When the police pulled me over
The reason wasn’t
exactly clear
It could have been the
speeding
That caused the police
to appear
Or running several red
lights
Or my complete
inability to steer
Any of the above would
have done it
Of that I am perfectly
clear
But what I said to the
officer
Was what really swung
it I fear
“I can easily reach my
license
He was driving home,
Shit faced drunk
Pissed as a cricket
Drunk as a skunk
Suddenly he swerved
To avoid a tree,
Then another, then another.
Then another tree
The police stopped him
For driving
erratically
“Having a little
trouble”?
The cop asked
sarcastically
The drunk told the cop
About the trees
everywhere
The cop just pointed
To the air freshener hanging
there
After a night out at the pub
I drunk until I could
drink no more
And in a disorderly
way
I made my way out of
the door
But being the worse
for ware
I hadn’t walked very
far
When I came to the
conclusion
I was too drunk to
drive the car
So, I decided to take
the bus
And I arrived safely
at my door
Which was truly
amazing
As I’d never driven a
bus before
He leaves her house
Saying goodnight at
the door
And heads homeward
Like so many times
before
She has another drink?
Or snorts another
line?
No need for a cab
She thinks she’ll be
fine
On his lips is the
taste
Of his loves last kiss
As he peddles ever
onward
Towards the abyss
She drives like a
demon
Without any care
Racing over the bridge
Not seeing him there
There is only one
winner
When the two come
together
Only one outcome
A young man lost
forever
In the laws eyes he
died a boy
Three days short of
being a man
But a very mature boy
A young man with a plan
His life had a purpose
Plans and dreams to be
achieved
But his dreams died
with him
And they too should be
grieved
Too young, too young
To leave dreams
unfulfilled
Too soon, too soon
For a young man to be
killed
For Joel Semmens October 16th 1992 – October 13th 2010
I was driving in my car
At a constant speed
On my left was a valley
Which looked very deep indeed
On my right was a fire engine
Matching my speed
In front was a huge pig
The same size as my car
Which I couldn’t overtake
Behind me but not very far
Was a helicopter flying low
Matching the speed of my car
We all hurtled along at
At the same velocity
When I heard my wife
Shouting at me very loudly
“Get off the Merry-Go-Round
You’re pissed Harvey”
When the police caught me speeding
My
eyes were strained and blinking
I
was pulled over by a putz
Who
said “Your eyes look red,
Have
you been drinking?”
So
with no ifs or buts
“Your
eyes look glazed”
I
responded without thinking
“Have
you been eating doughnuts?”
You were stopped late one Saturday night
Because of a defective breaking light
Through the window “good morning ocifer”
To the constable you just manage to slur
With a shake of his head and a finger wag
“Step out of the car sir and blow into the bag”
“Three times over the limit positive that’s plain”
“I’m sorry ocifer pleesh allow me to exshplain”
“I couldn’t call a Taxi coz it was dickipult to talk
So I had to drive coz I was too drunk to walk”
I’m in my sixties now and I started drinking when I was 15, which was in
the early 1970’s.
I always looked older than my age, though
not old enough to pass for 18 when I was three years younger, but it was the
70s and landlords pretty much turned a blind eye to 15- and 16-year olds
drinking as long as they didn’t look to out of place.
My first ever pint was in a pub called the
Man in the Moon and it cost me 17 pence, and the first sip of that foaming brew
set me on the road to oblivion.
I didn’t drink everyday but when I drank, I
didn’t hold back and I didn’t know when to stop.
On one occasion, a Friday, I left work at
5.30pm and went straight to the pub, with that week’s pay packet in hand, in
those days we got paid weekly and in cash, I woke up the next morning in a bus
shelter with 3 pence in my pocket, I had pissed away a week’s wages in one
night.
On a works beano one year we went on a day
trip to France the more serious drinkers among our party drank nonstop for 26
hours and very nearly drank ourselves sober, one or two of the group had to be
carried but the hardened drinkers walked back to the ferry.
On another occasion after a friend’s house party,
I woke up on the bedroom floor, having no idea how I got there.
It was only later when I spoke to my
friends that I found out the whole story of what I had done and that they had
carried/dragged me home.
