Posts Tagged ‘Drink’

‘Is anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
Well, that’s what you get for booking on line when you’re pissed.

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Hermione Moist, the latest muse to pen an ode or two for GFB, outlines her appreciation of the great Welsh poet, drinker, shagger and slip-on wearer Dylan “The Rhyme Master” Thomas with a reworking of his classic 2012 poem Under Milk  Wood.
Udder Milk Wood (Apologies to Dylan Thomas)

It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobble streets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishing boat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Well, I don’t think we’ll be bothering with Wales this year.

What do you think Arthur dear?

Dunno love, never bin.

Is that Welfare Hall a Premier Inn?

It’s mentioned here in the novel

Apparently it’s a fucking hovel

And all  the pubs playing Tom Jones’ singles.

You’ll never get me near velvet dingles.

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I hope you enjoyed Christmas.

I got a new ointment for my rash, the box set of Smokey And The Bandit and a jumper. I wore the jumper down to the Pickled Filtrum for the traditional Xmas lunchtime pint. My mate Stabman used it to wipe blood up from the pub floor. He saw a man drinking Guinness. He has a thing about people drinking Guinness in confined spaces does Stabman. This and his psychotic condition make for uneasy bedfellows.

It was nice to have our son Lawrence home from the Young Offenders Institute for the day. You should have seen his face when he unwrapped the Ankle Tag cover Shirley had knitted for him! Although he appreciated the crafty stash pouch hidden in Santa’s beard. Thinks of everything does Shirl.

As I nipped in to the smallest room to unburden myself of the Brussels, Shirl stops me at the door, thrusts a can of Haze “Scents Of The Forest” into my hand and said, “Use this and get yer arse into town in five minutes.” This didn’t give me the time to study racing form. I had to settle on Substance Abuse in the 2.30 at Kempton (I thought Lawrence being home was an omen regarding drug use). It romped in seventh.

Why town? For some reason Shirley wasn’t too impressed with my gifts of a toasted sandwich maker and a wind up torch. Handy, practical and self cleaning gifts never seem to go down well. But I should have learned after the mobile dishwasher I bought last year.

But at least I kept the receipts and didn’t have the need of Stabman’s intervention in Argos last year. That was messy.



You can read more of Bob’s musings whilst on the pot here and here. Your lives will be infinitely richer for doing so.

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My Dearest foodlovers. I write today from a prison cell in Nice, awaiting sentence for truffle smuggling. One had tried to explain to the arresting Gendarme that what one had found down one’s drawers might resemble a Perigord black truffle but was, alas, a rather invasive little growth that had become detached from one’s person. Anyway, after several “meetings” in the prison laundrette Le Prison Gouveneur has very kindly allowed me to answer some of your Christmas queries.

Joyeux Noel to you all.
Le Fanny Rougecrack

Dear Fanny.

It’s that time of year again when as a family we have to endure a whole day with my wife’s 96 year old Mother. She does nothing but moan. I don’t why we bother sometimes.  Goodwill to all blah..de..blah but quite frankly I’m sick of her. How can I avoid her all day without making it too obvious that I can’t stand her.

Happy Christmas,

Dave from Dundee

Fanny Replies 

Dear Dave,

An age old dilemma. Let’s face it the chances of her being there for many more are diminishing by the day. So I suggest you bite your lip and give the old dear a Christmas she’ll never forget.

Give her a glass of sherry, stick a hat on her head and sit her in the corner.

Regardez Fanny
More Fanny (with cookery tips!) can be found here!

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A sock landing on your head whilst travelling on a train to Glasgow  should be treated as a matter of some concern. Especially if the sock is not yours.

This sock was not one of mine. It required darning and was red. I always wear navy blue and have never consciously worn a holed sock.

The man who I presumed, owned the sock had been singing the following refrain for several minutes,

“This is my story, this is my song, follow the Hearts and You can’t go wrong!”.

I assumed this made him a Heart of Midlothian fan, Edinburgh’s leading football team.  Chances were now high that he was Scottish. We were in Newcastle.  To his mind he was in fine voice. Susan Boyle he was not. Edinburgh, was one long, wearisome hour North.

He broke into a burst of “The Stripper” A shirt was flung down the carriage aisle. Another sock was launched. It hung limply from the armrest opposite me. It too was holed. Then a pair of jeans and a pair of boxer shorts were hurled.

But no shoes.

There was the look of concern amongst some of the nearby passengers.

A man with drink inside him is not a pleasant sight. A man with drink inside him on a train taking his clothes off is a most unpleasant sight.


A Scotsman on a train with drink inside him, taking his clothes off whilst singing is something to cherish.  A moment to savour and catalogue in the file marked exquisite memories. Utterly astonishing.  A thing of rare, pointless beauty.

He offered praise to Rod Stewart,

“If you wan’ ma Bodieeeee

An use think Aahm Sexi

Cum on Baybi let me no….”

He laughed, slurped from his can of cider and raised it skyward, “Rod’s a fuckin’ genie -us!”

“Baaaaaaaybe Jane

Dum di dum dum  de dee da da ”

He laughed with emphysemic  glee. I dreaded to think what his 5 a day consisted of.

Then silence. Then a snore.  I looked at him (It was safe to do so). He was stark naked apart from a sock dangling off  his left foot.  It too required darning. That made three socks.

He was asleep. Christ he was scrawny, the calves of a budgie.

Cans of Strongbow were strewn around him. Although his shoes were neatly placed under the seat in front of him. Uncanny.

We had peace. At least for an hour.

One and a half hours later, The Guard announced that we were approaching Motherwell Station. The drunk stirred.


He stood on the platform at Motherwell Station wearing only a confused expression and the  dangling sock.

I hummed Rod Steward ditties on the journey to Glasgow. As I sang I had an overwhelming urge to disrobe. So I began. Slowly at first.  But before long I was tearing at buttons, belts, laces and zips to take off my clobber. What on earth possessed me?

I was free. I was one with myself. I was one with my body. I was one with nature. I was bound over by the Sherriff, a dour Presbyterian who was probably born fully clothed. Her eyebrows arched darkly as my misdemeanours were read out.

But, wherever the drunk singer ended up, whatever train he boarded naked,  save for a dangling sock,  I wish him well.  And the sock too.  It probably needs a spot of darning.

As for me? Well, nipple tassles are a bugger to keep on……….

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