The Vile Stuff - Richard Dawson

And some wee scallywag’s brung

A Coca-Cola bottle containing a spirit

Poor Peter Hepplethwaite cracks open his head

On a shiny brass doorknob

And has to be rushed by helicopter amublance

To Haltwhistle Hospital

Si Shovell fills a Reebok pump

With the pulp from his belly

Then sets off a fire extinguisher

In the girl’s dormitory

And finally clambers into bed with Miss Bartholomew

Much to the chagrin of the deputy headmaster

Whose scarlet skull is firmly wedged between her thighs

I only drank a few little droplets

I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff

Downing Asda’s own-brand stubbies in the lad’s bogs

I listen to the dull reflection of a carillon in the toilet bowl

My A-levels drifting away from me

Matthew Mooney’s hockle in my hair

Smells like menthol tabs

Outside the chip shop Thaddeus Wagstaff fractures my cheekbone;

3 empty cans of Castlemaine XXXX

Go rolling down my trouser leg

Blood, snot and curry coalesce in the corners of my nails

My friends drifting away from me

I only drank a few little droplets

I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff

Attempting to penetrate a coconut husk with a Philips-head screwdriver

I pierce a hole straight through my hand into the laminate worktop

It’s a major operation to repair a damaged tendon;

I come around with the tube still down my throat

The milk of amnesia fills my cup and back into the hole I go

Snoring like a pan of broth, I arouse the ire

Of my fellow patients

Wagging their ladles in the dark

My neighbour Andrew lost two fingers to a Staffie-cross

Whilst jogging over Cow Hill with a Pepperami in his bum-bag

He’s a junior partner at James & James no-win-no-fee solicitor

Thinking of relocating to a Buddhist monastery in Halifax

He reckons I should try meditation

He reckons it could benefit my peace of mind

My bedroom walls are papered with the stripes of Newcastle United

Between which I perceive the presence of a horse-headed figure

Holding aloft a flaming quiver of bramble silhouettes

He is the King of Children

Singing like a boiler: 'Tomorrow is on its way'

I haven’t had a wink of sleep and now the sun is in my porridge

I’m starting a BTEC in Engineering at Tynemouth College

My thermos flask leaks parsnip soup on the metro

Clogging up the keys of my MacBook

Carrot pennies steam amidst a pyre of pencils

Ruck-sack dripping up the steps of WH Smith’s

To buy a fresh pad of paper

I only drank a few little droplets

I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff