Sprawl is the quality of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce into a farm utility truck, and sprawl is what the company lacked when it made repeated efforts to buy the vehicle back and repair its image.

Sprawl is doing your farm work by aeroplane, roughly, or driving a hitchhiker that extra hundred miles home. It is the rococo of being your own still centre. It is never lighting cigars with ten dollar notes: that’s idiot ostentation and murder of starving people. Nor can it be bought with the ash of million dollar deeds.

Sprawl lengthens the legs; it trains greyhounds on liver and beer. Sprawl almost never says, Why not?, with palms comically raised nor can it be dressed for, not even in running shoes worn with mink and a nose ring. That is Society. That’s Style. Sprawl is more like the thirteenth banana in a dozen or anyway the fourteenth.

Sprawl is Hank Stamper in Never Give an Inch bisecting an obstructive official’s desk with a chain saw. Not harming the official. Sprawl is never brutal, though it’s often intransigent. Sprawl is never Simon de Montfort at a town-storming: Kill them all! God will know His own. Knowing the man’s name this was said to might be sprawl.

Sprawl occurs in art. The fifteenth to twenty-first lines in a sonnet, for example. And in certain paintings. I have sprawl enough to have forgotten which paintings. Turner’s glorious Burning of the Houses of Parliament comes to mind, a doubling bannered triumph of sprawl - except he didn’t fire them.

Sprawl gets up the noses of many kinds of people (every kind that comes in kinds) whose futures don’t include it. Some decry it as criminal presumption, silken-robed Pope Alexander dividing the new world between Spain and Portugal. If he smiled in petto afterwards, perhaps the thing did have sprawl.

Sprawl is really classless, though. It is John Christopher Frederick Murray asleep in his neighbours’ best bed in spurs and oilskins, but not having thrown up: sprawl is never Calum, who, in the loud hallway of our house reinvented the Festoon. Rather it’s Beatrice Miles going twelve hundred ditto in a taxi, No Lewd Advances, no Hitting Animals, no Speeding, on the proceeds of her two-bob-a-sonnet Shakespeare readings. An image of my country. And would that it were more so.

No, sprawl is full gloss murals on a council-house wall. Sprawl leans on things. It is loose-limbed in its mind. Reprimanded and dismissed, it listens with a grin and one boot up on the rail of possibility. It may have to leave the Earth. Being roughly Christian, it scratches the other cheek And thinks it unlikely. Though people have been shot for sprawl.