My autistic brain says,
“Quiet night, mate. Please.
Joggers on, phone off,
and leave me in peace.”
ADHD goblin kicks the door
like he owns the bloody place,
with a bottle of JD in one hand
and madness on his face.
He says, “Just one sip, big lad,
don’t look at me like that.
You can stim in the kitchen,
dance round like a twat.
You can flap if you fancy,
you can pace the front room,
you can talk absolute bollocks
till the neighbours assume
there’s a podcast being filmed
by a drunk northern bloke,
half philosopher, half idiot,
all bad timing and joke.”
Autism squints and says,
“Nope. I know your little game.
Last time we had one sip,
we woke up banned again.”
But ADHD goes, “Listen,
this’ll be controlled, I swear.”
Then Mary Jane walks in laughing
like she’s meant to be there.
Now the committee is seated,
the meeting’s gone to shit,
JD’s doing minutes
and nobody’s read it.
Autism wants soft lighting,
a blanket and a snack.
ADHD wants chaos
and a live stream talking back.
Then the first sip lands,
and the goblin starts to grin.
That’s when the sensible part
packs up and fucks off in a bin.
Because when autism and ADHD
start drinking as a pair,
the chaos goblin wakes up
and climbs out from nowhere.
He’s got no filter, no shame,
and a mouth like a drain.
He’ll roast your haircut, your nan,
and your emotional pain.
He’s a foul mouth comedian
with trauma in his chest,
making jokes so wrong
even Satan’s impressed.
TikTok live gets opened,
which is always a mistake.
I say, “I’ll behave tonight,”
then call someone a wet cake.
Five minutes later I’m riffing
like I’ve sold out a show,
talking grief, dogs, gym,
and why people are slow.
Someone says, “Calm down.”
I say, “Mate, don’t be rude.
I’m not angry, I’m northern.
This is just my mood.”
Then boom, live restricted,
account’s had a wobble.
Turns out verbal diarrhoea
still counts as trouble.
But behind all the trauma,
the grief and the mess,
the nights where my head
tries to cave in my chest,
there’s still a daft bastard
who can laugh till he aches,
still dance in the kitchen
while his sanity breaks.
Most of my stuff is heavy,
raw, deep and true,
so I thought fuck it,
let’s let funny Chris through.
Because pain gets a platform,
but so should the clown,
the one who still jokes
when life’s kicking him down.
So here’s to the weekend,
the goblin, the noise,
the JD, the smoke,
and my stupid little joys.
My autistic side sighs,
“Please don’t start again.”
But ADHD whispers,
“Go on then…
just one sip, mate.”
And that’s how a quiet night
turns into a ban,
a kitchen rave, three rants,
and a half naked man
explaining life on TikTok
with crisps on his chest,
because even when I’m fucked,
I’m still funny at best.