Sid on the piss

It has been such a pleasure having dear Simon Armitage to stay; I shall miss him terribly when he heads back for the industrial north tomorrow. Tonight, Mrs Evans cooked dinner for Simon and Leslie and me, and Leslie cracked open a botle of the 62 afterwards, and he doesn't do that for everyone, so I know he has enjoyed having Simon about the old place.
A slightly sour was struck at about midnight. Leslie was preparing to take to his bed, and Simon and I were settling down for a chat in the library, (I had been looking forward to sharing my views on the latest crop of Next Generation poets), when fucking old Sid Nolan came hammering on the library windows. He'd been chucked out of the Farmers again, and knows that he can always get a nigtcap at Phuckwhitt Hall. I've been chucked out of the Farmers with Sir Sidney on many and many an occasion, and he often comes round to ours if he can't make it back to The Rodd of an evening, but I wasn't in the mood for Sid's abrasive Aussie humour tonight. He was pissed as a bishop, and he told the one about going on the rampage in Balarat with Les Murray, which I've heard a hundred times before, and which I could see was not to Simon's taste. Simon excused himself and went upstairs, leaving me to share a few with Sid, who threw up on the persian rug and passed out on the chaise longue. Really too bad of Sid, who can be a bore when he's pissed, Australia's greatest painter and Presteigne's most distinguished citizen or no. Now poor old Mrs Evans will have to clear up his mess in the morning.