THE NEXT CONCESSION
Bring me double whiskeys
And sparkling, ice-cold beer
All night long
Till they carry me out
In a sodden heap.
I will leave, not with my shield,
But on it.
With Spartan bravado
We marched in and down the stairs
To an Aladdin’s cave of unearthly delights,
Thinking our years gave us
Courage to face the night
And armour to fight imaginary foes.
We were uncommonly lucky
To escape alive.
Usually in the company of my mates,
I even entered with my date
And we danced to Layla
Shambling about aimlessly,
Waiting for the rhythm to slow
So we could fall into an embrace
Under Clapton’s spell
And fade into the night.
Cigarettes were de riguer
And smoke hung like an
Ugly passing storm-front
That no ceiling fan could dispel.
Nobody complained.
We breathed in the heady smell
Of smoke and rye and cheap scotch.
That alone could get you high.
We held on by the grace of God
Til closing time
When house lights rose
To signal “Last Call”.
Whether Place Pigalle or Embassy,
The Queens or The Lambton,
The Pretzel where strippers held sway On the second floor
Or far to the north at The Quay
Where motor-launches tied up
To hear a Lightfoot set,
The routine was always the same.
Fill the table with draught
And sing the rest of the night
Away.
How in God’s name
Did we survive?