Age 20
six pm, early start
for those who aren’t
faint of heart.
wait for service at the bar,
bloody desperate for a jar,
listening through
the hum and hiss
of conversations
hit and miss,
the girl with eyes lined in kohl,
black as coal
and just as dirty,
looks so old…
must be twenty five at least!
“two pints of cider and two Pernods please…
in the same glass…”
barman glances aside
aghast,
witnesses needed,
he catches our eye,
focus as yet unimpeded
by excess
“this’ll blow her tits off!”
laughter follows
and warnings…
never heeded.
we catch the night bus,
circus
on the move,
all the groovers
intent on proving
this night above all others
will be the night
for us,
and we troop,
sheep like in our aim,
following the crowds,
finding our way home
as does half of Nottingham.
word’s got round
bloody quickly
through the crowds
that gather thickly
on the stairs,
across the balcony,
pissed to shit
popping and eeeeeezing,
there’s no way of getting through.
“God… I need a… pee.”
“this party’s great… they’re my mates.”
“I should have locked the fucking door
and sent out invites!”
what seemed like a good idea
is by the minute
becoming less appealing,
as every drunk revealing
his true colours,
declares undying friendship.
“God… I need… a tea.”
“where are the police when you want them?
surely we’re causing an obstruction?”
twelve hours after we began
our first foray in party plan
and playing host,
we find it most
taxing…
manners laxing,
we step over
life’s malingerers,
find our way to
breakfast,
mop up eggs, bacon, tea and toast,
lick our fingers,
manners forgotten.
eager to feast
on life’s every morsel,
certain we’ll all die immortal,
never realising
home
will one day be our castle,
complete with moat
dug and overflowing
with life’s dreary flotsam,
anarchistic student dreams
long forgotten.
