Homework

Posted on | July 1, 2009 | No Comments

It’s been ages since I last posted and consequently the old blog stats feel a bit ghost-towny. Not that I’m obsessed with stats any more. That’s what my new show is about. My getting over the stats. And some other stuff too.

I performed the first full run of my show at HOMEWORK last week and I think it went alright.

HOMEWORK is the literary cabaret night I run with other members of Aisle16. We run it at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, which is a very cool place, suitably ramshackle and shabby for the event, which is essentially a scratch night, a chance for us to show off our new stuff for friends of the Aisle16 family. Below are some photos of the night. Lots of silly ones of me trying to be arty with a fish-eye mirror.

I’m not doing any more previews until 15 July at Express Excess and then 1 August at The Hen & Chickens. Details on my gigs page.

For the meantime I’m concentrating on the old show - A Poet’s Work Is Never Done. I’m in Norwich tomorrow, Ipswich next Wednesday, Oxford next Saturday and then at The Hen & Chickens on 31 July before heading to Scotland for a rare non-Edinburgh north of the border gig. Would be lovely if you could make it to one of those, or one of the previews.

Remember Belgium

Posted on | June 23, 2009 | No Comments

I went to Antwerp on Friday to do a 45 minute set for the Felix Poetry Festival. It’s always an adventure performing abroad, but it felt even more so last week as I  hadn’t really done much but change nappies for the last two and a half weeks.

I caught a 3pm flight over the water (poor effort on the eco-front but it was booked for me and wanting to get back quickly to see my boy meant I didn’t insist on Eurostar, naughty, I know) and landed just after five local time, where I was met and taken to my hotel.

Upon checking in I was asked if I cared for a glass of port or sherry. Port! Before dinner! But I’m an Englishman. I opted for the more traditional sherry and headed up stairs have a shower.

I didn’t actually get that far. A quick look at my pocket watch told me that if I was to shower and wait for my lift at seven I wouldn’t see anything of Antwerp, and whilst that was tempting (I was knackered) I don’t want to be complacent about these foreign trips, so I set about exploring.

I was staying at Hotel Reubens which was right in the heart of old Antwerp, quite close to the river. The little enclave of restaurants and bars just round the corner from my hotel was incredible and the weather was perfect for sundowners.

I got cash and then wandered past a few bars before I saw some good old boys tucking into Belgium chips. That, I decided, was the place for me. Unsure of whether it was table or bar service I wandered up to the waitress and asked. In English of course. I don’t speak Walloon, as I doubt many of you do, but business travel makes you even lazier and I didn’t even have a few words. Not that it matters, as everyone speaks English, but it makes me feel even more nervous when out. I know it’s hard to believe, but I am usually very nervous when entering a bar of restaurant on my own in a new place. I generally think everyone is laughing at me - a hang-up from being an incredibly unpopular teenager.

Anyway, so the waitress was pleasant enough and told me to sit down. When she came I asked for beer and chips.

“We don’t do chips,” she spat the word as if to say, “ha, you Eenglishe all the same, all you ever want is the chips. “Can I have chips with that?” you say. No you cannot have chips! Fuck off with your chips Eenglishe scum!”

I looked at the good old boys.

“Except them … No one else has chips.”

“any other food?”

“Meat and cheese,”

“Oh, yes please.”

“what both?” again a slight spit

“Erm … yes?”

“Fine.”

Eventually, she brought me this with a terse:

“Hope you’re hungry.”

What you can see there is what I left. No one is that hungry.

As I made my way over to the venue I was left wondering whether my little cafe exucursion had made me enjoy Antwerp less or more. I reasoned more, but only because I could blog about it.

Antwerp is very pretty:

Prettier than me:

I used Google maps on my phone and found my way to the venue where I met fellow English performers Scroobius Pip and Dan Le Sac. I like Dan and Pip, they are good sorts with a good sense of humour. We chatted about gigs and poems and poets and made jokes and looked at buildings by the docks.

Eventually we made our way backstage for the gig. There were sweets! I never get sweets back stage (”no M&Ms in brandy glasses / or bohemians with back stage passes) but today I did. This is advantage of rolling bonedife poetry popstars like Pip and Dan. I ate too many and felt sick.

The gig was in a cool bar-cum-venue:

I was on at 9.30pm. It was ok. I did about 50 mins to about 40 people who seemed pretty in to it. But it was weird. I was introduced in a language I didn’t understand, I only knew it was my introduction when I heard the dreaded words: “Poetry Boyband.”

There were some English speakers (or rather English as a first language speakers) in the audience and I sold about 4 cds, so it couldn’t have been that bad, it just felt a bit stilted. I think Messrs Pip and Le Sac felt the same, but we all concluded it was fun in the end.

Being in the company of a rock n roll group meant we were back home in bed an hour after the gig. That’s touring. And we didn’t even get the port.

So all in all a nice excursion but I was back in the Uk by 10am and I was changing nappied by the afternoon. Not that I’m complaining, infact I’m loving it.

John Betjeman Young People’s Poetry Competition

Posted on | June 22, 2009 | No Comments

It’s an honour to judge the John Betjeman Young People’s Poetry Competition. In fact I’m really really excited about it. Pass the following info onto any 11-14 year oldsters you might know:

The John Betjeman Young People’s Poetry Competition
** CALL FOR ENTRIES **

The John Betjeman Young People’s Poetry Competition sponsored by Shell is open to 11-14 year olds in the British Isles and Republic of Ireland.

