As a youngster, attending University, many of the folk I knew were looking to change their lives.

Not necessarily looking to “better” themselves; that’s perhaps an outdated perspective in a world I hope has moved on – I may of course be wrong about that.

But these folk were perhaps a little older than most of our undergrad compatriots.

Thus we had seen a little more of life outside of academe than others, and this bonded us in ways you couldn’t put your finger on.

None of us were necessarily wiser, but we all shared a desire to move on from what went before, into new, uncharted territory.

We all had a desire to change life and see what happened next.

And during our efforts, Wednesday night was crib-night at ours.

Into the small hours we’d play hand after hand of crib, laughing and joking, we had a quiet riot in our living room, replete with gas fire, sustenanced with cider.

I’ll never forget the fun we had, the light that brought to the week, and the way we all looked forward to Wednesday nights.

I don’t know where the others ever got to, but I remember them.

Here we are: Cider Craic. Please like (if you do) and share.

Cider Craic

Tea haze-phases work maelstrom to past troubles

as craic-anticipation glee-encourages

‘phone arrangements – chip supper piss-up with cards,

the whole gang’re going, all of them’ll be there.

Chip money extraction goes smoothly whilst we fight

over cider/wine/beer – grog dilemmas frazzle

anticipatorial fun-minds mid Two-Four.

Harully-chat car-participants scan the road

for street signs, matching names, sat-nav and common sense

looking for friendly faces and parking places –

hey, there they are, by the chip shop, let’s go – quickly

work out your order, stumble into 66;

cider’s victory establishes the piss-craic,

the razzle-rhythm and the dazzle-cackle fun.

Vinegar-fingers scrunch chip-damp, nosh chomped wrappings

into damp carriers – bin out, less ponk, more bliss –

can-crack piss-fizzes cider-craic, safe in gas warmth

card-craic eye-lights crib-passionate penny-peg folk,

laughing at embellished do-you-remember-when’s

causing why-don’t-we-do-this’s and shared glances

throughout second-can-cracking razzle-lust quenching.

Hash-bounded hours of hands and countings ebb driftward,

whisky-warmed life-smiles bless kind faces slumberward,

friendship repletion reassures firm-taped life-bonds,

forged crib fashion, fast and hard, no matter which road

a cribber takes, these years remain lore-established,

between learning fiends looking for new lives within

new worlds, hope-trespassing in new-life endeavours.

University of Life graduates rejoin

undergrad dreams of hope-prospect-filled ambition,

raring to unleash lives upon opened new worlds,

degree enabled; life’s cursed laws of sod

sabotage planned life-intentions without conscience;

plans to nought, wiser down the track, our cribbers know

University blips were spent learning hard facts.

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