I’m a drinker with writing problems.

Brendan Behan
Interviews and Recollections

saw a sign that said ‘Drink Canada Dry’. So I did.

Brendan Behan
The Quare Fellow

scíth a ligean

Good decision…

September 7, 2019

My father could give me over to the comparative wholesomeness of American life, leaving himself free to sit in his darkened bedroom and drink whisky until his long sensitive nose floated hazily in front of his face…

Poppy Z. Brite
Calcutta, Lord of Nerves

wine tiptoed into the glasses

February 19, 2019

The noise of drinking was exhilarating. Champagne corks popped and the pale, chrysanthemum-coloured liquid, whispering gleefully with bubbles, hissed into the glasses; heavy red wine glupped into the goblets, thick and crimson as the blood of some mythical monster, and a swirling wreath of pink bubbles formed on the surface; the frosty white wine tiptoed into the glasses, shrilling, gleaming, now like diamonds, now like topaz; the ouzo lay transparent and innocent as the edge of a mountain pool until the water splashed in and the whole glass curdled like a conjuring trick, coiling and blurring into a summer cloud of moonstone white.

Gerald Durrell
The Garden of the Gods

drinking rain

December 2, 2018

So I propose a toast to that woman with her head out the window drinking rain. The most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time –


have a few drinks

March 22, 2018

I never type in the morning. I don’t get up in the morning. I drink at night. I try to stay in bed until twelve o’clock, that’s noon. Usually, if I have to get up earlier, I don’t feel good all day. I look, if it says twelve, then I get up and my day begins. I eat something, and then I usually run right up to the race track after I wake up. I bet the horses, then I come back and Linda cooks something and we talk awhile, we eat, and we have a few drinks, and then I go upstairs with a couple of bottles and I type — starting around nine-thirty and going until one-thirty, to, two-thirty at night. And that’s it.

Charles Bukowski
Sunlight here I am: interviews and encounters 1963 – 1993

Important notice

November 12, 2016


Antony Micallef

Diary 24th May

S looking very retro last Sunday lunchtime in the pub – all fifties wasp-waist and pointy breasts, holding a large black handbag like a mantrap in her lap.

‘J can be such a colossal shite, ‘ she says. J is her husband of ten years standing; apparently his normally jealous nature is now running out of control.

‘He thinks I’m having an affair! Me! Keeps on and on about it! I tell him and tell him it’s ridiculous – absurd! Where on earth would I find time to go out and have an affair with anyone?’

‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ I say, unhelpfully – and luckily she doesn’t hear.

I contemplate this smart, straight-backed woman, forty-something, and try to imagine an anonymous lover’s hands on her fine body. If she has a lover, I envy him. J once told me she is quite pneumatic in the bedroom – pure white fire.

Later she tells us she wished J had had ‘more experience’ before their marriage. ‘He was almost a virgin when he came to me,’ she says. ‘Which was a bit of a curse to be honest. On the other hand I slept with many men before him…You know? I knew what went where. J was bloody clueless.’

S is tough and wise. She tends to stutter slightly when under stress. She drinks gin and tonic like tapwater. She gradually became very pissed.


Monday was a day for home maintenance. I WD40’d all the window catches and hinges. Washed the downstairs windows. Then sat on the patio listening to bird calls with a gin and tonic in hand.


Today I will write an ending to the story “Rat” – at least I hope I will. For I am just another writer, wearing out my lead line after line…

So very true…

April 18, 2015


Drinking alone…

April 17, 2015