They were good friends, who through my
behavior, I gradually alienated one by one until there was no one left to get
me home.
So I woke up in gardens, subways and
gutters, I even woke up in a skip once with a kebab stuck to my face.
In the end I was disowned by my family and
my only friends were fellow drunks.
Despite my drunken binges I still managed
to hold down a decent job so when I was in my late twenties, I moved to Woking
to take up a very well-paid job which served to fund my benders very well
indeed.
On one particular weekend in September, I
had been drinking since breakfast and kept it up all day, by midnight all the
pubs were shut, but a serious drunk always knows where to find a drink, so I
took a cab to Casper’s, a members only an all-night drinker.
It was there that I met Angela who would ironically
become my salvation.
She was a good-looking woman, around about
my age, who was also a drunk, although the drink hadn’t yet diminished her
looks.
The next morning, I woke up in the
passenger seat of a car on the sea front in Frinton, with Angela sleeping beside
me, slumped over the steering wheel.
I had absolutely no recollection of how we
got there, or why we were there.
I got out of the car to stretch my legs and
the bracing sea breeze almost knocked me off my feet.
I walked along the sea front, trying
desperately to clear my head but things were no clearer 20 minutes later when I
returned to the car.
Which by some miracle was parallel parked
to perfection, and I marveled at how we had got from Woking to Frinton and
lived to tell the tale.
However, a sense of doom came over me as I
looked at the bright blue Chrysler in front of me because although we had got
to Frinton unscathed the car had not.
The front of the car carried all the hallmarks of a serious front end
collision.
I roused Angela from her drunken slumber
and got her out of the car and walked her up and down until the sea breeze had
blown some of the cobwebs away.
“How the hell did we get here?” I asked
“Get where?” she mumbled
“Frinton” I replied
“Where the hell is Frinton?” Angela asked
I walked her further along the seafront
until we reached a café that was actually open at 6.00am on a Sunday and
several coffees later I got some sense out of her
“The last thing I remember we were in
Casper’s and you said, “I haven’t been to the coast for ages”” She said slowly
“so we finished our drinks and got in my car”
“And?” I pressed
“And then you woke me up” she said, head in
hands
“Do you remember hitting anything?” I
whispered
“No, like what?” Angela queried
“I don’t know” I replied “but whatever it
was, you hit it hard”
It was after nine when we stood up to leave
and a small group of fishermen were coming in as we were going out.
“All I know is old Joe was walking the dog
when he got hit” one of them said
“And he’s dead?” asked another
“Yes, and the driver didn’t stop” the first
one replied
What little colour had returned to Angela’s
face while we were in the café instantly drained away as the realization of
what she had done dawned on her as well?
We returned to the car, but Angela was too
distraught to drive, I was suddenly stone cold sober, so I got behind the wheel
and chose a route that took us back to Woking via a circuitous route.
After that September Sunday, all those
years ago when some poor resident soul in Gods waiting room lost their life at
our hands, I lost my taste for booze.
I still see Angela from time to time, she still lives in Woking, but she never
came to terms with what we had done that night and surrendered completely to
the demon in the bottle.
I see her around about town with the other winos and I believe she sleeps under
the canal bridge.
I wonder if she sleeps any sounder than I
do.
I’m in my sixties
now and I started drinking when I was 15, which was in the early 1970’s.
I always
looked older than my age, though not old enough to pass for 18 when I was three
years younger, but it was the seventies and landlords pretty much turned a
blind eye to 15 and 16-year olds drinking as long as they didn’t look out of
place.
My first ever
pint was in a pub called The Green Man and it cost me 17 pence, and the first
sip of that foaming brew set me on the road that led to oblivion.
It was a
long road, and quite a meandering thoroughfare, because I didn’t drink every
day, but when I drank I didn’t hold back and I didn’t know when to stop.
On one
occasion, a Friday, I left work at 5.30pm and went straight to the pub, with
that week’s pay packet in hand, in those days we got paid weekly in cash, and I
woke up the next morning in a bus shelter with 3 pence in my pocket, not even
enough to catch a bus, I had managed to piss away a whole week’s wages in one
hazy booze fueled night.
