I could roll the dough longer, reseason the meat.

The loader […] placed the cartridge in the muzzle and shoved it in as far as he could. The rammer rammed it home, the gun captain inserting his priming wire to make sure.

Dozens of tracks that are so look-at-me manicured, so counter-jumpingly pretentious, so breathtakingly brittle, arse-achingly arty and dick-headedly daft that they still rattle and buzz around the collective pop skull, and will do so for decades (because pop that isn't pretentious, brittle and daft simply isn't worth listening to).

Holding the earpiece to my ear, I could hear him speaking clearly.