Stumbling out of The Pig and Ballbearing, Union Street,
Pissed as a monkey's wrench,
I prop myself against a lampost
Loosen my tie and shout at the stars:
Have I really been tumbling out of The Pig and Ballbearing, Union
For twenty five years ?
Twelve Prime Ministers, eleven US presidents, fourteen major wars, two marriages,
Three kids, seven different jobs, one appearance in court (fine unpaid).
And as I stumble against a lampost outside The Pig and Ballbearing, Union
I realise my life is smouldering somewhere in the back of my mind
Entangled, no longer seamless or glued together, floating in a great cess-pit of history that only I
Fearless I jump, outside The Pig and Ballbearing, Union Street,
Into the great pool of my twenty five years, pissed as a monkey's wrench,
And wade through the debri, some of it packed
In boxes marked DO NOT DISTURB, some of it floating
Like blocks of ice, translucent and yet (tantalisingly) unreachable.
Still I persevere, going deeper and deeper
Into the hinterland that is my life
A girl outside the chip shop says to her boyfriend:
“What's that nob head doing ?” And her boyfriend says: “It's alright.
He's just searching for twenty five years and more of his life”
And puts down his cone of chips and holds his girlfriend close.
An hour passes before I stop, exhausted, look at myself in a shop window
Stare down the kind of man who has to piece together his existence.
All our lives are nothing but great blocks of ice
Pools to wade in and out of, labelled boxes left unopened, debri to be untangled.
And I smile in the shop window, straighten my tie, pleased that I am just like everybody else
Pissed as a monkey's wrench, staggering my way home
Cheeks puffed out, singing my birthday song.