The prize of £1,000, (£500 to the winner and £500 to the English department of their school), is donated by John Murray (Publishers) Ltd. The first prize winner, runner-up and highly commended will also each win three Eurostar standard class return tickets to either Paris or Brussels.

Entrants are invited to send one poem about any aspect of their local surroundings or any aspect thereof, whether it be a house, a street, a garden, a park, a city or a wider landscape. The spirit behind the competition is to encourage young people to understand and appreciate the importance of place.

The prize giving will take place on 20th October 2009 at St. Pancras International Station.

Completed entry forms which are available on request need to be received by 31st August 2009.

For the full list of rules, entry form or for further information about the prize please visit www.johnbetjeman.com or email justinagowers@yahoo.co.uk

Speed Poem

Posted on | June 19, 2009 | 4 Comments

Here’s a speed poem (poem written in 10 mins) that I did at London City Airport just now. I think there’s some ok lines, but as with a lot of speed poems the ending suffers because I didn’t really know what I was writing about before I started. If it’s worth salvaging let me know, and how I might go about that.

Composed at London City Airport

It’s all men at the airside bar

logging on and mobile muttering to people called Damian

thus far, I’m the only one who has smiled at the waitress.

Or said please

And I’ve been here ten minutes.

These chips are frozen inside.

Look, they’re hard when I bite them

Says one man, butter-faced and double chinned

I silently egg the waitress on to reply

They freeze when they go near your heart

but instead she apologises and takes them away

that’s why there’s a compulsory 10 % tip

which you know she’ll never see,

even though she brought you vinegar

in a little white bowl.

I tell myself I’m better than these so-so chaps in suits

But we’re all here to treat ourselves

Butter-face puts 2 sugars in his coffee

Before tucking into an ice cream sundae

I drink Becks Vier and check my e-mails.

How many places like this do we see in a day?

How many concourses do we dream our way through?

Safe places with fake walnut surfaces,

Beige wall uplighters and filthy carpets.

Butter face is probably alright underneath

But each day’s a battle and he makes his own luck

And who’s to say my way is better than his

You need some kind of release

when its not second nature to judge people in verse.

Poem on Radio 3 tomorrow

Posted on | June 18, 2009 | No Comments

My poem Loughborough will be featured on Breakfast on BBC Radio 3 tomorrow morning (Friday 19 June). It will be repeated on the afternoon programme. There’s a poem a day on throughout June. I join the likes of Carol Ann Duffy, Jackie Kay, Simon Armitage and Laura Dockrill. It’s a bit like a Latitude bill.

Cameron Direct

Posted on | June 17, 2009 | 4 Comments

Saw footage of Cameron giving his talk in Norwich in front of a couple of naff banners marked “Cameron Direct.” Ha Ha Ha. What a twat. Cameron Direct. Oh wow! He’s like so approachable! Like the Tory teen agony aunt we never asked for.

Hey Dave, I really want to ask Cindy to the dance, but I’m scared, what should I do?

Hey Dave, my parents are like really hassling me about university but I just want to smoke doobies and finger hotties, what gives?

Hey Dave, I like totally terrified of the rise of the new right-wing all over Europe. If supposed moderates like yourself are prepared to share a platform with East European racists just to pull apart the EU what hope can my generation have?

I was about to say I hate Cameron as much as the next man, but I don’t. I hate him more. A lot more. I hate him more than Thatcher and her lot. At least they didn’t pretend to be nice. He’s a cunt. He’s a slimy, Eton-educated, PR-obsessed ex-TV executive. He’s literally everything people hate about London. He has no idea what life is like for the average person, nor will he ever, nor does he care. Scratch away the tacky green eye shadow and his eyes are a steely blue. It’s all guff, lies and spin and when he gets in we’ll be begging for Gordon Brown back.

But that said, I think there’s a lot of fuss being made over nothing in regards “accent-gate.” Whilst in Norwich Dave was talking about ID cards. He said it was a potentially threatening situation (on this issue, at least, I agree with him)  imagine, he said, being out late at night walking the dog when someone approaches you and says: “‘Where are your papers?’ That final line he delivered in an exaggerated German accent, ‘Allo ‘Allo style.

It was hardly Griffin-esque. It was just recalling The Great Escape and other war movies. We all know what he meant, so let’s stop pretending to be so ‘offended.’ The Daily Mail has called it ‘patronising,’ but what I find patronising is this idea that we are all so easily offended; that the newspapers have to wade in at the slightest slip and defend our moral outrage. TV and live comedy is littered with people doing accents and impressions, often not much better than Dave’s. Gently ribbing is not xenophobia.

I appreciate that his detractors are going to jump on this, much as the Tories would if a Labour MP did the same, because it’s perceived to be outside of the unwritten laws. But for Christ’s sake, who cares! It’s so fucking dull and it’s only made a fuss off because we have turned politics into a soap opera and we need the odd light story line.

We live in a country that has just voted in two openly racist MEPs and we’re worrying about David Cameron doing a turn as Lieutenant Gruber. I’m in equal measures bored and angry, and that’s a crap state of affairs.

One Week In

Posted on | June 9, 2009 | 5 Comments

My life as a father is almost a week old now and I love it. I love it so much. I’ve decided not to write about my son on here as the danger is you end up like Julie Myerson. What I will say is that I’ve realised how fucking brilliant it must be to be a baby. A baby gets fed from a boob (a boob no less!) and can shit himself whilst doing it. Let’s see The Fat Duck try and top that dining experience. And afterwards it gets cleaned up for him and he gets a new outfit. It’s a baby’s life for me.

