O Northwood Hills, late-flowering child of Metro-Land,
Whose pastoral slopes were divvied by the planner,
Where bank clerks found the bungalow of their dreams
And Reg Dwight played piano.
O Northwood Hills, aglow with suburban undulation,
Dainty avenues climb from Pinner Road to golf clubbery,
Each garden an asphalt space for a car or three
Or flawless lawn with shrubbery.
O Northwood Hills, your gables Mock Tudor white,
Where turquoise wheelie bins line the dandelioned verge
And a golden labrador frolics on the Hog's Back
As rainbow aspirations converge.
O Northwood Hills, in matters outstanding
The traffic report for Joel Street is long overdue,
The Road Steward Thank You Supper has been re-postponed
And the bins in the rec need review.
O Northwood Hills, assembled from brick and tile,
Where Middlesex ticks over in muted tranquillity,
And Mrs Sunita Jazdav hoicks her basket off the bus
And totters slowly home for tea.
Come to Hatch End for a lunch that is noteworthy,
Take out from Sea Pebbles, dine in at Ask,
Order mixed grill from the Turks at Izgara
If mezze from Zufa's not up to the task.
Cream cakes and sticky treats sadly departed when
Hatch End's sole bakery gave up the ghost.
No longer do ladies drop buns into paper bags
Or spread loaves with butter because sandwiches are toast.
Curry is possible and pizzas are commonplace,
Chingón is Mexican and BK's salt beef,
There's even a Wetherspoons if palates are faltering
Though foodies will judge you with some disbelief.
Instead try a Lebanese meal at Lattakia
And before going inside do check out the plaque,
For here Mrs Beeton wrote her famed cookery column
(though her house was destroyed by a German attack).
Come to Hatch End for a lunch that is noteworthy,
Pick up a menu and pull up a chair,
The parade is substantially restaurants and bars so
You're sure to find what you're looking for there.
When brazen renaissance comes to Wembley
And pedestrian walkways are floodlit after games,
The old Empire exhibition faced disassembly
And was reborn as a boulevard of shame.
Gone is the character absorbed by modernity
With temples to Industry replaced by stacked flats,
Now artisan coffee kiosks provide punctuation
And Boxpark's as edgy as Wembley Park gets.
The flagpoles now flap with invites to renters,
A branded bollard army forms a permeable wall,
One astroturf playground intrudes on the vacuum
And box cameras on high posts watch over all,
The ramp to the stadium has morphed to a staircase,
A sterile pub lurks in the arch's shadow,
A handful of cherry trees erupt from the hardstanding,
The boulevard's wide but the offering's narrow.
This way to designer goods, always up to 70% off,
Or take in a gig at the sponsored arena.
The Wembley way is more footfall than football these days,
Some see progress, I see only misdemeanour.
