Category Archives: Alcohol

The Moon Under Water

The Moon Under Water

The Moon Under Water is a name used by Wetherspoons for a lot of their pubs. The pub referred to in this poem is The Moon Under Water in Balham, London. The poem is quite new but the story dates back a couple of years to a time when, for various reasons, I stopped drinking any alcohol for a year.

The friend referred to in this poem has been arbitrarily named ‘Michael’. He is not based on any one person but is an amalgamation of people who I witnessed doing various things during that year. For the first time ever, I was sober around a lot of very drunk people and it gave me a very different perspective. Nothing in this poem is fictional but it didn’t all necessarily happen on the same occasion.

As with many of my more recent poems, this was written to be performed but hopefully it survives being written down.

The Moon Under Water

Filtered through the door
Of The Moon Under Water
I find my friends
Four pints in, each


These formalities out of the way
Michael waves me to a seat
Backhanding an old man standing a little way behind him
He offers to buy me a beer
A kind offer but I decline
I’m fine I say
I’m not actually drinking at the moment

Michael peers at me with narrow eyes
S’good he says s’good
Very wise
He nods with his whole body
Jolting the table and toppling the sauce caddy

I myself he says am cutting back
Here he smacks his quite slack jacket
Gonna get fat
He laughs so hard he knees the table
Others rush to steady their unstable drinks

Besides he says
Getting smashed is getting old
There’s nothing more sad
Than some overweight Dad
Wobbling his way home
‘Cause he didn’t get it under control when he was our age
He nods, having said his bit
He sits up straight
Well, sort of

I move to the bar to buy a pepsi
I’m passed by a precariously, Pisa-pointing, pickled pensioner
He walks a while
In the exaggeratedly sedate nature
Of a man who thinks no one will notice
He’s drunk beyond all reason
If he plays it cool
He wanders into the bathroom

His friend comes stumbling behind
Less concerned with disguise
Eyes rolling and body contorting
Like some sarcastic, elasticated gymnastic display
He accidentally pirouettes towards the bathroom
But the spin is too much
And quite suddenly
The evening’s booze flows forth
A firth of filth flung
Along with all the air in his lungs
HUUUUU HUUUUUU Hurled against the door
Sinking down to stain the patterned carpet on the floor

A single sob escapes his fetid gob
And a blob of slobber slips out
Stretching, stretching
Sucked up
We both return to our seats

Michael gestures at the scene
Sweeping my glass clean off the table
He looks at me
Or rather, sort of, all around me
I think
Here he stops to drink and shake his head
I think
That guy is drunk

There are better ways to enjoy alcohol #trendyalesfortrendymales

There are better ways to enjoy alcohol #trendyalesfortrendymales


Drunken Poetry

Drunken Poetry

I hesitated for a long time before posting this poem because I didn’t want to be seen to be encouraging drunkenness. I used to have a very unhealthy relationship with alcohol but I am no longer someone who drinks large amounts and gets drunk. That being said, on my eighteenth birthday, whilst drunk, I wrote some fairly nonsensical but quite amusing poetry and texted it to a friend. Here it is. Please note that the eight line verse is not a formatting mistake. The original poem was written as two four line verses and one eight line verse.  Drink responsibly guys!

Drunken Poetry

I see my house
From where I am
It’s like a mouse
In sale of clam

I rest within
A snuggly quilt
I’m wrapped in sin
With layers of silt

But come the dove
I find my eyes
Have lost their love
To my surprise
And all the years
I’ve known thus hence
I find upon
A fragile fence

Beautiful but deadly

Beautiful but deadly

My Birthday

My Birthday

Today is my 21st birthday! Woohoo! This poem is, in case you hadn’t guessed, about a birthday! It’s not about my birthday (despite the title) and the person in the poem is much more of a partyer than I am but I thought it was appropriate for the day anyway. What makes my birthday particularly exciting this year is that I handed in the final pieces of work for my degree yesterday and had my last day of teaching so I’m finished at uni (excluding graduation)!

My Birthday

It’s my birthday
But it’s way better than that
Girl come closer
Can you see my party hat?

Count the candles
That’s how long I’ve been alive
Fire hazard
Don’t know how long I’ll survive

Piles of presents
Piles of futures and of pasts
I’d unwrap them
But I really can’t be arsed

People singing
Wishing me a happy day
Party starting
All my mates are on their way

Birthday drinking
As I swing my birthday hips
Drunken babble
As I move my birthday lips

Let’s go shopping
Make our way round HMV
Then we’ll go home
Play some Wii sports on the Wii

Order dinner
I am fiending a chinese
Chicken Chow Mein
Ooh you got me on my knees

It’s my birthday
But it’s way better than that
Girl come closer
Can you see my party hat?