Sucking on boobs then loosing a boot
Making grown men coo by being so cute
I’m sorry father, was that your best suit?
A baby’s work is never done !

Taking my time in the birth canal
Making my parents’ conversation banal
you know mummy had me right after a phaal
A Baby’s work is never done!

Making daddy forget his rock n roll past
Good nights sleep dad? Well, that’s your last
Get over here bitch and wipe up my arse
A baby’s work is never done!

… to be continued …

Some notes from the Newsnight Review discussion

Posted on | May 31, 2009 | 7 Comments

It goes so quickly! With four panelists each with their own agendas and tastes it’s hard to get your point across in as much depth as you’d like. What I’ve learned is that it’s best not to answer the question directly, they’re there really as leaders for you to get straight into the more interesting stuff. By the end of the program I felt I was doing that. Below are some notes I made before I went on, which perhaps go into more depth than I was able to on air.

Poetry and politics

Adrian Mitchell’s last collection, Tell Me Lies. I enjoyed the less political stuff. I found the political stuff a bit simplistic and not much fun. If you’re going to do that straight up lefty satire it’s a lot better when it’s funny.  Plenty of Adrian’s work in the past does do this, but it felt too bitter, too soapboxy here. Atilla The Stockbroker still does it with a lot of humour and that’s why I’m prepared to listen. There is a poem about New Labour from the point of view of a personified Old Labour who meets a man at a crossroads in a suit offering him wealth and riches. This was the lowest point I felt, casting Blair as a the devil making a Faustian pact with Old Labour is the sort of thing Steve Bell would have done about ten years ago. A very simple idea stretched past breaking point. It can be done in a flash, as a political cartoon does, and have a lot more impact. By now even the image is tired and cliched and spread across two pages it has no impact at all.

I feel awful criticising Adrian Mitchell because I liked him and I admired him for his views. However, I find a lot of political poetry falls flat. Nine times out of ten it’s just rhyming slogan shouting to crowds who already agree with you. That said, I think it’s it’s dome with an original slant and is entertaining then I’m all for it. But then its point becomes to entertain, confirm and delight and not to change the world. Nothing wrong with that, but it would be wrong to think it was making a significant difference.

Or at least half of me thinks that. But then I started to think back to being a teenager and discovering Martin Newell and Atilla The Stockbroker. Martin’s not even a political poet, but his take on life is very much left of centre and often downright contrary. I think he had more of an effect on my politics than anyone or anything else. The very fact that people like Martin and Atilla exist ranting away in their “I Still Hate Thatcher” T-shirts offers an alternative route to young people. I heard a lot of what I know now to be cliche when I was 16 for the first time through poetry and song. It did have a huge effect on me.

I was talking to Robert Worcester from MORI on Saturday Live last month and he said that by the age of 24 most people have their core beliefs. I think that’s true. Things could effect and change me much more when I was younger. Usually though it’s adults reviewing these things and it’s easy to forget that what seems patronising and obvious to us know was revelatory to us when we were younger.

I suppose the emotive language of poetry can help change people’s view of the smaller political questions, but it’s hard to write good poetry about these issues. For example, a poem about 28 days without charge or 42 would be dull and weighted down with techincal details, whereas the general idea of ‘freedom’ is a subject much better suited to poetry.

Similarly a poem written by some suffering at the hands of the new laws would have it’s own powerful take (obviously I’m assuming with all examples that the writing is good). The reason the poetry from the second world war is so powerful is because it’s personal, it’s not a detached offering opinions from a soapbox, it is about personal suffering, which suits a poem a lot more. When the political stuff does come in like in Dulche Est Decorum Est it is all the more spine-tingling. The problem with Bush and Blair bashing in poetry is that it’s been done everywhere for a good few years now. Poetry might have been at one stage in history a good place for straight up political commentary and news but now we have so many other mediums better suited to it. The Internet means we are all far better educated (or at least should be) on political matters.

The remix of Tell Me Lies, for me, is redundant. It feels like a self-satirised homage to the original poem rather than what is going on now. The idea that Western foreign policy hasn’t changed is not one I need to learn from a poem. There is no revelation. We know all this stuff. We have blogs, websites, newspapers, books. The poem needs to reveal something new to be effective and this does not. It kind of feels like Mitchell is just saying I told you so. The name-dropping of Blair/Brown/Cameron feels cheap and spoils the timeless quality of the poem. Just reading the original poem in the current climate would have been enough. It would have the same power and we would make our own connections, “Vietnam” becoming a by word for Western conspiracy and evil.

Delivery

Voice Recognition: 21 New poets (ed. Clare Pollard and James Byrne). I like much of this anthology. Poetry’s a very subjective thing and obviously there are people I like more than others in here. There is a wide selection,but nothing totally shocking or new. Simon A said that before I got the chance to on the telly box. This feels like a continuation of what is already out there. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but the foreword and the item Clare did on Newsnight suggested something new and shocking; a re-writing of the rules which I didn’t get from reading the anthology.

I think it also suffers as a picture of a new generation by the fact that it didn’t publish those with collections already out. Ross Sutherland, Niall O Sullivan, Caroline Bird and Luke Kennard will all be big players of this generation. I also think it’s just half the story. It also only caters for one half of a generation of poets. There are poets on the performance scene that will continue creating serious and long lasting work for the rest of their lives who are not mentioned here: Polarbear, John Osborne, Josh Idehen, Molly Naylor, Laura Dockrill to name a few. They might not be to the tastes of the Bloodaxe usual, but they are nevertheless poets and they have lots of fans. I’m not a huge fan of Pam Ayres but I can’t deny that she is a poet and she has published books and she has many many readers. Voice Recognition claims to be an anthology of the next generation of poets. It is an anthology of the next generation of a certain type of poet. I still very much enjoyed it. Especially Joe Dunthorne, Adam O’Riordan and Amy Blakemore. All for different reasons which I cannae be bothered to go into now, but there is some excellent stuff there.

