Performance poet and Professor of Whimsy
Poem
Lord Whatsisname liked my hollandaise
He really really like my hollandaise
I wandered round
In a daze
The lord he liked
My hollandaise
He also liked my vinaigrette
Peri peri sweet sweet chilli
I was a good cook and this had now been proved
My sauces they were all peer reviewed.
Why on earth was I made to join the Scouts?
Why on earth was I made to join the scouts?
My parents hoped it would get me out and about.
The only thing it did
was implant in me a doubt
That I was anything like the other boys.
There was so much that I really couldn’t do
Like light a fire or paddle a canoe
The one thing it instilled in me
was being part of a crew
And the fun that I could have with the other boys.
It wasn’t the sort of place where I’d leave my stamp
Or go on hikes, across the moors we’d tramp.
Although in hindsight
it taught me everything about camp
From singing songs with all the other boys.
We’d cut down burly trees with a big old axe
And have to always strive to do our max
Dressing up in drag
singing along to backing tracks
Which is what I did with a few of the other boys.
It was a time of lust and strange hormones
In an age before we had any mobile phones
We’d use morse code
to feel somehow less alone
And chat and bitch about the other boys
We were taught that life could sometimes be quite bitter
And after camp we’d pick up all the litter.
Who on earth has plastered
the tent in tinsel and glitter?
That was me and one or two of the other boys.
We had to swear an oath to Baden Powel’s mission
Take a course in tying knots with deadly precision
We never went that night
cos it clashed with Eurovision.
Which I watched at home with all of the other boys.
Our leader started to think that things were amiss
Or maybe that we were probably taking the piss
Don’t look so sour I said,
just give us a kiss
And that’s how I left the scouts and the other boys.
I am the lonely bus driver
Driving round the town.
Always on the same old route,
It really gets me down.
I am the lonely bus driver
You don’t know how I feel.
The only thing that I caress
Is the steering wheel.
I am the lonely bus driver
In my big machine
It’s such a thrusting rusting bus
It’s really quite obscene.
I always get you home safely
It is my duty of care.
Although I’ll jab the brake six times
When you’re on the stairs.
I really like to drive my thing
I go the extra yard.
I make it look quite easy but
I’ll assure you it’s very hard.
I pulled up at a bus stop
And the lady there did say
I’ve never seen one as big as that
And it’s kind of tapered towards the end.
I am the lonely bus driver
I often use the clutch.
I drank a cup of coffee and
I spilled it in my crotch.
The wipers sweeping back and forth
Are powered by solenoids.
And sitting here eight hours a day
Has given me, (deep sigh).
I recall my wedding day
It was my personal hell.
She left me at the altar and
She took the dog as well.
I had to return the wedding gifts
And people made a fuss.
That’s Ok, I told them all,
I’ve till got my bus.
So if you catch the number six
Be sure to sit at the back.
Jovial customer service is
Something that I lack.
I’ll let you get on board my bus
If you flash your pass.
And when I see another bus
I will flash my headlights.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Why are there pockets galore?
Who looks at their pockets and thinks, you know what?
I really could do with some more.
Pockets aplenty and pockets sublime
There’s a pocket on each of your knees
Pockets on pockets and poppers in pockets
Now, where on earth are your keys?
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Your shorts they must weigh half a tonne.
A pocket on your thigh and two on each side
And you’ve even got four on your bum.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Is it a sign of alpha male maturity?
So much metal, probably best not to wear them
While going through airport security.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Do you carry lots of spanners and such?
I’ve never seen shorts with so many pockets
There’s even a pocket on your crotch,
Zippers and poppers and buttons and Velcro
And poppers and zippers god knows why.
Stand at the urinals desperate for a pee
You’ve forgotten which one is your fly.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Have you really got so much to do?
Or are you a short wearing deadly assassin,
Your shorts being camouflaged too.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
Is it something for which you might brag?
‘Look at me with all of my pockets!’
What’s wrong with a carrier bag?
How to keep travelling when you’re in Lockdown
The ceiling has cracks their imaginary maps
From the hinterland coving to the lampshade city districts.
I eulogise the bulb, write some light verse,
Have a drink, just a tipple
As I look at the stipple.
Travel is all in the mind
Well it has to be
When you’re in a lockdown.
I perambulated in a nonchalant manner
To every four corners of my temporary manor
Took photos of the sunset
As light glimmered from the tea set
Sipped a fine wine at the washing line
It’s such a fine time
For a lockdown.
The laundry basket has been designated
A UNESCO sight of special scientific interest.
I dived to the bottom from the deck of an
Imaginary boat
Found a vest.
I don’t even wear vests.
Creatures of the deep.
Mysterious creatures of the deep.
You haven’t lived until you’ve gazed at the banisters.
Their iconic skyline more evocative than Manhattan
Each pillar a Corinthian column these stern guards
I bought a post card.
Amid the humid splendour of the tropical bathroom
Balmy fat drops falling from a hot hot sky
Where many a fashion model has poised lips a pouting
I sipped a cocktail and looked at the grouting.
Oh the overriding gentle peace
Of sauntering next to the mantelpiece
Early in the morning to avoid the crowds and their backpacks
I peruse the bric a brac
I think I will come back
Maybe in five minutes time.
With a duster.
From the pouffe to the duvet
To the blanket which is crocheted
To my dinner which is gourmet
It’s a lockdown so I do stay
Right here.
And then when I think that I’ve been everywhere man
I’ve seen the comfy chair man
I’ve hoovered up my hair man
From my first attempt at a haircut.
This flat is a lifeline it feels like a lifetime
It’s feels like a fine time to be in for a lockdown
There’s seldom a fine line between
Distance and downtime
It’s hard to be upbeat when you
Get down for a lockdown.
But there’s a burning desire for travel deep within
Tomorrow I might go out and visit the bin.
We flew away to Jupiter
Abducted once again
We flew away to Neptune,
Me and my alien friends.
I flew inside their spaceship,
They made me wear a robe.
Take me to your leader.
What are you doing with that probe?
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
We flew throughout the galaxy
In a sexy UFO
It had a space age lavatory
Where a man could boldly go.
It word gets out about tonight,
Who knows, I might be famous?
My name now linked with the things I did
While bouncing around on Uranus.
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
Take me to an alien place
Devoid of intelligent thought!
A hopeless steaming pit of a place
Where all dreams are turned to nought.
A place bereft of hope and life
And no breathable atmosphere.
If that’s what you want they said to me
Let’s go to Lincolnshire.
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
It was a flying saucer though
It looked more like a mug.
Thank you for abducting me,
I said, now give us a hug.
They forced me next at gunpoint
To have sex with an alien device.
Which wasn’t bad for robot sex,
You idiot, they said, that was the vacuum cleaner.
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
Take me to the brightest star
In the vast expanse of space!
And that’s how I met Alan Titchmarsh,
You should’ve seen his face!
As we descended from the sky,
It’s the craziest thing he’d seen!
We lifted aboard some farm equipment
With our tractor beam.
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
Time to take you back, they said,
Your planet has seen many changes
It’s we who built the pyramids
And the Woking branch of Sainsbury’s.
Have you got a message, I asked,
To tell the human race?
Yes, they said, your planet is a mess
And the parking is a total disgrace.
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odyssey,
I wonder where we’ll go?
Beamed up, zapped up, in a UFO!
A flying saucer odysseeeeeee
Couldn’t think of a last line.
Poem
I’d love to be in a caravan
A caravan for me.
Walking round in my caravan
Somewhere near the sea.
Bending down to watch my head
Making the sofa into a bed
Wake each morning wish I was dead
A caravan for me.
I’d love to be in a caravan
Perhaps on the Isle of Skye.
Freezing cold in a caravan
I’d like to give it a try.
It’s one step up from having to camp
Everything just smells of damp
Wake up in the night with a bad case of cramp
A caravan for me.
I’d love to be in a caravan
A tip top tin top home
Watch the sun rise in a caravan
No signal to use my phone.
It’s kind of like a weird drug
In bed last night I found a slug
Can’t watch the TV there’s only one plug
A caravan for me.
I’d love to be in a caravan
In a splendid rugged location
I’d put the heater on except
I’d die of asphyxiation.
Please come inside excuse the mess
I’m nice and snug though I do confess
To bouts of crushing loneliness
A caravan
A caravan
A caravan for me.
Robert Garnham’s Words of Advice
1. No one is ever worth writing a poem for, though every now and then you’ll meet someone who’s worth a limerick, particularly if they come from Chard.
2. If someone tells you that they love you, it’s not always a test, it’s an affectation of the status quo, a joy delivered in the beauty of a relationship which actually works, so it’s best not to answer with, oh, that’s good.
3. Shrimp will always give you raging guts ache.
4. Hold on to your nostalgia, otherwise you’ll have nothing to be nostalgic about, except possibly for the time you used to be nostalgic about things, so maybe you can be nostalgic about that.
5. Look at your life. Isolate your fears, your demons, and anything else that gives you the willies. Engage with them and dance, and banish them with a smile and a wave and a cheer. Unless, of course, the thing that scares you the most is crushing loneliness.
6. It’s never too late to learn. It’s never too early to forget.
7. Only concentrate on that which requires no thought.
8. You might not ever mention the elephant in the room, but you can certainly wonder how it got through the door, and up the stairs.
9. Look at the mirror every morning and say, I am loved, I am loved, I am loved. At least this way you’re prepared for any other bullshit that comes along.
10. Everyone you see or meet or talk to has been born. Even Avril Lavigne. And if you think being born was difficult, try getting a mortgage.
11. Go on, help yourself to the last cake in life. Living is all about grabbing the last cake. Go on, have it. Enjoy it. The dog licked it.
12. Get up early one morning, when the dew is still on the grass, and go for a walk barefoot in the park. Let me know when you’re doing this so that I can come round and borrow your vacuum cleaner.
13.Do something that excites you every day. Subvert the rules. Turn things on their head. Naturally this does not apply if you’re an airline pilot.
14. How do we know that opening an umbrella indoors is bad luck? Who was the first person to discover this? How many similar things do we do which are good or bad luck without us knowing? Brandishing a vase on a Thursday? Sitting on a pouffe just after lunch? The mind boggles, Mrs Henderson, the mind boggles.
15. Give as much joy to the small things in life as you do to the large. Which is why me and my ex split up.
16. If at first you don’t succeed, then maybe catching bullets with your teeth isn’t the job for you.
17. If you don’t think you can get it out, why the hell did you put it in there in the first place?
Poetry has no relevance. That’s what I hear a lot. Oi, knobhead! Your poetry has no relevence! That’s a hell of a heckle. From my publisher.
But it does. Poetry is useful. Honestly.
I was in an airport. Just minding my own business. Just browsing. Hanging around the arrivals gate with a sign reading JUSTIN BIEBER, you know, just on the off chance. When all of a sudden is call comes up. ‘Is there a poet in the building? This is an emergency! We need a poet!’
Turns out this plane was in trouble. The pilot had collapsed at the controls having had an allergic reaction to a Pot Noodle. And then the co pilot, on hearing that the plane was full of zither players on the way back from a zither convention, succumbed to an undiagnosed zither phobia and became a gibbering, incoherent wreck.
So I’m up in air traffic control and they’ve got a zither player in the cockpit and I’m relaying to him the types of controls that he should be operating.
The aerilon speed flaps are the colour of fine Devonshire cream in the early evening sun.
The throttle control knobs are kind of shaped like a veteran Shakespearean actor stooping to pick up a 20p coin
The rudder pedal is broad and flat like a clumsy child’s first attempt to draw a map of Utah.
The undercarriage lever looks like ennui.
And we did it, we landed that plane, between us, soothing it down to a very smooth landing lulled by sonnets and iambic pentameter, just a classy addition of enjambement on its glide slope, we landed it, oh yes, we did, and everyone was saved!
And at that moment I saw the potential of poetry in all its glory to affect the world as a power to be used for the greater good, elevating ordinary souls above the gods and deities, for are we not all messiahs of the modern age, we poets, we brave poets, pens aloft like spears of triumph!
Poetry. Is. Useful.
Hooray!
And then I got home to my normal life of crushing loneliness.
Things I think about when I’m working on a project.
Lately I’ve been putting a show together. In the old days it was simple, it was a process known as ‘putting a show together’. Now it’s called ‘project management’. I’ve been to plenty of meetings where I tell people I’m putting a show together and they say, ‘oh, you’re project managing?’ And some even say, ‘Oh, you’re a theatre maker?’, which is something I’d not heard before and I had to go and look it up. But apparently I’m in project management now and the one rule for project management is that I shouldn’t lose sight of the bigger picture.
The second rule, apparently, is that I can’t just see the bigger picture.
You’ve got to narrow down and focus. But if you narrow down and focus then you lose sight of the bigger picture. So you’ve got to have one eye on the bigger picture while at the same time you narrow down and focus. Often though you may not even see the bigger picture, so you forget what the bigger picture looks like because you’ve been narrowing down and focussing, or perhaps the bigger picture has become another picture entirely while you were narrowing down and focussing, and now that it’s big picture which doesn’t even include the bits that you’ve been narrowing down and focusing on, and the bits that you’ve been narrowing down and focusing on are now out of the picture.
And then you get bogged down in too much detail. Is the bigger picture even a picture? Is the bigger picture portrait or landscape? Why am I faffing about with the narrowing down when the bigger picture needs attention too? And how big is the bigger picture and how much wider is it than the narrowing down? And if I narrow down how far can I narrow down before narrow becomes too narrow? And anyway, who’s checking on all this?
It’s at times like this that I just decide to give up and go and make a cake.
Robert Garnham