The Bird Cage by resident poet Tim Wells
She was saying we don’t communicate, that I don’t really listen, that she wasn’t sure what she really wants. But I wasn’t paying attention ‘cos I was hungover.
I was hungover and it was a hot day. A hungover fat bloke on a hot day ain’t no sunshine. When I should have been listening I was too busy sweating, feeling thirsty and imagining a cold bottle of Lucozade.
One of those cold, straight from the corner shop fridge ones with glass dimples and a run of condensation down the side.
From the amber of Lucozade it’s a short stomach turn to lager and to that Johnnie Cooper Clarke line… ‘people turn to poison quick as lager turns to piss’.
The beads of sweat predominant on my forehead, her talking – the drunk scrunching of an empty crisp packet in a clammy hand again and again and again. Salt and vinegar crisps at that.
Meanwhile on Mongo, Ming the Merciless expounds schemes and hatches plots.