Also, on a
works beano one year, we went on a day trip to France and the more serious
drinkers among our party drank nonstop for 26 hours, from the moment the ferry
left British waters until its timely return, and we very nearly drank ourselves
sober, one or two of the group had to be carried, but the hardened drinkers
walked back to the ferry under our own steam.
On another
occasion after a friend’s house party I woke up on my bedroom floor, wearing
only my trousers and one sock, having no idea how I got there.
It was only
later when I spoke to my friends that I found out the whole story of what I had
done and that they had carried/dragged me home.
They were
good friends, who through my behavior, I gradually alienated, one by one, until
there was no one left to get me home.
So, I woke
up in gardens, subways and gutters, I even woke up once in a skip with a kebab
stuck to my face.
In the end
I was disowned by my family and my only friends were fellow drunks.
Despite my
drunken binges I still managed to hold down a decent job so when I was in my
late twenties I moved to Abbottsford to take up a very well-paid job which
served to fund my benders very well indeed.
On one
particular weekend in September I had been drinking since breakfast, and kept
it up all day, however by midnight all the pubs were shut, but a serious drunk
always knows where to find a drink, so I took a cab to Seb’s, a members only an
all-night drinker.
It was
there that I met Angela who would, in a roundabout way, and quite
unintentionally, become my salvation.
She was a good-looking
woman, around about my own age, who was also a drunk, although the drink hadn’t
yet diminished her looks.
The next morning,
I woke up in the passenger seat of a car on the sea front in Sharpington with
Angela sleeping next to me, slumped over the steering wheel.
I had
absolutely no recollection of where we were, or how we got there.
I got out
of the car to stretch my legs and the bracing sea breeze almost knocked me off
my feet, so I walked along the sea front, trying desperately to clear my head,
but things were no clearer 20 minutes later when I returned to the car, which
by some miracle was parallel parked to perfection, and I marveled at how we had
got from Abbottsford to Sharpington and lived to tell the tale, but then a
sense of doom came over me as I looked at the bright blue Chrysler in front of
me, because although we had got to Sharpington unscathed, the car had not, as the
front of the car carried all the hallmarks of a serious front end collision.
I roused
Angela from her drunken slumber and got her out of the car and walked her up
and down for a while until the sea breeze had blown the cobwebs away.
“How the
hell did we get here?” I asked
“Get
where?” she mumbled
“Sharpington”
I replied
“Why are we
in Sharpington?” Angela asked so I walked her further along the seafront until
we reached a café that was actually open at 6.00am on a Sunday and several
coffees later I got some sense out of her
“The last
thing I remember, we were in Seb’s and you said, “I haven’t been to the coast for
ages”” She said slowly “so we finished our drinks and got in my car”
“And?” I
pressed
“And then
you woke me up” she said, with her head in her hands
“Do you
remember hitting anything?” I whispered
“No, like
what?” Angela queried
“I don’t
know” I replied “but whatever it was, you hit it hard”
It was
after nine when we stood up to leave, and a small group of fishermen were
coming in as we were going out.
“So how
come you were so late?” one of them asked
“An
accident in the Dulcets” was the reply
“Why what
happened?” asked another
“All I know
is what the Police told me, that an old man was out walking his dog when he got
hit” he said
“And he’s
dead?” asked one of the fishermen
“Yes, and
the driver didn’t stop” the first one replied
What little
colour had returned to Angela’s face while we were in the café instantly
drained away as the realization of what she had done dawned on her as well.
We returned
to the car, but Angela was too distraught to drive, on hearing what we had done
I was suddenly stone cold sober, so I got behind the wheel and chose a route
that took us back to Abbottsford via a very circuitous route.
After that
September Sunday all those years ago when some poor Dulcet resident lost his
life at our hands I completely lost my taste for the booze, and I’ve been
teetotal ever since.
I still see Angela from time to time, she still lives in Abbottsford but she
never came to terms with what we had done that day and surrendered completely
to the demon in the bottle.
I still see her around about the town with the other down and outs and winos
and I believe she sleeps in Cathedral Park, I often wonder if she sleeps any
sounder than I do.
