This is a poem from my show, ‘Bouncer’. During this part of the show, the contestants who’ll be taking part in the TV talent show are walking into the holding area.
And here they are, the hopeful,
Sequinned dreams and face paint schemes
And a yearning for whatever might
Lift them up from the 9 to 5 drudgery.
In their eyes, the excitement, for this is
Their day of literal reckoning,
Fame and fortune are beckoning,
A tinsel moment in a life of grey,
A chance to shine and dream no more.
If only they knew that it was just a game,
These tortured fools with hopes of fame,
Plastic sheen obscuring the humanity beneath,
Nervous faked smiles and white white teeth.
But you can sense it,
The hunger.
And who exactly have we got here?
A clairvoyant, who has no idea what’s coming.
A performance embroiderer, who’s got it all sewn up.
A man who looks uncannily like the late Cliff Mitchelmore.
How is that even a talent?
I could do that!
If I looked like the late Cliff Mitchelmore.
A woman who jumps down holes in the floor.
It’s just a stage she’s going through.
A man who sold himself
To become an opera singer.
He was a tenner.
A woman who eats office supplies.
It’s a staple diet.
Mind you her career was going nowhere.
It was stationery.
A ventriloquist who was always drunk.
I couldn’t tell if it was him or the beer talking.
A gymnast
Who was head over heels just to be there.
All hope to navigate this showbiz labyrinth
Around whose spiky corners, the fickle nature of
Public opinion
Waits to jump out with either a hug
Or the jab of complete indifference,
Instagram memes and hashtags of cruelty,
Or else, even worse,
The means to make them
Be forgotten entirely.
Robert Garnham 