If you ever wanted to know what the early eighties was like in Dublin this song by Paul Clery covers all the bases perfectly.
Downmarket
In an unfamilar bed
In a unfamiliar room
There’s a throbbing in my head
I’ve succeeded I presume
Everything’s black and white and grey
Living from day to day to day
I suppose I can’t be choosy, when there’s not too many choices
With the problems of the nation
I’m not waiting at an airport
I’m not waiting at a station
I’m standing at a bustop, Downmarket, Downmarket
On a rainy afternoon
On a gambling machine
Same old jukebox, same old tune
It’s hard to break and old routine
Everything’s black and white and grey
Living from day to day to day
I suppose I can’t be choosy, when there’s not too many choices
With the problems of the nation
I’m not waiting at an airport
I’m not waiting at a station
I’m standing at a bustop, Downmarket, Downmarket
It’s a fatal resignation
When there’s nothing left to hope for
In a hopless situation
I’m not waiting at an airport
I’m not waiting at a station
I’m standing at a bustop, Downmarket, Downmarket
Paul Clery