There was however no one in the Tim Turnbull vein of things (just reading his new collection now, review to follow) which is a shame.

Poetry’s image problem

Feel I got most of what I wanted to say about this over. It’s a pretty boring question for me as I feel like I’ve spent ten years talking about it. My views have changed though. As I said on the program I think poetry should stop trying so hard to make people like it. No one likes desperation. Tellingly the bit all the reviewers liked best in the Griff Rhys Jones monstrosity was when Andrew Motion said that he liked the fact poetry was difficult and didn’t see why we should be apologetic. Well said.

So those are just some  notes, about all I can manage on Sunday morning. I really enjoy the experience and I’ll hopefully be going back to  do a normal Newsnight Review.

Newsnight Review this evening

Posted on | May 29, 2009 | 2 Comments

Greeting blogging faithful. I’ll be on Newsnight Review this evening at 11pm on BBC2. I’m one of the panelists reviewing and discussing a whole range of poetry related books, TV programmes, performances and ideas. The other panelists are Simon Armitage and Josephine Hart, so I’ll have my work cut out for me. I’ll be honest I’m a tad nervous. I never enjoy doing TV. Or rather, I like being asked, but when I get there I can never sit right and I look all pasty and weird. And I stutter. My agents must be so proud.

I do have a lot to say on the subjects we’ll be discussing however. Poetry’s image problem is a subject I’ve talked about plenty of times before; as is the delivery of verse; I’m also have an opinion on poetry and politics, which I believe we’re leading off with tonight. Opinions aren’t the problem though. My stupid fat Jamie-Oliver-esque tongue is. Still, I shall breath deeply and just try my best.

To add to my concerns, we’re expecting our baby on Monday. So we’re dangerously close to B-Day. I wasn’t planning on being away at all at this time, but the Newsnight thing was sprung on me and I didn’t really want to miss out. It’s not often (ever) that someone wants my opinion on the telly box. It probably won’t happen again, so best make the most of it.

Then once the tellying is done I can sit back and enjoy being a father. Well, I think “sit back” might be a bit optimistic.

New Poem: Mr Blank

Posted on | May 28, 2009 | 2 Comments

Here’s another new poem from my new show. I’ve performed it a couple of times now. It’s a true story exaggerated. The guy wasn’t really called Mr Blank, obviously. The real Mr Blank is still out there somewhere I do owe him a lot. He gave me a belief in myself. You get the breaks you deserve. This was right for me at the time.

Mr Blank

I’m gonna make you a star, he said
I’m gonna make you a star.
I’m gonna make you the biggest star in the world …

… of performance poetry.

He couldn’t have been more than five foot two,
a Manc New Yorker with the hint of a lisp,
like a bald Woody Allen on a caffeine rush
he spat his words with a Donald Duck hiss:

I’m gonna make you a star.

It was so clichéd, so Hollywood it hurt
but I was nineteen, green and polite.
Of course he was going to make me a star
I mean, that’s what happens to poets, right?

His poems sounded like Allen Ginsberg
selling used cars down at Salford docks.
His influences were primary colours:
Dylan, the Beats and old fashioned rock.

In his world girls wore Chanel No 5
bigger was better and better was sweet
each lungful a litany of luxury goods
his days were a Brett Easton Ellis pastiche.

He never cut deeper than the headlines,
wide-eyed and obsessed with the glitz
he’d sit downing espressos in Starbucks
having his cake then satirizing it.

I’m gonna make you a star.

His eyes would dance like lottery balls
as he wrapped his tongue round candy floss lies,
from Beverley Hills to Whalley Range
via a thousand sticky-floored dives:

I gave Steve Martin his very first gig;
Did I tell you Max Clifford owes me a beer;
That Budweiser advert where they say ‘wass-up’
I invented that and they stole my idea.

He was always having his ideas nicked:
Pop Tarts, Pogs, Sister Act 2, the “Chicago sound.”
He’s probably at the Starbuck’s counter now
telling them how he’s going to sue Dan Brown.

I’m gonna make you a star.

He took me under his wing and groomed me
to be the host of his new TV show.
We’ll call it Beat 2. Like the sequel to the Beats
Fuck Channel 4 – I want HBO.

Every fortnight I’d train it from Norwich
to do a glum open mic in an airless room
and he’d pick me up at Liverpool street
in his MG and play me Bob Dylan tunes.

And it was convincing. It was so convincing
on Chelsea Bridge with the wind through my hair.
at clicked fingered lunches on Wardour street
he’d read my poems and say that he cared.

He flattered my vanity, I flattered his back -
both of us nursing the sad drip of our hearts
it was a platonic love so vacuous
it made Kylie look like Rene Descartes.

I’m gonna make you a star.

And give him his dues, we filmed a pilot:
a bloke called Nigel on a bicycle
rode round the seven dials as I gabbled
what he convinced me was a viable

impression of what a TV presenter
should sound like. And it was fucking dire.
The intended boon-mic-in-shot edginess
was nothing more than amateur’s hour.

I’m gonna make you a star
I’m gonna make you a star

And I should have realized , shouldn’t I?
That TV tracking shots aren’t done on bikes;
that most people when in The Met Bar
don’t sit there and nurse a single pint.

