I have just finished my first day temping, which has just been reading really, and had an interview at ICAP, which I think went well. Now I’ve got lots of nervous energy to burn off and an adrenaline that’s pumping to my head with the help of a pint of cider that cost me four quid at The Old Joint Stock.
(I also had one yesterday called Thatcher. It wasn’t very good. Awful in fact. Maybe it’s something in the name. That’s what my dad said. He likes socialism. Maggie Thatcher doesn’t). The above picture is the Old Joint Stock. Most brummies know it. It’s brilliant inside. Anyone from outside Birmingham should go there. It has a theatre and used to be a bank.
Anyway, to burn off some of this energy, I thought I would write a poem about my love of cider and share it with you all. I apologise in advance. It’s going to be shite.
CiderI think cider is f–king brill, Every time I drink it, It’s like walking on a Somerset hill. Even if I’m in a Brummie pub, It’s like I’m in an apple orchard, near a countryside mill. Magners, Scrumpy, Westons, Bulmers or Jacques, I’ll keep drinking ’til I’m on my back. Dry or sweet or somewhere in a drunken in-between, I’ll keep drinking this alcoholic apple Tango that’ll make me go green. I’ll draw the line if you give me White Lightening, ‘Cos the lack of vitamin c in it is truely quite frightening. But I don’t mind if it finishes off my day, It can force sunshine when the skies are grey, I’ll keep drinking from June to May, ‘Cos I love cider, I do.
I will now include a song called Transmetropolitan by the Pogues which is about some intoxicated young gentlemen going on a rampage in London. It’s a hedonistic little number that I quite like. It contains the word cider in it.