IDS - in only one vowel

A univocalism in “i” for Iain Duncan Smith

This is IDS.
This swinish thin grin spilling cringing scripts,
this priggish birch whip,
this piss-dripping fright-witch
with whitish skin wig,
this jiggling tit hitting skint Brits in mining districts,
this grim Christ victimising sick spirits with dwindling titbits.

This is IDS
mimicking kings
ripping ribs in glitz grills
licking his lips thinking this is bliss
piling it high, sipping his gin fizz
whilst Brits flinch in windchill
sticking pins in him.

This is IDS
inciting right-wing print kingpins,
hissing pish, stirring fright
inking lists: girls with six kids,
twisting victims till victims stink
till victims swim in ill will
till British dimwits drift right.

This is IDS.
I wish him limp dicks.
I wish him midnight shifts.
I wish him ISIS.
I wish him sinking ships.
I wish him blind with hindsight.
I wish him shit picnics in drizzling mist.
I wish him illicit kinship with pigs.

Ron's Knockoff Shop

Ron’s Knockoff Shop

Cool London sloths go North to Bolton.
Oz – proto fop on lots of pot.
Hol – posh kook; long socks, blond flop.

Bolton’s not so droll.
Bolton’s not got Rococo blocks.
Bolton’s not got dons or profs
Bolton’s got no dotcom showrooms
no comforts for London cohorts.

No, Bolton’s got lots of old workshops
lots of soot
lots of fowl old folk
(orthodox lowbrows
who mop floors or drown sorrows)
Oh, poor old Bolton. Soz.


Lo! Bolton’s got Ron Ock –
odd-job bod, compost gob.
Ron’s shop flogs knock-off dross:
low cost LOCOG togs,
non-cotton “Cotton Socks,”
row on row of dolls for tots,
old promo photos of Bjorn Borg,
poo-brown ponchos,
goth porn, crossbows, off food,
docks for “oPods.”

Ron’s old now,
Ron’s got no boss.
Ron’s got know-how.
Ron knows how to hold forth,
knows how to shop for top knockoff tosh,
knows how to coff-off no good cops.

Front of shop:
Ron plonks bottom down on worn old stool
scoffs pork roll,
downs shots of scotch,
croons old Motown songs,
blows soot, blows snot, blows bottom off.
Ron’s dog, Bozo, growls soft growls,
both bollocks lollop.

London toffs stroll from block to block.
Oz spots Ron’s old shop.

“Oh cooool shop!” Oz hoots. “Hol look!”
Hol looks: “Oh wow!”
Hol drools on Ron’s hotchpotch lot of knock-off rot.
“Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh Oz!
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!”

London sloths blow lots of dosh
on Ron Ock’s cosh of knockoff tosh.
Oh Ron Ock!

“Good, good” Ron scoffs, “now sod-off.”
“Sod-off. Oh, so … NORTH!” Ho ho ho.
Sloths opt not to sod off.
Sloths opt to stroll off, so so slow.

Ron LOLs
rolls sloth’s dosh.
“London morons.”
Locks shop for long month off.
Roll on tomorrow.


Lora Stimson and I have made another song. This one is called Battle. It’s a song for when the drinking has stopped.


The cash machines are out of service
bled of notes for beer and chips
the dirty city doorsteps strewn
with chicken wings and pizza crusts.

There has been a battle here.
The soldiers long since carted off
in taxis cabs, drape-dragged by mates
half-howling songs of grotty love
in terraced backstreets, buttons popped,
all bloody-gobbed victorious.

And now they roam the airy mall
showered, shaved and purposeful.
They’re zipped up neat to mask the dogs
that nip and growl inside their skulls.

A poster in a cute font asks:
Can you do a drink-free month?
And most could if they wanted to,
live without the white light nights
get by without oblivion
but what then, huh? Just more of this?

More fist-balled strolls around the shops
or boxsets on the half-bought couch?
Do more, they say, enrich your life.
But drink, you see, is not like life.
It’s life stopped dead, a slurred pause.
Do more? No, thank-you, I want less.

Poem for a benefit gig in aid of the refugee crisis

Poem for a benefit gig in aid of the refugee crisis


So, maybe, we’re just Warhol’s worn out kids:
we’re numb, been rubbed so hard the doctor’s pricks
elicit nothing save the tiniest of blinks:
our petty dramas clog our kitchen sinks

and everything beyond that’s sales or myths.
But if that’s true, then what’d you make of this:
last night in First Class as the drunk train crept
through well-kept towns a woman wept

at some clever old Booker winner’s words?
We in the West don’t feel – no, that’s absurd.
And so perhaps, it’s more the opposite:
we feel too subtly. Our instruments

of empathy are tuned to recognise
the pregnant glance, that sad truth in the eyes,
prosaic horrors hung from half-heard lines.
Our hearts are only stirred by the sublime.

