just picture this, Mike Willesee standing in a car park, in the distance is a building, slightly obscured but somewhat recognizable, he then begins.....
theres a pungent smell of urine as you walk to the entrance, threadbare carpet held together with gaffer tape covers the floors, the unforgettable odor drifts through the room, the flicker of an outdated television sits flickering in a corner, as you venture outside in hope of catching a breath of fresh air your greeted by weeds that extend to your knees, this is not a ghost town where the mines have extruded the last ounce of coal, where the towns folk have moved on to greener pastures, this is in fact suburbia, Tempe in fact, this is the Jets Sports club.
theres a pungent smell of urine as you walk to the entrance, threadbare carpet held together with gaffer tape covers the floors, the unforgettable odor drifts through the room, the flicker of an outdated television sits flickering in a corner, as you venture outside in hope of catching a breath of fresh air your greeted by weeds that extend to your knees, this is not a ghost town where the mines have extruded the last ounce of coal, where the towns folk have moved on to greener pastures, this is in fact suburbia, Tempe in fact, this is the Jets Sports club.
