You know, there’s an element of cool romanticism when, say, Tom Waits sings about drinking hard liquor to forget about his problems. When Ed Sheeran does it, I can’t help but picture him cracking open a couple of cans of White Ace and belching whilst watching Babecast.
He’d sit there for a bit, maybe, contemplating sending in a picture of his genitals draped next to his Sky remote, so that the requesting ladies on screen could fairly and accurately judge the size of his penis. But it’s a bad idea, Sheeran decides, as one of the topless, floor-humping women has just made an unkind remark about a picture sent in by a Babecast regular. “Maybe I’ll get drunk again,” Sheeran says to himself, reaching for a bottle of raspberry Hooch.
A low point of Sheeran’s evening, as documented in his song, comes when he begins to fantasise about holding an unnamed person’s heart in his two Wotsits-stained hands. “I wanna hold your heart,” he sings, before trailing off for a moment. “…Bottom of a coke can!” he rambles, as if he’s complete given up on his initial sentiment, and instead taken interest in an object in front of him.
After emptying his mum’s drink cabinet, Ed takes out his lighter and begins to light up a menthol cigarette. “I’ve got no plans for the weekend,” he says, wondering if continuing to watch Babecast constitutes as plans. “Will see the flicker of the clipper,” he laughs as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “Flames just create us burns don’t heal like before.”
His mum enters the room and Ed quickly changes the channel with the Sky remote, which a mere hour ago, Sheeran was contemplating using as a penis-measuring device. There’s a short silence. “On cold days,” he says, “Cold plays out like the bands name.”
“For fucks sake, Ed. You haven’t been hitting my Hooch again, have you?” replies Ed’s mum.
“All by myself,” he says. “All by myself.”
And all this, perhaps, could have been how Ed Sheeran wrote his song “Drunk”, which I have been subjected to several times this week.