The door still sticks, the same old fight,
Smells like books and beer and leftover night.

The jukebox argues — ska or swing?
A trumpet cries, the bass might sting.

Tima’s got crayons, Peter’s got views,
I’ve got one pint and existential news.

Welcome, friend, come settle in —
This is Crosskeys' Philanthropic Inn.

Where darts miss wide, and quotes land true,
And the biggest truths come pint-soaked too.

Table by the loos with the wobbly leg,
Someone’s drawn Socrates riding a keg.
Mam’s by the fire, two chips in her hand,
Tima’s under the dartboard drawing the band.

Peter’s got pint foam on his upper lip,
Quiz sheet folded, already talking sh—
Steph’s at the bar with her “serious face,”
But she’s giggling at someone’s coat disgrace.

There’s Dai with the voice like gravel and smoke,
Quotes Marcus Aurelius between dad jokes.
The fireplace crackles, the neon light hums —
A pub full of hearts and half-rolled drums.

Pint in hand, mind in flight,
Argued with Plato half the night.
What’s truth? What’s love? Who knows, but still —
We found both on the windowsill.

And it’s pints, it’s laughs, it’s found philosophy —
Sticky floors and soul honesty.

Friday’s live night, chaos in tune,
Tima danced with a tambourine under the moon.
Peter sang backup (he shouldn’t have),
Mam brought her book, still made us laugh.

Quiz night flops, every time the same —
“Blue whale” shouted for every name.
Someone spilled stout on Nietzsche’s spine,
Steph wrote “Being and Chips” as a punchline.

Tima once painted the loo door red,
“It needed colour,” she simply said.
No one minds. No one judges.
We drink, we live, we leave our grudges.

Pint and a thought, scribbled deep,
Truths we found and couldn’t keep.
Books on the shelf, songs in the air,
And stories we told like we weren’t even there.

It’s darts and chips, it’s beer and breath —
And the kind of talk that outlives death.

One night, Mam cried over nothing and tea,
Said, “It’s not the grief, it’s the echo of me.”
Peter nodded like he knew too well,
And Tima just slept through the softest hell.

We toasted to love, to the ones we had lost,
To philosophy gained at a terrible cost.
To the way this pub holds your shadow like light,
And gives it a stool and a cider at night.

We’ve said goodbye in this room before —
With jokes, with poems, with crisps on the floor.
We’ve sung too loud, and sat too still.
And somehow, both helped us deal.

There’s a corner in this place where time sits slow,
Where the ghosts lean in just to let you know —
That even if you don’t believe in forever,
The kettle once whistled for all of us together.

Pint raised high, to the nights we knew,
To the crumbs, the chips, the wisdom too.
No one leaves with answers clear —
But we all found meaning in the cider here.

So here’s to Crosskeys, this inn, this fire —
Philanthropic minds and burnt-out choirs.

It’s midnight.
Tima’s curled under my coat, dreaming.
Peter’s gone off with someone’s leftover pie.
Mam’s still humming something soft.

And I leave a quote on a coaster:
“Every truth worth finding was once a joke in a pub.”

Philanthropic Philosophy

Chips was a seagull,
His best friend was Fish,
Together they made their own
Favourite dish.

A real set of villains,
Wired to steal,
Swooping and snatching
From humans mid-meal.

They could have been heroes,
This larcenous pair,
But there was a problem;
They just couldn’t share.

We sat kerbside, Crosskeys fish bar glow,
Salt on our fingers, stars startin’ to show.
Grease moons on napkins, ketchup like war paint,
You said, “Rate that one!” — I said, “Soggy saint.”

That one’s a comet — got vinegar trail,
This one’s a swordfish, but crispier tail.
We built galaxies outta leftover fryers,
Laid 'em out like constellations and chip-pyre pyres.

You laughed like a gull just won a prize,
Holding a D20 like fate in disguise.
I said, “You’re a pirate.” You said, “Too right.
Now hand me that flake before I start a fight.”

Remember the boy by the bins, feeding crumbs,
Thought he could tame 'em — brave, but dumb.
One swooped down, chip in beak, proud like a lord —
He saluted me mid-squawk. “Respect the horde.”

And then came your story — deadpan true:
About Fish and Chips, the thieving gull crew.
Gold crowns, boat party, glue on their heads,
Now stranded at sea on vinegar breads.

“They just couldn’t share,” I said with a grin,
“That's why teamwork’s where the magic begins.”
You said, “One chip left,” and passed it my way —
Said, “Heroes share dinner. Villains take the tray.”

Seasalt stars and takeaway skies,
Wrapped in paper where memory fries.
Every chip a wish, every squawk a song,
We’re still here, even if the bags are gone.
We ain’t rich, but we’re full — and that’s strong.

You said, “Life’s a menu, and some pick wine,”
But we’ve got chips, and that suits me fine.
Who needs steak or dishes with foam,
When salt and a stoop make a palace feel home?

I watched your eyes chase a plane,
Said, “You think the seagulls dream just the same?”
You said, “They dream of chips — or freedom, maybe,”
Then fed one your flake. I said, “You’re brave, baby.”

It nicked it fast, near took my hand!
You said, “That’s the risk of feedin’ the land.”
But we laughed like we’d written the night,
Paper grease maps in takeaway light.

Told you this world don’t owe us flair,
But it gives you one star for every stare.
And if you look right — not fancy, not far —
You’ll see your face glowing under chip shop stars.

So I’ll save my last chip just in case,
For the you that taught joy in every taste.
I’ll be a gull, a thief, a queen, a knight —
And every flavour will still taste like night.

Do seagulls wish on stars, Dad?
Or just wish for chips they never had?

Seasalt stars and takeaway skies,
Our myths wrapped up in chip bag lies.
We ain’t royal, but we reign this curb,
Grease-paper dreams, hearts never disturbed.
Hold onto heat. Let the birds be absurd.

“Fish was a gull, Chips was his mate —
Pinched a pasty from a plate.
Named ‘Birds of the Year’, then tricked at sea,
Now they float on fried destiny…”
“And Tima the Brave, Queen of Ketchup Bay,
Swore to avenge them, come what may.”

But poor Fish and Chips
Were weighed to the ground,
Their heads had been glued
As they had been crowned.

And try as they might
To get them unstuck,
Those crowns were on tight;
They had run out of luck.

And as they sat glumly
Each one had a wish,
Fish wanted chips,
And Chips wanted fish.

Seasalt Stars

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