Acoustic Blues and Rock and Roll
Maybe I’ll run on like a rolling stone,
Still going into my 80s.
When my Pappa was getting his bus pass.
Maybe I’ll be more like,
A fat guy in the bathtub.
Thinking he is having the last laugh.
Either way,
I’m going to take this moment.
Take this day.
And live it.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Slept on the couch,
Slept in the bath tub,
Slept on the floor,
Slept in the graveyard,
But,
But it wasn’t my time.
Wrote a letter,
Wrote a song,
Wrote a message,
Put it in a bottle,
Smashed it,
Against the wall.
I wrote it down and burnt it.
Watched the smoke drift to the skies.
I walked the street,
People crossed the road,
To avoid me.
Wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
So I.
I kept walking.
This is my truth.
I am living proof.
I am alive.
My spirit reaches the sky.
They tried to kill me,
But I refused to die.
This is my truth,
I am living proof.
I am alive.
My spirit reaches the sky.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Take a walk,
The sun going down,
Shadows stretching across the ground,
Still a little heat in the sun,
A few folks looking lobster,
Peeling and undone.
Pizza delivery car crawling up the street,
Looking for the right house,
Hurry man, folk impatient to eat.
Couples going into town,
Dressed up for a date,
He says,
"Getting a hustle on, can’t be late."
She says,
"You try walking in these shoes ya prick."
Perfume and heels as the girl’s night crowd,
Singing songs and acting loud,
Make their way to town.
Some nurses at bus stop ready for a shift,
Hoping a pal will come by and
Give them a lift.
Two guys by the old petrol station smashing glass,
The old guy on the road,
Shouting he'll kick their arse.
They start laughing,
"Fuck off old yin,
Get to fuck."
He’s dodging the speeding ice-cream truck.
Sun making purples and oranges across the sky
As it disappears behind the hill.
Don’t hang your head with sorrow,
You know it will be back tomorrow.
Sunset never gets old for me,
Like taking another picture of the sea.
Round the corner,
Raised voices from an open window,
Two doors down
They are blasting out some soul.
The queue at chip shop,
Got to get your fix,
Maybe haggis, or fish and chips.
A few football fans heading to the game,
"Win today,
It'll be another victory Monday."
Past the dog walkers and I'm heading home,
Past the crowd at the corner shop,
"Will you get us a carry out?"
"Naw."
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Miserable Bastards (Part 4)
You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/
And Part Two here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/23/the-price-of-books/
And Part Three here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/24/the-bar-is-sinking/
Mikey arrives a wee while later, looking like he had walked through a hedgerow and had a fight with a rampant badger.
Frank's eyebrow goes up as he looks from me to Mikey and back again. Mikey is wiping down his old suit jacket like it’s got a couple of crumbs on it and not three tears and a couple of highly questionable stains. I’m sure that’s the suit he bought for a funeral five years ago. He’s still a skinny bastard, but it looks like the suit has shrunk a bit, giving him a 1980s drainpipe effect.
He’s standing there with the confidence of Messi on the World Cup stage.
“Pint please, boss. The usual.”
Nothing beats the power of misplaced confidence. “On yourself, pal. How the fuck are you? Did you get into a spot of trouble?”
He looks briefly broken, punctured.
“Nothing I can’t handle, big man.” he says, putting his fists up like a super-mega-lightweight boxer.
"Frank, can you put this behind the bar for me, man, please?" he asks, pleading a little.
“What the fuck’s this, wee man?”
“Just my stuff, nothing dodgy, I promise.” he says, avoiding eye contact.
“I’ll need to have a look.”
“No, no, it’s alright, mate. I’ll just hang on to it.” he’s turning red.
Frank looks in the bag. Looks up. Looks back again.
“What the fuck…”
Mikey goes to talk but doesn’t say anything.
“Why in the fuck are you walking about with a dead hedgehog in a carrier bag?”
“It’s, er, dead.” he mutters sheepishly.
“Aye, I can see that…”
“I saw it on the street. You can’t leave it out there; the seagulls were pecking out its eyes. I’m going to give it a proper burial up by the cathedral later on.”
“Up by the fucking cathedral, up by the cathedral…. Mikey, are you alright? Have you had a bump on the fucking head?”
“I’m… I’m fine.”
I’m sitting watching this unfold, like what the fuck is going on here.
Frank’s warmed up to it though.
“So you were going to just deposit Sonic here, were you, behind the bar, a dead hedgehog, while you had a few pints… stinking out the bar and then you’re going to make it through the tourists and the workies on the way to the cathedral?”
Mikey's face is turning redder and redder. “Well… aye.”
Frank throws the bag at him. “Go and leave it outside…” he says before shaking his head “or put it in the fucking bin.”
Mikey catches it.
“Should I flush it down the toilet?”
“What, like a goldfish? You are really ripping the piss today, pal.”
Mikey’s out the door, and Frank’s away to the other side of the bar to get Pat a drink.
I sink my drink; the whisky sours, making me wince a little.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Miserable Bastards (Part 3)
You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/
And Part Two here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/23/the-price-of-books/
The bar is dark; neon lights flicker. Someone leaves, and a shaft of late summer natural light breaks in.
Ugh, someone shut that door.
I take a sip of my drink, house whisky, some kind of liquid. Fuck knows what this is. I’ve worked my way down from the Macallan 21 uptown to the no-label gold-speckled whatever the fuck this is.
If ever there was a bar that seemed like it had given up, this is it. I’ve heard people talk about dive bars, but this is more like a died bar. Somehow it suits me. Like a ghost in the neon, the jukebox plays classics from 1992.
Christ.
Frank's looking over at me. The old bastard, if the bar looks rough, then he somehow looks like the ultimate survivor, carved from the rock, the handsome bastard.
"Another?" he asks.
"Yeah, pal, keep them coming."
He pours me another whisky and slides this over to me. He picks up his glass. “Cheers, Al.”
We clink glasses, and I take a sip.
He looks like he’s got something to say.
“Listen, man, what do you think? I’ve got a guy coming over this afternoon, going to look at upgrading this place a little bit. New bar, new fittings, gold like one of those West End bathrooms.”
I start laughing.
“Sounds fucking horrific, man.”
He smiles.
I look around at the torn seats, the bar, the wet patches, and dust on the walls. He’s got a picture of a beautiful woman sitting on a beach on the wall. Her body looks like it was sculpted by the gods; her beauty is undeniable.
“Mind you, it might be nice to get some actual women in here, instead of just a picture.” I laugh.
“The ladies love the picture.” he replies.
“Sure, they do.”
“Well, I don’t know if they come here for the men to be fair. Have you seen the state of you and old Pat?” he nods to Patty at the end of the bar.
“Fuck off, I’m in prime physical condition,” I laugh as I pat my belly.
“Careful mate, you’re going from Buddha to barrel.”
“Ha, I do alright.”
“Sure you do. Listen, check this out.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a picture. It’s a Triumph motorcycle.
The picture looks a bit frayed like it’s been in a jacket pocket for a while.
“Going to look at this later today. Wee guy is selling it down Partick way. What do you think?” He raises an eyebrow.
“A Triumph? Fuck man, it’s been a while. You still got the Steve McQueen’s?”
He laughs.
“You can’t beat it, man’ he laughs.
"What about your gold fittings?"
"Ah fuck man, this place is like the Titanic." he looks glumly round the place.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 