And so when we see war our pathos fails
it’s like a ton of shale dumped on our scales.
Our needles freewheel at those photographs.
It all too much, it’s crass, sometimes we laugh.

What privilege that is, to only feel
those tragedies so fine they’re scarcely real.


But let’s not think ourselves too rarified
from hours of news the image that’s survived
in our fine minds is little Aylan Kurdi.
Pretty raw. Not intricate, not wordy.

The old dead child trick, but consider this:
the image mainly featured in the press
which smacked us as it flashed across our palms
was of that boy held lifeless in the arms

of an aid worker. Strikes a different tone
to Aylan face-down on the sand alone.
Come on, it tell us, help us with the plan.
Give generously and you could be that man.

And so the worthy-famous Twitter on:
So hard! Cos I imagine that’s my son.
They issue statements like they’re presidents
and blithely retweet charity events.

Well, maybe we’re just massive egotists
we’ll give ourselves but not our self to this.
Is this piece of theatre interactive?
Will I have a say in how it’s acted?

And as the refugee crisis gets worse
at last my pithy take on things – in verse.


But still, damned if you do, damned if you don’t
we save our spleen for those who can but won’t.
The ones who cling to comfortable lies
screeched at them from the newspapers they buy.

Another crime to chalk up to The Mail.
A sneer for those stood clutching Starbuck’s lattes
the ones who turn up late to pity parties.

But so what if it’s part performative
or only stirred by picturing our kids
in that man’s arms in place of little Aylan?
So what if all this feels like shoddy fiction?

Kind acts are still kind acts, despite the fuss.
This world makes fucking hypocrites of us.
So be it. Rather be a hypocrite
than be that guy who NEVER gives a shit.

But when the benefits and clothes drops stop
perhaps we might consider how we shop
or what we read. And when we stand to vote
perhaps our minds will see a capsized boat

or stir up nights of solidarity,
remember who it is we wish to be.

* This is a quote from a Sun column by controversialist and professional twat Katie Hopkins.

Have a Gong! on the Beeb

Award Winner!

I’ve gone and won a bloody award. In fact, I have won TWO!

What I Learned From Johnny Bevan has won a FRINGE FIRST and I also won The Stage Award for Acting Excellence – one of of only five they gave out to single actors at The Fringe. I’m cock-a-hoop.

Of course awards are all bollocks and there’s a good deal of luck involved. There are countless excellent things up here that deserve awards and don’t get them. I acknowledge my good fortune. Hopefully this will mean the show gets more bookings for the tour. What it comes down to is as many people as possible seeing the show and making a connection with it. That’s why we make art.

I also had a nice review from The Daily Record yesterday. That’s mainstream baby!


What I Learned From Johnny Bevan Press

What I Learned From Johnny Bevan is probably my best reviewed Fringe show ever.

★★★★★ Exeunt Magazine – “It says so much about idealism and youth and maturity and compromise – and love”

★★★★★ The Skinny – “Performed in verse that bounds and soars effortlessly … compelling and relatable”

★★★★★ Broadway Baby – “writing that not only captures you in the theatre but also stays with you for days afterwards.”

★★★★ Guardian – “A pulsating piece of poetic storytelling”

★★★★ Scotsman – “Blistering… a story of our times”

★★★★ Time Out – “An evocative monologue about personal and political awakening”

★★★★ The Stage – “a coming-of-age story exploring male relationships and the nature of disillusionment in people and politics”

★★★★ Fest – “On The Road for the Brit Pop generation”

★★★★ The List – “full of humour, sadness and political fury”

★★★★ A Younger Theatre – “beautifully plotted and completely engaging, reminding us that politics affects everything”

★★★★ TV Bomb – “a fantastic debut”

★★★★ To Do List – “feel at times like he is talking just to you and no-one else”

★★★★★ Edinburgh49 – “a simple story that is powerfully written and mesmerizingly performed”

A Poetry Battle

I first saw Ross Sutherland and Roddy Lumsden attempt this at Homework. The poets bring all their stuff on stage with them, armed with as many collections as they have. The first poet choses a poem, performs/reads it and the other poet has to respond to that in some way. Yes, you get a bit of shoe-horning (“He mentioned a cat in passing, now my cat opus in ottava rima”) but the result is a lovely, meandering trip through interesting and off-beat pieces the poets don’t usually read. I did with Phil Jupitus in Laugharne last year and loved the experience.