There were no backers, there was no money -
an empire built on fast talking and luck.
He was just a runner for an agency.
Gonna make me star? Was he fuck.

Then one day, between filming and edit,
he just vanished, packed and left in a beat.
From thousands of words down to just nine -
yo, this is Mr Blank. Here comes the beep.

And as I sat in Nigel’s cutting room
watching my little boy lost routine
I realized it was never about the show,
what he did for me wasn’t captured on screen.

It didn’t matter that he was full of shit,
that he didn’t really know Gerard Depardieu;
it didn’t matter that couldn’t make me a star
what mattered was that he wanted to.

Eventually I got a one line e-mail
saying: Lukey, my boy, I’ve gone away
Nigel’s a bastard, he fucked-up my show
so I’m gonna make a movie in LA.

Stay greasy baby, it’s a long slide down
And for all his silvery what remains
of Mr Blank in my mind is silence
a moment when he let go of the reigns.

It was on one of my open mic trips
he got my hotel, dinner and train ticket
then at ten he declared he was leaving
but I should stay drinking and he’d pay for it.

So we walked to a cash point in drizzle
the fizz of Soho, the beer on my brain -
wait there he said going into the booth -
the strip light picked out his scalp flecked with rain.

And it’s frozen, the strange look on his face
as it asked him to put a number in
as if suddenly aware of how much
his public image was costing him.

Luke Wright for Chair!

Posted on | May 27, 2009 | No Comments

There’s nothing left for it. Someone’s got to sort this mess out. Here’s my catchy slogan:

No harassment claims!
No smear campaigns!
No previous experience!

I already have some ringing endorsements.

“I will RESIGN from Britain if it doesn’t happen.” - Johann Hari, columnist and author

“You have my full support, Luke, but only if you promise to make a mockery of the whole process. No, sorry. They’ve already managed that. Luke Wright for Pope.” Tim Turnbull, Forward Prize Nominee

“You’re not Martin Bell and you’re not having a new white suit.” My wife

Join my Facebook group. I want to get at least 297, which is the number of people who voted for Ruth in the election. So come and join me. Last night I had about 4 times as many people in my group than Arvind Mehrotra had in his. Tee-hee.

I went on More4 News to talk about the whole silly mess and gave them this poem:

Schmoxford Schmair of Schmoetry

So, poetry’s silly season commences;
fine sensibilities, yet out of their senses.
Professors wielding unwieldy defenses,
seemingly frightened of splinters from fences.
The media’s desperate for me to condense it,
I’ll admit that at first I was quite apprehensive -
peel poetry’s paint and find many offenses -
so here’s hoping the papers don’t print our expenses.

All was going fine but before reading the poem I tried my hand at false modesty. When I’m a bit embarrassed by the trashiness of one of my verses I say something like: “I’m going to lower the tone a bit,” or “I’m going to dumb everything down now.” Yesterday this came out as “I’ll just dumb it down for you.” Which basically sound like I was saying: “you plebs, would n’t understand this poem, so I shall translate.” That’s not what I meant. That’ll teach me to be all self-depreciating. Hopefully the video won’t appear on line.

I rang my mum afterwards to see how badly it came across.

“Um, I knew what you were trying to say, darling.”

“Was it really bad?”

“No, you get a little bit better everytime and one day you’ll be, y’know really quite good.”

Good ol’ mum. No yes men around me. Maybe we can change that. Calling all sycophants. Let’s take the chair!

Schmoxford Schmair of Schmoetry

Posted on | May 26, 2009 | 2 Comments

Bloody hell, what a mess.

Do you remember that episode of The Simpsons, it’s a flashback to Marge and Homer’s prom. Marge goes with Arty Ziff who tries it on too much for Marge. At the end of their date he says:

“Marge, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about my busy hands. Not so much for me, but I am so well respected, that it would damage the town to hear it. Good night!”

I think of that every time I see Derek Walcott.

I think it’s a shame that Ruth Padel has quit. This would have blown over before too long. If what she says is true; that she only passed on the info to two journalists and has nothing to do with the anonymous photocopied pages of the The Lecherous Professor (mm, subtle title I wonder what it’s about) then I think she should have made an apology about not flagging up her e-mail sooner and we could have all moved on.

But it doesn’t ‘look’ good and that is what politics is all about. If she had genuinely been worried about student welfare she should have made a point in public about Walcott’s ‘busy hands,’ or alleged ‘busy hands.’ Surely no one would have had a problem with that, if the blokes a lechy old perv then let people know. The whole covert ops thing makes it all look so dodgy. And trusting a journalist? Come on Ruth, what were you thinking? Also, if the info is in the public domain then it doesn’t say a lot for the quality of our journos that Ruth Padel needed to point it out to them. She said she thought these particular journalists were covering the story ‘responsibly.’ Surely the first responsible ting would have been to do your own research. Jeez.

Not a lot’s been said about this alleged sexual harassment claim. If a book’s been written about it, it’s probably true, right? If not then wouldn’t Derek have slapped a writ on its ass? Or at least there’s probably some truth in it? If it was all lies then surely they couldn’t have got away with a book about it. I like some more on the book please noble journalists.

The whole thing’s a mess, that’s for sure. I agree with Jeanette Winterson, Oxford is a sexist little dump. There were those with knives out for the first female Professor of Poetry, all they needed was an excuse and she gave them the perfect one. Perhaps Jackie Kay is right, perhaps it wouldn’t have happened to man. It’s sad that as a woman she had to be all the more careful.

