Whatever happened to all the hipsters? Remember them? So I wrote the original Spout show in 2018 when there were hipsters everywhere, and this poem was inspired by a visit to a hipster tea shoppe in Hackney. I remember that it was next to a canal. I felt very out of place.
When I came to put together the 2026 version of Spout, I realised that it didn’t fit in any more.
But I always thought it was stupidly quirky, so here’s a rough cut of it, with backing music, which I hope you enjoy!
Oh, when the goose is amorous, Willing to express his tender romantic inclinations To Mrs Goose And love is quite the possibility, Goose poetry forms in his mind, And words take on extra meaning To which he gives voice, To goose sonnets and goose odes To explain his heartfelt love. He takes a deep breath And strikes her gentle shoulder And says HONK
A storm of words cascades through his brain! He eulogises the sweetness inherent in Mrs Goose That she should set afire his soul With burning lust, That he should softly purr this tender refrain: HONK
And Mrs Goose is turned on by his words, Turned on by the subtlety of his eloquence And replied with great charm And a keen eye for erotic repartee HONK
William Shakesgoose with his feathery quill Penned odes to love which on the page he did spill Explaining what it mean to be alive and be free That even today we should proudly quote he Standing proud on that Elizabethan stage and proclaiming HONK
Oscar Wildgoose, with a fey wave of his wing Could reduce a room to laugher with his legendary wit For language danced at his beck and call, Such hilarious put downs and Bonne mots For he was often heard to quip: HONK
Flying to Belgium The pilot just happened to be a goose Came over the tannoy to give us The expected arrival time in Brussels HONK
A crowd of sexed up male gooses Gathered outside the vehicle hooter testing facility They’re getting ever so wound up By the sky sexuality of the Noises coming from within. Oh, baby baby, Talk dirty to me. HONK
Goose literature Translated for a feathery audience The Rime of the Ancient Mariner HONK Les Miserables HONK The Canterbury Tales HONK Marcel Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu HONK HONK (It’s in two volumes) And perhaps A haiku HONK
The man of my dreams, so butch and fit With a face like Adonis and the body of a god Oh, I said to him, sing for me, Stefan, Give voice to your Rampant masculinity And he said . . . . HONK
My new collection Hello!, has just been published by Puddlehopper Books. And I’m really excited about it!
I do believe that Hello! contains some of the best poems I’ve written. Some of them were featured in my show Bouncer, which I performed last year, and in the version of Juicy which I’ve been performing this year.
The book is a pleasant mix of comedy and serious poems.
Hello, you are cordially invited to spend an hour in the company of Robert Garnham, the Professor of Whimsy! Over the course of the hour Robert performs some of his best known and funniest poems. The last twenty minutes is a stand alone theatre piece called Mr Juicy.
The first person who went over Niagara Falls in a barrel Was Annie Edson Taylor. It wasn’t some daredevil gentleman in a wax moustache, It was Annie Edson Taylor. She had grey hair and a severe bun and looked For all the world like a Sunday school teacher, Because she was a Sunday school teacher. Times were hard in 1901 And she was Annie Edson Taylor.
She can be seen in grainy photos, Her black skirts and sensible boots, and a pure white Long-sleeved blouse done up with a collar and a brooch, She looked like she took no prisoners. I’m going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, she said, And good luck to anyone who tried to Talk her out of it. Annie Edson Taylor. And she would do it quickly. Taylor swift! Things are getting desperate and you need some dough Fortune comes with fame it’s the only thing you know Your life has been so normal so I guess it’s just a blip. You jump into a barrel ride that river to the lip.
Heart in your mouth as you plummet like a stone. The world will know your name but for now you are alone. You demonstrate resilience, you’re ever so brave. Perhaps you won’t be buried in that nameless pauper’s grave.
The beast she tamed was seldom forgiving but for her It purred like a cat. The other beast was destitution And that was far less placid, and it roared like a tiger. Annie Edson Taylor, You disappeared, Conned out of your money, your belongings stolen, And time ran out, you faded, Annie Edson Taylor, Subsumed into the fuzz and static of folklore.
My mate Ethan wears shorts when he’s Riding around on his moped. And he thinks that’s pretty dope, But you went over Niagara Falls in a barrel. That’s the last time I moan Before going to the dental hygienist . You went over Niagara Falls in a barrel. You were Annie Edson Taylor. Noone can take that away, You were Annie Edson Taylor. You were audacious. You were Annie Edson Taylor. You were sixty two. You were Annie Edson Taylor. Sticking it to the men. You were Annie Edson Taylor. Queen of the mist. Annie Edson Taylor. You died in poverty. Annie Edson Taylor.
You know what it's like. It's just gone three in the afternoon And you get a sudden pang For casserole. Not quite as full on as a stew, Not quite as funky as a hot pot, Not quite as opaque as soup Nor even a broth with its Meaty meaty chunks, Casserole, winter warmer, Dumpling soaker, Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
Traipsing round the supermarket aisle Where is the casserole? This'll take a while I tell you what will a-make a-me smile A glimpse of casserole, I would run a mile Like a character from mythology, a personal trial Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
Excuse me mister manager Supermarket manager Where is the casserole, Don't hold it back! Excuse me mister manager Supermarket manager Where is the casserole, It's something that you lack!
Casserole casserole casserole, Mmm mmm mmm!
And the supermarket manager said
2.
I am the very model of a supermarket manager We have so many bargains here we'd see off any challenger We sell our food in tins and packs and sometimes in a canister And if somebody makes a mess I have to call the janitor. I am so damn professional I'm nothing like an amateur Our shelves are always fully stocked, our sugar it is granular I make a daily sales forecast with several parameters We have a fine display in here of spoons and forks and spatulas Our singles night is Wednesday the place is full of bachelors I am the very model Yes I am the very model Yes I am the very model Of a supermarket manager!