So we’re bringing the POETRY BATTLE to Edinburgh. Actually it’s more of a Royal Rumble. Elvis McGonagall, Rob Auton, John Osborne, Jemima Foxtrot, Johnny Fluffypunk and me will battle it out tonight (Monday 17 August.) There are no winners, unless its THE AUDIENCE!

And what’s more it’s in the gorgeous confines of Paines Plough’s Roundabout – the world’s first portable theatre. You’ll find that at Summerhall. We’re on at 10.30pm. Tickets are a mere fiver. GET YOURS HERE.

Edinburgh Report #7

As Week One draws to a close I thought I’d recap the responses my shows have been getting.


What I Learned From Johnny Bevan is a fantastic debut from a rare poetic talent. At times it feels like a film put to verse. It is a strong and personal story told by an original and absorbing performer.” ★★★★ TV BOMB

On the Road for the Britpop generation … electric.” ★★★★ FEST

“Anyone familiar with Wright’s work will recognise his deft hand in showing the complexities of male relationships …  a political and personal coming-of-age narrative that, while rarely breaking out of a set rhythm and rhyme scheme, still manages to evoke the chaotic passion of awakening.” ★★★★ TIMEOUT

“This is a completely engaging performance which is delivered with an energy both raw and crisp. Wright really commands the space … The tension and experience created by this one man is admirable.” ★★★★ 1/2 TODOLIST

“Sometimes funny and sometimes heartbreaking, What I Learned From Johnny Bevan is beautifully plotted and completely engaging, reminding us that politics affects everything.” ★★★★ A YOUNGER THEATRE



“Luke is an amazing performer and an excellent writer… The poems are never short of laughs and paint a portrait of a middle class rural England.” ★★★★ TV BOMB

“In actual fact, Wright could just as easily be a stand-up comedian. His preamble before poems is as good as the verse itself; his quick quips, amusing anecdotes and witty gags allow him to quickly build a very strong rapport with us, his chattiness and laid-back confidence making him extremely likeable.” ★★★★ BROADWAY BABY

“Luke Wright delivers up thought-provoking social commentary and rivetingly emotive wordplay, as he uses the minutiae of his life as a stay-at-home dad to put some stereotypes through the wringer. Powerful and poignant, with Wright an engaging presence.” ★★★★ THE DAILY MAIL

“The man and his poetry made me laugh and cry, a difficult balance to achieve and which perhaps come from Wright’s observations of our austere and interesting times.” ★★★★ THE MUMBLE

I also had my first opinion piece published in the Independent. And not just on the site, but in the actual paper too. Hurrah for me!

Edinburgh Report #6

We are a full week in! The Edinburgh Fringe runs for three and bit weeks. There’s what they call Week Zero, which is the first few previews and the first weekend. Then Week One, which started on Monday. We’re half way through that now. 

Week Zero is knuckle down time. The drinking is fairly controlled as shows are run in. Performers sensibly call it a night around midnight. They want to be fresh. Like in a new relationship, they want to give their shows the next day the best of themselves. Besides what can a festival bar offer them that their new shiny piece of art can’t?

Yesterday I performed Stay-at-Home Dandy for the seventh time in seven days. I felt tired. It didn’t help that yesterday was what Fringe insiders call Black Wednesday.  Black Wednesday is a fairly new concept. It began when the Fringe moved its two-for-one days from Sunday and Monday to Monday and Tuesday. Now, the Wednesday is first full price weekday of the Fringe. Sales inevitably slump. 

Stay-at-Home Dandy has been doing ok sales wise, building slowly, but yesterday I played to ten people. Ten. Yeah, I know. And look, it was fine. They liked it, I did a good job, everyone left smiling, but it was hard work. When you’re making jokes on stage your timing is reliant on laughter from the audience. The laughter from ten people is enviably quieter and shorter that that of forty. Your timing gets thrown off. The show is like a car that’s lost its power steering. Afterwards, you ache. 

In week zero you’re prepared for all that. Your natural ebullience carries you through. Midway through Week One it knocks you a bit. And after all that I said yesterday about the shows bouying me up!

But hey that’s the Fringe for you! It’s so up and down. Each day feels so long that to violently alter your view on the world and your place in it from day to day seems natural. After all, it feels a life time ago you felt so good about things. 

And then, this weekend, the drinking truly starts. All those spices and herbs you bought for cooking with at home sit forlornly on the side as you consume massive pizzas at 3am and wolf down chocolate for breakfast. The shine of your new show dulls slightly. The romance begins to die. You fart in front of it and piss with the door open. Will you and it stand the test of time? To quote Larkin, “we shall find out.”

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