Saturday Live

I was the resident poet on Saturday Live yesterday. I do this every 6 weeks or so. It’s a really nice gig. We have to write one poem of about a minute about something on the show and another tiny one about anything current to go at the top of the program. I traditionally write mine the night before, but I’ll tweak during the show. I really enjoy the challenge. It used to be something that daunted me but now I look forward to it. I wrote yesterday’s poems from my tube train office in Shoreditch with my good pal Joe Dunthorne there for company.

The recording of the show, as the name suggests, is done live. Yesterday we had one studio guest – model turned historical novelist Sara Stockbridge. The guest presenter was The Reverend Richard Coles, who I think is wicked. It’s always a nice studio experience, relaxed and chatty, and the people I get to meet are amazing. In the last year I’ve met an 80s pop icon (well, two if you count Richard’s time in The Communards ) a noble prize winning scientist, a muse to Vivian Westwood, the curator of the Royal palaces and a former BBC news anchor woman (not just ‘a’, ‘the’ it was Anna Ford). It’s a cushy job for a slap-dash bard such as myself.

Here are my poems:

The Lost Child
For Julie Myerson

My baby’s addicted to rusks
He eats them from dawn until dusk
His thousand yard stare
Is driving me spare
But the Costa Prize is surely a must

My Career in Fashion

I was the face that launched a thousand zips
All skin and bone apart from my lips
but mostly I looked like I’d slept in a skip
My career in fashion

my complexion looked like bubble and squeak
my clothes weren’t just vintage they were antique
I passed off my look as wife beater chic
My career in fashion

I pitched up at parties five hours late
a chip on my shoulder and more on my plate
when models said “darling” I replied “mate”
My career in fashion

I’d turn up back stage, get ignored by the band
feeling less vintage and more second hand
wouldn’t quit my bed for less than ten grand
but I rarely got out of bed

The dam paparazzi foresaw my end
you know your career is over when
you’re on a scooter and you’re chasing them
My career in fashion

But the paps had a point, I agreed with them
i quit all camera’s  tedium
with a face like this – radio’s my medium
My career in fashion

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