Posts Tagged ‘Drinking’

I’m Squinting

With my glasses lost again

But I know enough to be struggling to see

God,but will I ever stop the drink

Once and for all?


Today I saw a Belfast man

Marching the road

Collarete on in the sun

The traditional

Tribal triumph

Seen in his swagger and away of shoulders.


But this is Spain

And the collarete was Instead ONCE

(Organización National de Ciegos España)


Orange and yellow tickets to be sold

Their luck tacked to his waistcoat.

His swagger and away

Sadly as a result of the twisted racking cracking

Of his body’s being.

It spent moving

His spine choked frame in the ways of his days

Him I squinting saw

Not him then


With the self blinded

Hurray of the Cyclops.


Last time at home

A fella:

Brother to one in the company

Complained to the slow barman

-I’ll get you done!

But the bar was packed

And the barman

(Who I too, thought slow)

Was having none of his old craic.


-Get me done?

He hollered

-Get me done?

-You can fuck off,

Yer barred!


Old Belfast bashing

Hard man against the new.

The silence of naked fear

That such a statement

might once have entailed

Bloody death or at least a beating

Was gone

The bouncer gleefully bounced the

Soul scarred, jail tattooed poor twerp


Out into the night.

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With warmer weather comes the need to barbecue.

For those of you who are foreign firstly, it is not your fault.  Secondly, barbecues are a recent phenomenonenonenonenon here in the UK. Microwaving is our traditional way of cooking.

I’ve tried to Barbecue with a microwave oven, but the oven melts a bit.

Making a barbecuing microwave oven is on my list of things to do, in between rowing across the Atlantic and visiting the dentist.

We had a BBQ lat Saturday. My lovely wife Shirley, whose topless sunbathing can still be seen on Google Earth despite her writing to the NSA and GCHQ, invited our neighbours Gwen and Martin Slope.

Martin is a food inspector for the local Council. Before you could say, “I’d give the chicken another ten minutes Bob, there’s blood seeping out of this one,” he’s slapped a food safety notice on me and chided me for scratching my nuts whilst handling raw food. Not exactly a barrel of laughs is Martin. Cholera is more fun

“Fat Twat!” Shirley jokingly called me as she poked the snapped cork into the bottle of Estonian Pinot Grigio. Wine with cork bits floating in it always tastes better.

Then she started wailing, “Last Christmas” by Wham. Martin served a noise abatement notice on her. But that’s my Shirley!

A drunkard.

Ever since, I’ve been in the smallest room for hours on end, caning the rolls of frozen Andrex. I should have given that chicken five more minutes.

Think I’ll put the Barbie away. Stick to the microwave. Food you can trust. 5 A Day? My arse!

Martin and Gwen put their house up for sale yesterday.


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Football is back!

There is nothing I like better than adjourning to my throne for a couple of hours on a Sunday morning with the Footie results. Like most blokes here in Blightydom, football is more than just a sport. It’s an excuse to get pissed!

As Bill Shankly famously said, “Football is not about life and death. It’s about something else. What, I haven’t the foggiest. Give and go. Flat back four. Break the fucker’s leg  next time he skins ye son.”

Andy Murray Winning Ball Over The Net! Mo Farah and Christine Thingymajig! Winning The Ashes! The Lions Winning Down Under! Chris Froome Winning The Pedalling!

Not proper sport.

Doesn’t bear comparison with the wanderings of Wayne Rooney’s hair and his search for pate peace. Wayne starts the season with a carefully sewn in thatch, even dabbling with a centre parting and as the season progresses his hair gets thinner than the atmosphere on Mars. Now that is sport.

Wayne has learned a new word – Tuesday. That’s 83 now!

I spend hours analysing teams, attendances, player ratings whilst me innards despatch the effects of the wanging session The Overwrought Penguin.By the way my lovely wife Shirley has taken a shine to the new barman Osvaldo.  12 pints of Snakebite with Malibu chasers will do that to a woman.

