MY WIFE MISTAKENLY THOUGHT I SAID

My wife mistakenly thought I said

“I’m giving up drinking for a month”

What I meant was “I’m giving up,

And I’m drinking for a month” 

TRAFFIC COP – HOLD IT

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

If you would hold my beer” 

DRUNK DRIVING

 

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

THE NIGHT BUS

 

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

THE DEATH OF DREAMS

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 

DANGEROUS DRIVING

 

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”

TRAFFIC COP – I’M SORRY

 

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?”

GOOD AFTERBULE CONSTERNOON

 

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”

Uncanny Tales – (026) Waiting For God in Frinton

 

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.

Uncanny Tales – (006) The Fated Journey

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.

 

Waiting For God In Frinton

I’m in my fifties 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 weeks pay packet in hand, in those days we got paid weekly in cash, I woke up the next morning in a bus shelter with 3 pence in my pocket, I had pissed away a weeks 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 behaviour, 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 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, but 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 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 slumped over the steering wheel.
I had absolutely no recollection of how we got there, 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.
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.

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 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 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.
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 there 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 day 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.

THE DEATH OF DREAMS

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