It begins

It begins




I’m not anti-alcohol by any means, but gone are the days when I could polish off a medium sized bottle of vodka, add a couple of beers, throw in a McDonald’s, and wake up the next morning and face the consequences. This poem is fairly self-explanatory and the word ‘whisky’ could be replaced by pretty much any alcohol with a two syllable name. It just so happens that, while it is slightly autobiographical of a bygone era, I wrote this poem while watching a friend indulge in just a little bit too much whisky. 

Note: The word ‘optional’ in this poem should be pronounce ‘opshnal’ to bring it down to two syllables.


Much whisky makes a man a mess
In optional state of part undress
As in his bloated belly press
The plunders of the day

The morning brings an end to mirth
A misery unknown since birth
As last night’s booze flows forth, a firth
From quivering lips of grey

I am painfully hungover… the back of this chair


A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer's Night in Budapest


Two years ago, I had the opportunity to go interrailing with friends. I joined them in Prague and from there we went on to several different European cities. The routine was fairly simple. By day we enjoyed the local culture, by night we enjoyed the drinking culture. Every two or three days we would hop on a train and go somewhere else. These days I would probably spend a lot less time and money on drinking and a lot more on exploring the beautiful towns and cities. Anyhow, this poem is a slightly fictionalised account of one particular night in Budapest.

There were a great many homeless people in Budapest and some of them seemed to have quite severe mental illnesses. That being said, most were also very drunk. On the night in question, I had had a wee bit too much to drink and stumbled out of the club my friends were in. I decided to go for a short walk and disappeared for three hours. I was incredibly drunk, and completely alone in a foreign city far from home. It was only when I checked my phone afterwards that I realised people in various parts of the world had been calling and texting me, the general consensus being that I was dead.

While I had no hat or collar, passed no crack dens, and was too drunk to feel the cold, everything after the first two verses is a more or less truthful account of what happened to me on that walk. 

A Summer’s Night in Budapest

A Summer’s night in Budapest
I walked the streets alone
A bitter wind blew through me
And it chilled me to the bone

I turned my collar up
I turned my hat down low
I walked on past the crack dens
Where the lonely people go

Muttering a curse
And mumbling a prayer
I strode about a corner
But a horror met me there

As I rushed between the columns 
That held up a balcony
I spied a lonesome wanderer
Who had not yet seen me

I spun around and hid myself
And watched him walking on
‘I’ll stay here for a while,’ I thought
‘Until this man is gone.’

His ragged jeans were dirty
His face bore a scraggly beard
His shirt hung on him loosely
And what happened next was weird

He moved towards a door
I was bemused and unaware
Of what was now to meet my eyes
He dropped his underwear

I looked round for salvation
I saw to my surprise
Ten feet back, a lady
With terror in her eyes

We shared a single moment
We shared a silent tear
We shared a sense of helplessness
We shared a crippling fear

The homeless man bent over
And spewed from his behind
A spray so rank, so dark, so foul
I prayed to be struck blind

The torrent was unending
The flow could not be stopped
He grabbed his chest and groaned in pain
Then to his knees he flopped

I stood there paralytic
Couldn’t bring myself to run
I realised that I was trapped
Til this dark deed was done

I can’t say how many minutes
How many hours passed in this way
By the time the man had dressed and moved on
I could just see the first light of day

I emerged from my seclusion
To face the sordid mess
The stench hit me, I wretched, I gagged
I wept in my distress

The lady stepped towards me
I looked at her and smiled
But saw in her a darkness
Her eyes looked black and wild

I thought we’d shared a moment
Nothing too complex
But she placed her hand upon my arm
And boldly asked me: ‘Sex?’

My head by now was spinning
My stomach tied in knots
The terror and confusion
I have never since forgot

I brushed her cold hand off me
Her grip was only slight
I turned to the horizon
And I fled into the night

I'm a big fan of travelling

I’m a big fan of travelling

2 AM McDonalds

2 AM McDonalds


Anyone who knows me will know that I’ve never been a party animal. The most I’ve ever done was drink silly amounts and I’m not one for that anymore either. In fact, I’m fairly boring. This is a very recent poem but it harks back to the nights spent stumbling home drunkenly with the inevitable stop at that haven of the hammered, that temple of the trashed, that Ritz of the rat-arsed, McDonalds.

2 AM McDonalds

A 2 AM McDonalds
It meets an aching need
A burning fire
Innate desire
Requires a twilight feed

This banquet of the bloated
This lunch of lethargy
A midnight feast
To tame the beast
That hungers within me

I wake up at 10:30
And every day’s the same
I lie in bed
I hold my head
And tremble with the shame

Phil Collins or a chicken nugget? Tests remain inconclusive.

Phil Collins or a chicken nugget? Tests remain inconclusive.