It’s Wednesday night – I sway slightly in the queue,
Spearmint extra – Sauvignon just passed from mouth to loo,
“ID?” One grunts, “Just here” I say politely,
Soft fingertips brush me with a stamp – I think he likes me.
Ding! Crammed tight in lift with rugby soc,
“Oi Edwin! Reckon I can fill a pint glass with my cock?”
There’s Tarquin and Montgomery, both top geezers,
Yet if brains were chocolate, hard pressed to fill a Malteser.
Doors open, Phineas welcomes me in,
Its miasma hits like a seeping bin.
Tonight’s cocktail blends expired Old Spice and B.O,
It’s Sports Night - they’re cool right? They must shower, no?
The bar beckons me, but not the usual single gin,
I’m far too sober- tequila, white spirit, anything!
Now realising that may have been a blunder,
My lips balloon as I swallow down a chunder.
Yet, not due to drink and stomach meeting,
But from Sports Night’s propensity for face-eating,
A horny postgrad golfer spins a bottle with a fresher
Cause nothing says a “Good time!” like tasteful peer pressure.
The drink kicks in, my rosy cheeks gleam
I stumble over to the rowing team,
From this point forth my memory’s foggy,
Something about a biscuit? And why was it soggy?
But they rejected me from their big-boy frat
As I don’t meet the requirement of being a twat,
A downer rather placed on my night,
When one asks, ”Who called the woodland sprite?”
No, that’s it! I’ve had enough,
Of caviar Etonites acting tough,
Ok! We get it! You can chug a beer!
(You’d also flatten me, that much is clear)
So, on reflection of tonight’s trip to the circus,
With steroid monkeys who’ll read this and likely hurt us,
I should have paid the price and gone to the Court,
Or sat fat in my flat, playing Wii Sports.