There’s no doubting Ruth Padel didn’t play her hand well though. She must have taken spin lessons from Charlie Whelan, as the only person recently to play his political hand so poorly in recent years is dear ol’ Gord (or perhaps Michael Martin). She should have been more like the last one (well, not too much like him.) Do you think Blair would have resigned over this piffle? Of course not, he’d have made it a virtue.

“Look I’m a pretty straight guy, and let me make this absolutely clear if I’d not told those journalists about this incident Walcott could have fired a lecherous grope at an Oxford student in under 45 minutes. I had a moral duty. Now, who wants to talk about Darwin?”

I don’t suppose anyone wants to hear about Darwin today at Hay. Poor old Ruth, I don’t envy her that gig.

On the plus side the new Manics album is good. Though as a classics professor I doubt she listens to songs called She Bathed Herself in a Bath of Bleach.

New Poem: Mondeo Man

Posted on | May 25, 2009 | 3 Comments

I’ve been writing this week. I’ve got a new poem for you all. I haven’t been posting new stuff up here as much for two reasons:

1) Twice now people have stolen my poems and passed them off as their own
2) I post up early drafts and they get passed around unfinished.

Still, to hell with it. This is getting there and I like it.

And I got a review for an early preview of The Petty Concerns, it was very nice.

Mondeo Man

Last week I walked through Maidenhead suburbs,
the houses huddled together in twos
like anoraked couples perched on a bench
on some Autumn day at the end of a pier.

Past kids playing scrappy 20 a side;
lads leaned on Bangra-blaring Golf GTIs;
Toyota Corollas with rear-view signs
on suckers: Dad’s Taxi, Baby on Board

and If you can read this I’ve lost my trailer.
Good old boys checking their type pressure,
mums with their offspring in car seats like shopping,
recycling bins, well kept front gardens

neat as parade grounds, quiet as Valium
and a blue door that made me think of a Lido
I saw once before we were together,
before the life we made swelled in your belly -

cut into the rock, jutting out to sea.
That for a week I went to at sunset
to gobble my chips and imagine it crammed
full of tan lined, knobbly British bodies

and wonder why my new romantic life
at mic stands felt perpetually out of season.
Yet last week in Maidenhead (of all places)
I felt strangely at ease with normality;

there was a time I’d walk through here scolding
tutting, talking in quotes and references;
too clever for nice weather and caravans;
too clever, too smart to be taken in.

Who’d want 2.4 children I’d say
in visor and asymmetrical fringe.
Or what dickehead works nine to five
whilst eating spaghetti hoops straight from the tin.

Disgusted at people who had settled,
shaking my dust till my fingers bleed.
Shaking my dust till it got up my nose
and I’d cough and sneeze for weeks on end

Maybe it’s because I drive a Mondeo
and have started wearing trousers that fit
that I’ve realised that we do not die
with our affectations, if anything we live.

Life is not about being repeatedly hit
in the face or being applauded
or getting a laugh it’s not about never staying
in the same place or being rewarded.

You can’t just be what other people aren’t.
You can’t plot your life like a misery memoir
or wait to hang smiles on the whims of strangers
or put out to tender your dictionary entry.

Luke Wright. Proper Noun. Performance poetry
Wunderkind, genius, destined for greatness.
Luke Wright. Proper Twat. Moonish-faced wordsmith
Self-assured cockend. Ruins William Blake seminars.

Ambition used to hunt me like a zombie
til I’d throw it bits of my poems like flesh;
I’d stare at my inbox hitting refresh;
I’d get places early and just catch my breath.

But now, I think of those ruddy-cheeked weavers
in lopsided seventeenth century towns
who when they’d earned enough money that week
declared a Saint’s Day and went down the pub.

Centuries from the boy on his blackberry
at broadcasting house writing poems to go;
crying and wanking on fringe theatre stages;
twanging his id like a diddely-bo.

Motorways from a boy in a visor
trying to make it all mean something more;
wistfully staring at an swimming pool:
the lido is a metaphor for for for …

But last week I walked through Maidenhead suburbs
And though I knew I wouldn’t find an ending
I realised that I’ve learnt something new:
that sometimes it’s ok just to blend in.

Saturday Live

Posted on | May 23, 2009 | 2 Comments

I had a nice time with Fi and co on Saturday live today. Here are my poems, the first is fairly self-explanatory and the second was in response to a couple who keep the garden of an abbey in Wiltshire, and they do so naked. I’m glad I managed to finally get the word ‘nud’ into a poem.

Practice Being Spontaneous #6

Posted on | May 18, 2009 | 1 Comment

It’s all change on the podcast this week. Joel’s away on his honeymoon so I drafted in Molly Naylor for this week’s podcast. We had fun. We discussed pomegranate, what Joel would say and the block that lives on my estate that we call Cracky. The new music is temporary, Joel didn’t leave me any jingles.

Frome

Posted on | May 17, 2009 | No Comments

Here’s a tip: if you’re lonely on a Friday afternoon why not jump into your car and head down to junction 15 on the M25. You’ll feel like you’ll never be alone again.

And I knew this. I know that Friday afternoon’s a shit time to be heading west. For Christ’s sake, I’ve spent the last two years writing about motorways. I know the M4 is hell on a Friday but I had no choice - I had to go to work on Friday morning. That live literature won’t coordinate itself (believe me, it won’t). So Molly (my excellent warm-up act on Friday) and I were left with picking our way through weekender traffic at Reading and Maidenhead.

