The Wrong End of the Stick, is a short poem I wrote after observing a group of people from an office down south, attending one of those idiotic bonding weekends based at a hotel in Nottingham.
I only went into the private bar by mistake; I was actually looking for the public area, where a local author was promoting his new book.
I wasn’t asked for a pass on the door because the guy who was supposed to be doing that job was chatting up a woman who, worse for drink like the rest of the group, was straddled across a bar stool, dress hitched up around the top of her thighs, elbow propping up her chin, slurred something about her husband not understanding her. Just behind them was a guy, desperately trying to chat up the most glamourous (and sober,) woman in the room, but failing spectacularly as she gave him a series of one word replies and a look that would have frozen a Vindaloo in seconds.
I had a free drink at the bar, logged the situation in my head for later use and walked back to the foyer to ask for direction.
I was stood in this bar at a holiday camp
at the bricklayer’s annual convention,
when a gorgeous blonde lass, way out of my class
waved at me to get my attention.
She put one long finger right up to her lips,
then winked her right eye once or twice.
I started to grin, thought, 'blimey! I'm in.'
I was up by her side in a trice.
I said. 'Hi I'm Rab, and I think you're just fab.
How about a slow one then, Hun?'
She said. 'You’ve no chance. I'm not going to dance.
I just noticed your flies were undone.'