Osvaldo takes care of himself. Cleans his teeth for starters. Bloody foreigners. Can’t play football though can they? Just remember pal, WE invented the game. And tinned carrots. And Parliamentary Democracy.

Think I’ll go for a lie down……….




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“To You A Bit”

Hello Everyone,

Gingerfightback is proud to welcome Del Springett, removal man and curmudgeon to our roster.

Del recently spent a long time in Fightback Towers, moving boxes around with varying degrees of success before shooting off to see his mate about something. When he finally returned, he recounted this tale.

Hello Fella,

In my line of work every day is different. One day you can be clearing a house, the next day moving someone into a house and the next day realizing you’ve moved the wrong people into the wrong house!

But that’s what the Works Order said, so it ain’t my fault.

Recently I was asked to go an old folks home in Leyton to clear the flat of an old girl who had passed to the great commode in the sky.

Get there and yep you’ve guessed it. Bleedin’ lift was out of order!

So I get the keys from the warden (no offer of a cup of tea) – up two flights of stairs and let myself in.  She’s only gone and left a three-piece suite behind!

This is a two man job I thought to myself. So I went to the pub to get a few tips for the 2.30 at Ascot.

When I returned slightly the worse for wear, an old girl across the way puts her head round the door and asks if there is anything she could do to help?

“Get on the end of this sofa sweetheart.”

She looked a bit put out but, with a lot of wheezing on her part and a bit of puffing on mine (had to stop for a ciggy now and again didn’t I?) we managed to get the sofa down the stairs.

She didn’t look too clever but it did her good. Better than playing carpet bowls and drinking tea all day I reckon.

Suddenly a big yell goes up and she disappears from view.  Her bleedin’ prosthetic has come off!

Dear oh dear. What a palaver.

I had to do the last five yards on my own, load the sofa, pick up the old girl (and her leg)  and prop them up against the gate. Knackered I was.

I gave the gardener the heads up and said “You better get her back inside sharpish mate, looks like rain.”

Anyway, driving down the road I saw a sign asking for firewood. Ideal! Sofa’s burn well. My mate Baz set fire to his when he fell asleep with a roll up in his hand. Didn’t half go up.

Police, two fire engines and an ambulance turned up plus a film crew. An emergency services full house!

I reckon he could feature on the new series of “Police, Camera, Fuckwit!”

He’s still on the sick now. Lucky sod.

Anyway I reversed into the drive, pulled the sofa out and left it strategically placed by the front door so the owner won’t be able to get in.

Job done.

Went for a lie down after. Reckon I earned it.

Until next time

Don’t be a stranger Fella

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Should I push or pull

When the weary raincoat of cloudy night has opened before Dawn’s door

There you’ll find hermaphrodite hoodie stirring in the nether region

Dawn turns only to say

“Stop muckin’ about”


Sighs hermaphrodite hoodie

“What I’d give for any port in a storm

Yes brandy and a little drop of port”

“Garr……” slurps Dawn (pint of heavy in hand)

“But your eyes are a sore sight

Stay awhile ye twisted stranger, try an rearrange, yer a bit of a dog in a mang…er”

“Mark me well Dawn! today I’ll play wit’ me ditties an’ yer man there dreams only of havin’ titties

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Ginger Poems

Hello folks.

Gingerella, Gfb’s poet laureate has penned a new poem for us to enjoy.

So, we hope you do!

Thoughts of Wampum (Gingerella)

I met the man who drank the farm.
He again slapping his heavy hands together,
Talking at the bar’s sweet spot.
He was
Well…busy busy.
Slapped his heavy hands together,
Rocked on his heels,
Stepped back
Stepped forward,
Looked smiling around the bar.
No one paid him much mind.
Maybe some if they could be bothered looked away.
Who wants to catch his eye.
Sucked down his rum and coke.
Made great play of just enough ice in the glass.
Slapped his callused hands together as he wilted.
Standing at the bar
Past travels done,
Worked over.
Conversation empty
Best slap the hands together.
Rock in and out of the Bar’s sweet spot.
Hard earned
Single handed applause from all.

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