A Blonde Girl Wearing A

When I Find Someone I Respect Writing About An Edgy, Nervous Wine That Dithered In The Glass, I Cringe. When I Hear Someone I Don't Respect Talking About An Austere, Unforgiving Wine, I Turn A Bit Austere And Unforgiving Myself. When I Come Across Stuff Like That And Remember About The Figs And Bananas, I Want To Snigger Uneasily. You Can Call A Wine Red, And Dry, And Strong, And Pleasant. After That, Watch Out.

The Human Race Has Not Devised Any Way Of Dissolving Barriers, Getting To Know The Other Chap Fast, Breaking The Ice, That Is One-tenth As Handy And Efficient As Letting You And The Other Chap, Or Chaps, Cease To Be Totally Sober At About The Same Rate In Agreeable Surroundings.

I've Been Trying To Write For As Long As I Can Remember. But Those First Fifteen Years Didn't Produce Much Of Great Interest. I Mean, It Embarrasses Me Very Much To Look Back On My Early Poems--very Few Lines Of Any Merit At All And Lots Of Affectation. But There Were Quite A Lot Of Them. That's A Point In One's Favor.

I'll Pour You The First One And After That, If You Don't Have One, It's Your Own F****** Fault. You Know Where It Is.

I Don't Say That The Drunk Man Is The Real Man, And The Sober Man Merely A Shell. But You Find Out Something Different About People When They're Drunk. Of Course, You Sometimes Find That They're Not Different At All--that You Merely Get More Of The Same, Perhaps Said Rather More Loudly And Incoherently, But Basically The Same.