We arrived with 45 mins before curtain up. Well, I say curtain up. There wasn’t a curtain. It’s not panto. But whilst we were a bit flustered and had wobbly car legs it wasn’t so bad. There was no hanging around getting nervous, just time to iron my shirt and drink half a bottle of beer.

I love Frome. The people there are intelligent and charming (or the one’s that come to my gigs are, I’ve met others in the kebab shop later who are less so). They know their poetry (one woman told Molly she reminded her of Auden) and they like buying CDs (hurrah, steak tonight!). I had a lovely time on stage. Of all my gigs, Frome is the one where I most get a regular crowd so I mixed it up a bit because I realised that last year I was running in Laura Brown and A Poet’s Work at that stage of the tour, so I wanted them to get plenty of new stuff. Luke’s Got A Joke continues to go down well, so I’m hopeful for Edinburgh.

Molly and I were put up by a family whose daughter works at The Merlin. In situations like that it’s such a lottery: whilst one expects a comfortable bed and a cup of tea in the morning (that’s fair enough) one doesn’t always bank on getting such excellent conversation. But Sue and Richard and their son Jamie were great fun. We went to a pub that made all its own ales and drank the brown beer and ranted about politics, alternative comedy and Jenson Button all night. Well, only I talked about Jenson Button (we were after all in his home town), but it was all very jolly never the less. And to top it all off we got a stunning cooked breakfast in the morning.

Mol and I headed back to Norwich in a much speedier fashion than we left it and we all went over to Yanny Mac’s for the Eurovision Song Contest. It was his daughter’s (belated) birthday party so I got to eat Monster Munch until I felt sick. As predicted my threshold for ’so bad it’s good’ fun was lower than the others’ but it all good fun.

Today is the usual round of croissants, papers, blogs and housework. Molly has kindly agreed to sit in for the honeymooning Joel Stickey on the podcast, so I’ll off to record that sometime this afternoon.

York

Posted on | May 15, 2009 | 3 Comments

Yo blogging faithful - je suis back. I’ve been a bit lazy this week. Well, I say ‘lazy’ I mean .. . well, actually, it is just laziness. I’ve been on a high. It was Joel’s wedding on Saturday and it’s left me all floaty and lovely and happy about life. I’ve got a baby coming in two weeks (quicker than the shirts I’ve just ordered actually) and life is good.

It could have all gone tits up yesterday though. I went to York for a tour gig of A Poet’s Work Is Never Done. It felt good to be going back to York. I was last there for a 10 minute comedy gig in 2003 at Dan Atkinson’s club The Other Side. I hold in a certain misty eyed esteem because it was a hot summer and we’ve all gone onto better things now. Dan is a successful Avalon-signed funny man, and Joel and I have written a book. Which, if you’d seen us drinking wine and sleeping on Dan’s student flat’s floor that night you’d have not rated us capable of.

York is also the scene (kind of) of my failed career as a stand-up comic. A year later I was booked to do a gig at The Yorvik Viking Centre. Great, I hear you say. One snag, I had to write 10 minutes of comedy about vikings. I bottled it and pulled out on the day. I never did another comedy gig . Again, if you had known me then you’d not have tipped me for a career in this game.

I had happy memories and perhaps something to prove. But all this was forgotten when then I arrived in York with a touch of the Delhi-belly. Now, this would have been fine - I’ve learned all about the omnipresent danger of the ’shart’ from my mate Tim, you ain’t going to find me tooting away happy as Larry when in a foreign city (it was, after all, the North), since I read about Tim’s platform troubles each of my parps have been  squeezed out with the precision of German pocket-watch maker - but York is one of the irritating cities has seems to have nothing but pay and display car parks, and I had no money on me. I’d spent it on Macdonalds. Which kind of explains the belly situation.

I drove around for about 20 mins until I found a ticketed carpark. By this time things were getting a bit tricky and I was forced to power-waddle to the nearest pub lest I set off my fickle bowels. Finally I found a Wetherspoons - God bless that sticky floored anonymity - and made my way to the gents. But alas, the solitary cubicle was taken, the sound of a wet arse french-kissing the porcelain emanating.

Now, I’m all for pissed Glaswegians - they keep places like the Wetherspoons ticking in over in troubled times, and Rab C Nesbit has helped me while away the cold November evenings on more than one occassion - but when you’re standing in a pub toilet clenching your cheeks in full knowledge that don’t have a change of clothes on you and this could yet all end horribly I was in the mood for chatting to one.

“Ye need a shite.”

No, I come here for the conversation.

“Ahh, it’s alright, we all need to shite.”

I smile meekly, he had brought his pint to the toilet with him. He goes over to the urinal, pint held aloft his head, he pisses with no hands. As he turns a quarter angle to carry on speaking, his piss christens the back wall, cock wagging like the clipped tail of brain-damaged puppy.

“I shite.”

You surprise me. I had you down as the type to rather excrete a fine rose-scented sweat. He finished pissing and began stretching his cock as if it were a balloon he were about to blow up. He stumbled back over to me, still unzipped and said something completely incomprehensible. I’d been expecting this, it was astonishing that I’d understood him thus far, he was after all a pissed Glaswegian.

Everyone has encountered drunks before (hell, some of us have even been the drunks) and we all have our least favourite part of the encounter. For some it is thought of having a pint spilled all over them, for others it is the impending threat of violence. I have to admit, that comes a close second, but I think mine is definitely the bit when they say something that you can’t make out then begin laughing uncontrollably at it. They then nudge you, repeat the noise they’ve just made and laugh uncontrollably again. That’s my least favourite bit. That then happened.

