44

Photo by Grant McIver on Unsplash


44 years old.
Still growing,
Still learning about myself,
Still a pain when I have a drink.

No doubt.

Though it's been a while,
Not long enough.
I can still feel the hangover
Across the weeks and the months.

But we are only human,
Capable of greatness,
Of fucking up,
Sometimes in the same breath.

Every morning we get up,
We’re piling up the days.
We hope for another one,
Don't turn them away.

What would I say
To my younger, thinner self?

Crack a smile sometimes,
Look after your health,
And for fuck's sake,

Relax.

You are everything
You need.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

The ‘Miserable Bastards’ series is a book and you can read it today!

We made a book. ‘Miserable Bastards’ is now available on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited. I just want to say thank you to everyone who has been reading the series on here, leaving likes or has reached out. Thank you for all your encouragement and support.

Beer And Pakora

Miserable Bastards Part 10

I’m walking back down the road, under the street lights, box of pakora under my arm. The silences, now only broken by the occasional bus rolling down the street. I’m back to the bar, through the old wooden door.

Feeling like Norm.

Bam, Mikey and Frank are sitting at the bar and they give me a shout.

A few folk are at the tables. Getting near closing time

I put the pakora on the table to cheers.

‘These Essies?’ asks Bam.

‘Aye, a gift.’

‘Here’ Frank says, I’ll get ‘them heated up’ and he disappears out back. Coming back with them on a plate heated up with dip.

I’m having a beer and pakora at midnight in the bar.

Tomorrow is a new day.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Book Lovers

Part 9 of the Miserable Bastards Series

Her flat is nice. A book lover’s flat. There are books everywhere. In the hall, living room, kitchen, bathroom.

The whole place smells of books.

She is smiling as she laughs at me coming from the kitchen and offering me a glass of wine.

“I thought you worked at the library,” I say, “not owned your own.”

“A lifetime of books,” she laughs.

“I was ill a lot when I was younger. Chest infections every other month. A lot of time sitting about resting. My mum used to take me to the library and I just fell in love.

I stumbled into music too.

Patti Smith…”

“Jesus died for…,” she smiles.

“Oh, I love that. Do you write?” I ask.

She blushes a little.

“I used to stay in a flat with two other writers. We were always trying to outdo each other. I wrote some stories and some poetry.

One day I’m going to get a collection published.”

“What things do you write about?”

She smiles.

“Here’s one:

The lights are going out,
But the world is turning on.

Obsession,
Craving.

Pick your poison.

Flesh.
Music.
Booze.
Books.

The Speed of Light,
Flying above the earth.

Life calls.

Come to me.
Worship me.”

She starts giggling, as I look at her.

“I thought that was going to be shite, but that was decent,” I smile.

She punches me on the arm playfully, and says: “There is a poetry slam night down the road a few of my friends go to. It’s on tomorrow night, you should go. You’d be very welcome.

There’s some talented people down there. I nearly got barred a couple of weeks ago. Some arsehole was heckling everybody, me and my boyfriend escorted him out.”

I smile. “You don’t mess around, eh?”

She smiles and writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Sure.”

I’m back out on the street and I check the note. It’s the address and 7pm.

I slip it back in my pocket and walk back down the street.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon