Spout is an hour show featuring poems, comedy and songs all around the theme of tea. If you’ve ever enjoyed a cup of tea, or are a coffee drinker eager to make that leap, then Spout is the show for you! Spout is sure to create a stir.
Meet Robert’s gran, who’s very fussy about how she likes her tea. Meet Aunt Rosie, who likes to sing while she’s boiling the kettle. Hear the harrowing story of the sexy barista and a date at a museum of smoke alarms. Learn about Tea Astrology, and what to do when someone says, ‘Thirsty work, this’. Also, learn about the history of tea, and how it unites people. This whole show will make you see tea anew!
Robert Garnham is an award winning LGBT writer, humorist and performer from Surrey. He has been long listed three times as spoken word artist of the year and has featured in TV advertisements for a certain building society, as well as Britain’s Got Talent. Spout is his ode, his love letter, to this beverage of kings, this everyday magic potion, tea!
Audio
Spout
If you’ve enjoyed listening to this show, or would like to buy me a coffee, (!), my tip jar is https://ko-fi.com/robertgarnham
Capability Brown dance for me wig boy flatten those hillocks never touched a shovel in his life
Capability Brown I salute your pastel gilet drain that lake I left my mobile phone in the charabanc
Capability Brown call that a scrotum? turf over that peat bog I gravitate with sadness to your clinical arboretum
Capability Brown no lover of fungus undulate that grassy knoll you told me to grow edible herbs, such sage advice
Capability Brown here comes a mallard duck! aiyeeeek yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk oh it was a seagull
Capability Brown I salute your pastel gilet Flatten those hillocks you were born in 1716, no wonder you’re dead
Capability Brown here comes a mallard Turf over that peat bog never touched a shovel in his life
Capability Brown call that a scrotum? drain that lake you were both in 1716, that’s just after quarter past five
Capability Brown shoving shrubs in your underpants Rearrange that copse I gravitate with sadness to your clinical arboretum
Capability Brown he’s the dog’s bollocks flatten those hillocks The trouble with French is that they haven’t got a word for entrepreneur
Capability Brown no lover of fungus undulate that grassy knoll someone threw cheese at me, which wasn’t very mature
Capability Brown I salute your pastel bollocks drain that mallard every time I paint the skirting board I get very emulsional
Capability Brown Rhododendrons in your y-fronts can I prance on your lawn? I gravitate with sadness to your clinical arboretum I gravitate with sadness to your clinical arboretum I gravitate with sadness to your clinical arboretum
Arboretum? I only just met ‘em. Capability Brown! What a tosser.
There was nothing else on. i was watching a documentary about The Good Life. Not on how to live the good life, But the 1970’s TV sitcom The Good Life, But as I say, There was nothing else on, So rather than ponder in silence my own Innate sadness and the crushing loneliness Of existence, I thought I’d watch it.
At least it will kill half an hour. Something mildly diverting. They showed some interviews with celebrities Laughing conveniently at the clip They just showed. Jonathan Ross thought that Margot falling in the mud Was comedy gold. James May liked the bit with the pig. Just before the advert break, as a teaser, They show Margot saying, ‘Well thank you, Tom’, While the narrator said, ’And there was one cast member no-one got on with. Stay tuned to find out who that was’.
My curiosity piqued, after five minutes Of adverts for sofas and stairlifts, (My god, they know their demographic), Came the second part. Richard Briers apparently didn’t like vegetables And Susan Colman thought Tom cleaning out his own chimney with inevitable Soot-based complications Was comedy gold. As a teaser for the next part, They show Margot saying, ‘Well thank you, Tom’, While the narrator said, ’And there was one cast member no-one got on with. Stay tuned to find out who that was’.
How long is this programme?, I pondered. Part three started with Felicity Kendall Talking about dungarees And Sir Trevor Macdonald Thinking that the episode in which a donkey Got stuck in the shed Was comedy gold. As a teaser for the next part, They show Margot saying, ‘Well thank you, Tom’, While the narrator said, ’And there was one cast member no-one got on with. Stay tuned to find out who that was’.
By now it’s been an hour And it shows no sign of stopping And there’s been no mention yet of the Juicy gossip or even of Margot saying ’Well thank you, Tom’. Jo Brand came on to say that The episode in which Tom Gets kicked in the goolies by a cow is comedy gold. As a teaser for the next part, They show Margot saying, ‘Well thank you, Tom’, While the narrator said, ’And there was one cast member no-one got on with. Stay tuned to find out who that was’.
And now it’s been an hour and a half And I’m worried that I’ve stumbled into another dimension In which I’m cursed to watch a documentary About The Good Life For the rest of time. And the Archbishop of Sodding Canterbury comes on and says The episode in which a sheep is sick On Margot’s shag pile rug Is comedy gold, And I’m thinking I don’t care, I never watched it I never liked it I just want to find out which cast member they didn’t like I’m sitting here watching this crap What does that say about me? As a teaser for the next part, They show Margot saying, ‘Well thank you, Tom’, While the narrator said, ’And there was one cast member no-one got on with. Stay tuned to find out who that was’.
And there are more adverts for dandruff medication And a vacuum cleaner that picks up invisible dust And I think, if it’s invisible dust, Then how do you know when the bag is full? And the sodding documentary is back on and finally They show the clip of Margot saying, ’Well thank you, Tom’, And the audience hoots like it’s flipping hilarious And finally oh so finally The narrator says ‘And there’s one cast member that nobody got on with’. And it turns out to be the fucking goat. The fucking goat. Two hours of my life I sat here waiting for this. I want to throw the TV out the window. Two bloody hours. The fucking goat. And the bloody thing ends limply with the end credits. Nobody got on with the fucking goat.
I turn the TV off. And I sit there for a bit. I’ve learned a valuable lesson.
I also deserve a Fifa Peace Prize, and I’ll thump anyone who says I don’t.
All of my friends want a Fifa Peace Prize, too. We were in the pub the other night. We sat around talking about the Fifa Peace Prize and Doug said that he was the most deserving because it’s been three years since he’d last hit someone over the head with a coffee table. I told him that such an aversion to violence was commendable. But I deserved it more because, for me, it was five years since I had last coffee tabled someone.
That’s how it is with friends, you can be open about such matters. It really does pay to talk. Mumbling John said that he had given all of his relatives Fifa Peace Prizes. Apparently, they made pretty good door stops. You can wedge a fire exit open with a Fifa Peace Prize, he opined, especially those with a spring-loaded hinge mechanism. Doug then told him that there were probably knock-off Fifa Peace Prizes out there, made of cheap metals and available widely on the counterfeit goods market. And they almost came to blows, the two of them.
‘Stop it, lads’, I said, ‘there’s no reason to fight’.
They then accused me of saying this just so that I could be in contention for a Fifa Peace Prize.
Mumbling John then pointed out that his sister Vocal Sue sold items online and made a living from it, that her garden shed was stocked full of the latest fads, trends and crazes. The deeper she goes into her shed, the different layers of such trends she comes across. The most recent layer is Labubus. If she goes further back, then it’s Tickle Me Elmos. Right at the back of her shed is where you find her tamagotchis. Soon, she reckons, another layer will be added of Fifa Peace Prizes. She calls herself an archeologist of the present moment, which is quite literary for someone who once said, ‘I’d give my right arm to be ambidextrous’.
I then suddenly remembered that I hadn’t checked in on my tamagotchi for about fifteen years, which made me feel both guilty and undeserving of a Fifa Peace Prize.
We started talking about what we wanted for our next birthday presents. We always buy each other gifts. Mumbling John said that he would be okay with socks, or some cheap after shave, or a Fifa Peace Prize. Doug said that he didn’t want anything too special, perhaps just an Amazon voucher, or a Labubu, or a Fifa Peace Prize. But before they could ask me what I wanted for my next birthday, Doug suddenly felt it necessary to yell at the man at the next table, ‘What the bloody hell are you staring at, mate?’, which was his traditional precursor to a punch-up.
‘Come on, lads’, I said, ‘no need to fight’.
‘You’re only saying that to get a Fifa Peace Prize’, Doug replied.
‘No I’m not’.
‘You bloody are!’
‘Want to fight about it?’
‘That’s more like it’.
The old reverse psychology. Tensions lifted. We’d half-raised ourselves out of our seats, but then sat back down again. Neither of us could be arsed. Which got me wondering if the ultimate deterrent for world conflict is genuine and widespread apathy.
And this might well have been the case on this occasion, were it not for the fact that I felt obliged, at that moment, to flick the end of his nose.
The man on the next table threw back his head in laughter. So at least I was bringing joy to the world.
It was Mumbling John who calmed us down. ‘Hey lads’, he said. ‘Watch this’.
He picked up a plastic straw and placed it in a glass of lemonade. An optical illusion made it appear as if the end of the straw was disjointed.
‘See that?’, he said. ‘That’s a demonstration of light refraction.’
‘Fascinating’, Doug said.
‘Remarkable’, I replied.
We both looked at the straw in the glass of lemonade and neither of us felt like escalating our violence. Even the man on the next table was interested.
At that moment, the door opened and some representatives of Fifa entered the pub. They approached our table, and Mumbling John’s face lit up.
Could it be? Were they about to . . .
