Jealousy running the core, disguised by a smile that told an entirely different story
Freckled, damn near bespectacled, the nearly-man
Oh how the fairy-tales ran away from themselves in the end, all down to word of mouth courtesy of a once oh so reliable friend
Keep you friends close, your enemies closer
Truth told, you were damn near asking to be exposed
The moment you swigged back that vodka, decided to drop your avant-garde clothes