Monday, 8 February 2010

See You Next Year

I woke up hung-over with a twiglet hanging out my mouth,

A piece of trivial pursuit cheese wedged up my nose,

The sound of the SLADE Christmas song like a stuck record in my brain :


Where’s the gun to end this Christmas pain?

An island tum from too much quality street and turkey and brandy snaps and pudding.

Can’t see my toes but can my toes see me??

Hot, red face from alcohol binges

Cabin Christmas fever, need to get out of here, four walls pressing down on me suffocated and strung up like the fairy on top of the tree.

Cue telephone conversations with friends : “What are you doing for New Years Eve?”

“I’m going to leave”


Leave it all behind, walk into the black hole abyss of no New Year fun.

And I’m taking Jools Holland with me.

Wipe your forehead clear of Christmas sweat and roll on January month of tumbleweed bank balance.

Pathetic man whose front house is crammed with plastic disciples and inflatable reindeer, confusing the blind with their artificial sunlight.

It all comes down. Christmas ends again.

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