by Ben Macnair
Hey you, you at the back, Shut up,
He says by way of introduction.
His name is Darren, or Wayne, or Gareth,
One of those interchangeable bouncerâ€™s names.
He has the ears of a space hopper,
the gravitational centre of a weeble,
the sensitivity of an etch a sketch,
and he is about as popular as a cactus in a nudist camp.
Down the road, Picasso is painting the pavement in his favourite orange colour.
You know that Orange, that you only ever find in a lava lamp.
Or when you mix too much lager with too strong a curry.
Picasso is here every night,
but his artistic efforts are less permanent than Grafitti.
Under a blinking street lamp, Romeo and Juliet
are learning about each otherâ€™s tonsils,
even though each of them will regret the other in the morning.
He is punching above his weight,
She is wearing beer goggles,
and neither of them is thinking about family planning.
Further down the road, the Taxi drivers are waiting.
Lee is laughing at his own jokes.
He wants to be the tax payerâ€™s Jimmy Carr,
but he is really channelling Bernard Manning,
In a world which is run by Millionaireâ€™s
and the Daily Mail all offensive jokes a bit beyond the pail.
In three hours time, regrets will be nursed,
Hair of the dog will grow down throats,
Uncomfortable hellos and goodbyes will be made
to complete strangers,
and all traces of tonight will be washed away,
until the whole circus winds up again in the evening.