(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)
I have so many colleagues here and staff and several underlings I go straight home it's getting late I strip down to my underthings I'm not about to come on to you if that is what you're wondering Cos I'm a decent sort of chap though often prone to blundering The music that I hear at night is shopping trolleys trundling It fills me with a strange delight I cannot stop from shuddering A queue of shoppers in a row, the slowest till is the one working Our motto is Grab What You Can, a philosophy which underpins Our shareholders and chief exec, our profits they are funnelling I am the very model Yes I am the very model Yes I am the very model Of a supermarket manager!
(He is the very model of a supermarket manager!)
But I don't know if we've got Casss-errrrrrr-roooolllllle!
I'll ask Janet.
Oh, Janet?
3.
What?
You got any of the good stuff, Janet?
And iiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiiiiiii-eeeeeee-iiiiii, Will always loooovee Souuuuuuuuuupppppp.
No Janet, the other thing?
Oh yes.
(To the tune of Alejandro, by Lady Gaga)
I've looked everywhere In the stock room But I haven't got a pack n't got a pack. In the freezer In the stock room Not even in the chiller on the shelf.
You know that I love casserole, Hot like stew or a sausage roll At this point I do suggest Pot Noodle
Don't look like we Have got any Casserole -ole, I'm not your babe With casserole Haven't got none, Not in a pack Nor in a box Just a small back We haven't got We haven't got Any cass'role.
Any cass'role Any cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role
Any cass'role Any cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role Cassy cassy cass'role
Stop, please! Just let me go!
I've got a spillage in aisle six.
4.
Tell me young man, Why do you like casserole so much?
I live a life devoted to it And it often gets me grumpy That a common misconception is That it's cold and ever so lumpy.
A casserole is different And lifts me high anew It fills me with a warmth inside That you don't really get with stew.
And stroganoff can bugger off Please take away that bowl And if you really love me true Just give me casserole.
I spent a night of bliss with Trish So sexual so winsome so fetching She gave me a plate of beef bourgignon I spent the whole night retching.
Casserole casserole casserole Just the sound of it makes me tingle. Casserole casserole casserole. It's probably why I'm still single.
5.
I'm sorry I can't help you With that food that you do seek The only thing that I suggest Is to come back next week.
Our casserole it takes its toll And I really don't want to harm ya Perhaps young man I could tempt you With a chiller fridge lasagne?
6.
Dinner. I want for dinner A dish that I can have with wine It's the one thing on my mind. Hunger. Increasing hunger. An empty stomach makes a growling sound It's enough to bring me down.
This supermarket hasn't got any casserole. And now I will take my leave!
Came in Around 3.30 Thought it would only take a smidge Headed to the chiller fridge Empty It was so empty A gap where obviously it should have been Everyone could hear me scream.
This supermarket hasn't got any casserole. And now I will take my leave!
Stocktake, The latest stocktake It says you had some yesterday Now they all have gone away Checking The best before date This supermarket Hasn't got It hasn't got Any casserole This supermarket Hasn't got It hasn't got Any casserole And Now I Will Leeeeeeaaaaavvvvee!
Yo-Yo: Ruminations of an Accidental Poet, published by Puddlehopper, is now available to purchase! Telling stories from fifteen years as a performance poet. Festivals, fringes, fleeting appearances on TV, filming, faffing around with props, flopping at slams, it has it all! Essays from Write Out Loud, Chortle, Litro Magazine and and Torquay Museum’s lecture series, and some written specifically for this collection. Plus one new poem! Details on how to order this book will be revealed shortly.
Here’s the blurb:
In 2008 Robert Garnham thought he’d give performance poetry a try, having never heard of it before. What followed was to be fifteen years of crazy poetry adventures in all sorts of different venues. These collected essays describe, with humour and warmth, gigs in every part of the UK (and further afield), shenanigans at music festivals, angst at the Edinburgh Fringe and every conceivable type of poetic misadventure.
‘As Robert Garnham has been a huge influence on me as a comedy spoken word artist, I read this collection of essays with great anticipation. It didn’t disappoint! A wonderfully entertaining read’. (CLIVE OSEMAN).
Robert has the chance to be on prime time TV! What could possibly go wrong? A comedy poetry show about not becoming famous.
Join performance poet Robert Garnham for his new solo show, Bouncer. When Robert is asked to perform on the UK’s biggest TV talent show, he dreams of fame and fortune and never having to leaflet in Edinburgh again! But of course, these things never go the way you want them to go . . . An hour of storytelling, poetry and comedy about fame, and hope, and dreaming.
‘Playful, warm . . Funny and always surprising’. (Write Out Loud)
‘Wise’. (Word NYC).
‘Clever and entertaining’. (Barnstaple Theatrefest).
‘There’s warmth in his whimsy, it’s sturdy not flimsy’. (Matt Harvey)
‘Witticism, wordplay and wistful romanticism’. (Dandy Darkly)
On a cold, January evening, I caught a train from Devon to London. I was looking for some sense of magic in the air, a barely-perceptible tingle as if fortune were tickling my conscience and smoothing the way to a stardust future. But the train was cold, and dinner was a chicken tikka pasty I’d bought from the convenience store next to the station.
The countryside was hidden in darkness. Beyond the reflection of my own face I could make out tiny villages, clusters of lights in the middle of nowhere, lonely cow barns lit up against the frost, and I thought, do any of these people also dream of everlasting fame?
Robert Garnham 