A fanfare sounded and a silence fell across the boozer. Every head swivelled in our direction. The horse brasses hanging from the old oak beams glistened in the glare of the mobile phones recording the impromptu ceremony.
‘Congratulations’, one of the officials said, lifting up a huge trophy and placing it on the table in front of Mumbling John.
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
Put some feta cheese in there, Put some Camembert in there Put some other things in there It's very very quiet.
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
Bought it from a man from Bern The man from Bern his name was Bern Fridge freezer, Swiss geezer So so quiet.
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
Have you turned it on? Of course I’ve turned it on. Have you plugged it in? What am I, daft or something?
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
The old one went chigga chum chigga chum The old one went witty witty woo The old one went chigga chum chigga chum The old one went to the tip.
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. The new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet. I don't want to cause a fuss And I don't want to cause a riot But the new fridge freezer is suspiciously quiet.
As 2025 lumbers to a wimpering snuff, many of us see a world that seems almost unrecognisable to the one we’ve always known. Division and hatred, thinly veiled racism, outright transphobia, and the prevalence of the ego have combined to create a cultural environment in which core principles of neighbourliness and humanity have taken a back seat. Other and better writers have written about this and to much greater effect. It’s hard not to see our lives, dominated as they are by so many distractions, and consumed mostly by looking at a screen or a mobile phone, as being the primary reason for this. But I’m not a psychologist. Nor an analyst. I just believe that it’s so much easier to tell a lie than it is to disprove it. And quicker, too. Do I despair of the world? All I can say is that people get bored very quickly. They want instant gratification, and now. The shock of the new.
As for me, 2025 has been, well, unnecessarily interesting. I’d had a good life for the last fifteen years, writing and performing poems while working in my job, in retail management at the same branch of a charity for almost thirty years. 2024 was marked by the drug dealers who lived in the flat above my shop. There were frequent fights, arguments, knives, needles, gangs of ne’erdowells to contend with, all happening right above the shop. I thought it couldn’t get any worse, and then, all of a sudden, it did. In February of this year, the drug dealers upset someone, (an ex-girlfriend, apparently), who then announced on social media that she was going to burn down their flat that very evening. (Incidentally, this was Valentine’s Day. How symbolic). So the drug dealers did the right and humane thing, and moved out for the night taking their possessions with them. I watched them go through the security peephole in our back door. They loaded their possessions into a car. I hope they don’t burn the place down, to cover their tracks, I thought. So it was no surprise when I got a phone call first thing the next morning to say that the shop had burned down.
Yes, it was arson. But now I found myself in a tentative position. Would I still have a job, especially in the current financial climate? What would happen to my staff, would they still have a job? The company could very well have ‘let us go’ then and there, but they were understanding. I was made into a floating manager. My job was now to travel through the south west and cover at any branch where a manager was absent. Over the course of 2025, I worked in almost every town you can think of between Bournemouth and Cornwall. Some of them I thought they’d just made up. (Midsomer pNorton?!). I spent a lot of 2025 living in hotel rooms and eating buffet breakfasts. So yes, I still had a job.
But it was my performing which suffered. I could not commit to gigs because I never knew where I was going to be staying or working. I could not rehearse, because I used to use the shop to rehearse every single morning while I was getting the place ready. I couldn’t learn lines, especially in a hotel room. I had a few wonderful gigs which I had to book time off for, including Penzance, and a quick trip to Edinburgh. I had a good enough time.
The one thing I did, though, was to work on a novel. I’d already written the first draft when I applied to Curtis Brown Creative, and amazingly, I was let on the course. Over the summer we developed the novel, and it’s looking very good indeed. I am now tinkering with it and hoping that an agent or a publisher sees enough in it to accept it. I’m very happy with it, indeed.
This last month, I was made temporary manager of the shop in Torquay. This is much closer to home, and all of a sudden, I have time now to rehearse again. It feels like things have turned a corner. They’re even due to begin building work on my old shop, (the landlord died over the summer and nobody owned the place, thereby everything came to a shuddering halt). Which is to say, I’m starting to feel like my old self again. The whimsy is returning.
So what did I get out of 2025? A lot of memories meeting people all over the south west, and a novel, and the benefit of the tutelage of Suzannah Dunn, (who really liked my novel), and a huge amount of time sat on trains. (Working in TIverton for three months meant five hours on trains and buses a day). And time to look at my fellow passengers, all watching TikTok.
The world will not change and I cannot make it. I just know that there are civil people out there, concerned for humans and humanity, opposed to stupid wars and political bullying, opposed to toxicity, big business, politics in general. Sometimes it is better to whisper than it is to shout, but I only say this because I’ve never felt entitled to shout, and that there are others who are much better at it than me.
Robert Garnham 