One For The Road

One For The Road (celebrating the opening of the first pub on Britain’s motorway network at Beaconsfield on the M40)

I was just trundlin’ down to London,

And, feelin’ tired, I fancied a rest,

But what met my eyes at Beaconsfield,

Was more than I ever could have guessed.

I pulled off the road, into the car park,

And started looking for tea and some grub,

When I noticed The Hope & Champion:

I couldn’t believe it – there was a pub!

Now I’m as fond of a pint as the next man,

And reaching a watering-hole so soon,

Appeared like a mirage in the desert

Courtesy that nice Mr Wetherspoon!

I’ve no truck with spirits or alcopops,

And drinking & driving are sinful,

But a swift half of excellent beer,

Is quite a long way from a skinful.

So I settled down for a drink at the bar,

Ignored all the bottles and ordered a half,

But the barmaid said I had to be jokin’,

Such short measures – was I havin’ a laugh?

I suppose it’s just their sales tactics,

For she told me her name to be Carole,

But she wasn’t really very attractive -

For looks, she was scrapin’ the barrel.

But a woman’s allure can’t be discounted,

She knew how to peddle the pub’s wares,

She talked & charmed me, really quite calmed me,

And soon I’d forgotten all of my cares.

And thus it was I ordered a full glass,

Sure that it wasn’t enough to be boozy,

But, what with fatigue and strength of the ale,

I soon started to feel rather woozy.

I have to admit that it was a strange pint,

Not a flavour I’d encountered before,

Rather gassy, and a bit fruity,

But a pint was enough: I couldn’t have more.

Now there’s nothing droll, about alcohol,

And I knew that some fresh air was the way,

Soon I could feel, I was fine behind the wheel,

So headed back out onto the Motorway.

 For safety, I decided to take things slow,

Keep to the speed limit, and the centre lane,

I took no notice of other motorists,

Nor the black car that had started to gain.

I was now happily drivin’ along,

But tiredness I was having to fight,

It wasn’t the sirens that woke me up,

But the strength of that blue flashing light.

They pulled me into the hard shoulder,

The constable came over, and said with a wink,

“I’m sadly grieving, to notice you weaving,

But is it possible you’ve had a drink?”

I admitted the pint I’d had just before,

I said I didn’t lead the life of a monk,

I knew that he’d caught me, whilst on the M40,

But was sure I couldn’t nearly be drunk.

The police-man was quite nice about it,

Tho’ he had to give me the breathalyser,

He was quite frank – it was totally blank,

For Carole had only been feeding me Tizer.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014