Thankfully, by the third or fourth nudge, the cubicle door then opened and I darted inside to a cry of:

“Have a good shite!”

He stayed a around for a little bit repeating phrases with the word ’shite’ in them, but I didn’t care I was in heaven, wet-floored heaven.

I made my way to the gig after that. There was some confusion over the start time and despite the scheduled start being 7.45 at that time I was one of only two people in the venue. It was turning out to be more of a Vikings experience and less of a Dan Atkinson one. However, by 8pm we had a small, but decent enough crowd. I was supported by Joe Hakim and Mike Watts from Hull, who are lovely fellows and get a splendid job of getting the crowd warmed-up.

Usually on tour I have an older crowd by everyone seemed in their 20s or 30s last night and so a lot of the ‘funny’ stuff went down well. Cool Mum and Sex Butler got the desired response and I enjoyed the set as much as any other on tour, possibly even more. I think what I’ve learned from this tour is that this show does hinge on how Cool Mum goes down. It the crowd get it and have fun with it then the show’s a good un, if they’re a bit more reticent then it loses a bit of momentum.

So, all in all a good night. The drive back to Norwich wasn’t even so bad, I listened to Blur and Radiohead and The Libertines and drunk Relentless and ate crisps and drank more Relentless and sung along to all the words of The Great Escape and imagined that I’d written all those songs and I was playing them for a small select crowd of friends. Small dreams, but they pass the time. I’m tired today, but happy. And I didn’t shit myself. Hurrah!

Joel Stickley & Luke Wright Practice Being Spontaneous #5

Posted on | May 11, 2009 | No Comments

Hey kids, here’s the latest installment of the podcast. Joel and I talk about Scatman John, Jackie Smith and various others things. We’re a bit distracted perhaps, it was recored the day before Joel’s wedding (which was fantastic btw). Don’t loose faith in us if you think this one’s not up to scratch, we realise that. It gets better

Wow, I’ve really sold it to you.

Touring

Posted on | May 7, 2009 | No Comments

I’m writing this on a train heading from Yorkshire to the West Country. I’m sitting opposite a toff in a vest. I resent a man in a vest in May. There’s no need to have that much skin of display in public, especially on a train where we’re all squashed in together. He’s also decided to extend his legs and sandaled trainers right across to the foot of seat. As if not already aware of his great sweating masculinity he’s effectively inviting me to place my puny pins between his tree-like thighs. I’m such a man I can’t possibly sit with my legs together, I mean where would my massive cock go then?

I hope later today he walks in front of an HGV.

I’m four dates into my tour, exactly half way through the first leg. It’s been going pretty well thus far. My favourite was definitely Cambridge Word Fest the weekend before last. But the others have been good fun too. Brighton started a bit weirdly but got better; Colchester started brilliantly, went a bit weird, then finished well; Leeds, like Brighton got better as we went on.

A Poet’s Work Is Never Done has nothing resembling a script, just some poems and some stories. There is an order, but it can be chopped and changed for gigs that require a shorter show (like Leeds last night). Effectively it’s a set, not a show. This is pretty big thing for me. Two/three years ago I remember having a conversation with Graham Frost about one man shows. He acknowledged my theme for Poet Laureate and said it worked well. He likened it John Cooper Clarke’s hour shows. This felt alien to me, to me John’s stuff was presented in a  ‘set’ not a show. I said that I thought Johnny didn’t have a theme and Graham said: “yes, he does, the theme is him.” This really stayed with me.

Artistically for the last couple of years my goal has been to create a show that had all the warmth and accessibility of a set but could last an hour and feel like an experience. Essentially to engage and hold an audience for an hour or so without hanging off an overall concept.

I think I’ve achieved that with this show. It hasn’t be reviewed by any major publications, but I did get another review from Threeweeks for the Brighton show which was very favourable – four stars. That’s four reviews, 2 at five, 2 at four. That’ll do me.

I’m in Taunton tonight. My third time here in as many years. I like this place, the shows always feel good and the venue is a lovely old rep theatre. I generally sell about 60 tickets for my shows here, hopefully we can improve on that today. It’s a big place, but amazingly warm even with my usual sixty.

I’ve spent the last couple of days writing a best man speech for Joel Stickley’s wedding. It’s this weekend. I’m really excited. I’ve been planning my speech for while now but haven’t actually tried to commit it to paper until now. I’m guess I’m pleased with it. It wasn’t an easy task. Joel wrote such a brilliant speech for me three years ago. He is, as ever, a tough act to follow. I’ve also just written a poem for them. This I’m definitely pleased with. It’s going to be a special day.

I’ll be in Taunton by half two. The Today programme has just called to see if I can go on the show tomorrow to talk with Ruth Padel about the way people read their poems. The Beeb can’t keep away at the moment. They’re going to let me know if it’s happening some time this afternoon. If it is they might have to send a radio car to me for the interview. How exciting.

So with the best man duties done for now I must get down to some show writing this afternoon. I have two poems that need writing. I wanted to have them done by the next preview on 11th but I think this might be optimistic with a showcase to produce on Friday night and a wedding to best man at on Saturday. Busy days. Happy days.

Practice Being Spontaneous #4

Posted on | May 5, 2009 | No Comments

Stickers and I return with more mumblings and musings. It’s the fourth one down.

This week we tackle poets laureate, the supposed carbon footprint of Google searches and the career of Sandra Bullock.

Luke: I like “When you were sleeping” with Sandra Bullock
Joel: I liked it when you were sleeping with Sandra Bullock, all that Hollywood gossip you were party to.

keep looking »

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