There are drinkers who have only just started on the drink,
And drinkers whose lips are permanently parted for a drink,
Who are the opposite of drinkers who don’t like the taste of a drink,
You know – the same drinkers for whom a good drink is a waste of a drink?
Unfortunately, we have drinkers who sound like a thesaurus on drink,
The very same drinkers who like to bore us about drink
By using words like blackberry, vanilla, chocolate, and spices when describing what you
think must be a truly extraordinary drink,
But which, when you drink it, turns out to be quite a pedestrian and ordinary drink.
These drinkers will complain in a restaurant that their wine’s not quite right,
That it’s corked, if you hold the glass up to the light,
And they always address the waiter as if they’re spoiling for a fight,
As if the waiter had corked the bottle deliberately as a pre-meditated, personal slight.
Which, if he didn’t, he should have done.
There are generous but slightly crazy drinkers who put anything and everything,
including the kitchen sink in a drink,
Who contrast with mean-spirited drinkers, who put much less in a drink than you think
ought to be in a drink,
And these mean-spirited drinkers are the type who turn up to your house with
garage-bought inexpensive drink,
Because they think it’s socially acceptable to go around fobbing other drinkers off with
what is, in all probability, quite an offensive drink.
We’ve all met drinkers who say they’ll have just the one, and then go on to have just
Who are the same drinkers who don’t the meaning of when when you say to them,
“Just say when!”
And those infuriating drinkers who refuse to believe that I, of all people, might actually
be on the wagon,
And take great delight in presenting me with a whisky-filled flagon.
Mainly, these would be my family, who are inveterate drinkers; barely have my feet
touched the doormat than they’ve poured the first pint, held it out to me with a look
that says, “I insist!”
Knowing full well that if you cut me in half, I’m like a drinker equivalent of a stick of
Brighton rock emblazoned with the words, “Drink? I cannot resist!”
(Until you’ve seen me drunk, you really don’t know the meaning of pissed.)
There are drinkers who never seem to know when they’ve had enough,
Emboldened by booze, they talk endlessly about random, unconnected, meaningless,
And when their wife gives them a look, they storm off in a huff
To sleep on the sofa, which is both big and clever as well as being extremely
manly and tough.
Who are the same drinkers who think they’re the soul of the party,
With voices too loud and with laughter too hearty,
Who sneer at those drinkers drinking diet coke and Bacardi.
Mainly because it’s not not real ale.
And finally, we have people who don’t ever drink,
And I don’t know about you, but this is what I think:
If faced with a choice, I would choose
To spend my time in the company of those who reject sobriety and prefer to booze,
Despite the fact that – and here’s a statistic that will surely amaze –
I haven’t had a drink now... for 278 days.