My father passed away in 2017. In the days immediately following, I wrote a long poem based on the stories he would tell of his time working in the Australian outback. He was based in a township called Mary Kathleen, which is no longer there. Although the township was there to accommodate workers at a nearby uranium mine, my dad was there helping test armoured vehicles in the heat of the Australian desert. (He would next be posted to the jungles around Cairns, and then the frozen north of Canada).
I wrote this long poem remembering the stories he would tell and the characters he worked with. It’s set in 1969.
In 2018, the Artizan Gallery in Torquay were kind enough to let me perform this piece, and I asked a friend, Sharon Hubbocks, to accompany it on her violin. I also asked my friend Becky Nuttall to perform on the night. We had a lovely evening. We were later invited to perform it again at the Teignmouth Poetry Festival in Spring 2020, but we all know what happened in Spring 2020!
This recording has been on my phone ever since. Apologies for the sound quality, but it’s a nice little reminder of the night. This would be the only time I’d ever perform this piece.
The poster below was painted by my father, David Garnham, some time during the 2010s, and shows the accommodation huts where he and his colleagues lived.
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.
Each week he would give me laundry, For he had no machine of his own, and I, An amiable soul, willing to help and filled With the goodness of one who wants only to Spread joy to humanity, Offered to do a load for him. ‘Someone else did offer’, he said, ‘But I’m too embarrassed to give them anything other Than the good stuff. Any chance you can do my pants?’
So each Friday he’d lumber me with a big bag of Grundies, A bulging canvas sack Filled to the brim with multi colored briefs, scats, Boxers of every hue, a solid 10kg of smalls which I’d have to lug home On the bus Wondering how someone can go through so many In one week And deciding it was best not to ask.
And for months, yes, I would take part In this underpant migration, that Bulky canvas bag bulging with pant delight As I stood on the lip of the bus doorstep, The whole vehicle slightly tilting with the excess weight, Wondering if the driver would charge me for two seats, And then, scurrying up the narrow steps to the upper deck Often wedged halfway to emerge gasping, A cork from a bottle, stuffing the pants beside me Between the seats that no-one may gaze upon This curiously crusty cornucopia And figure me to be Some kind of fetishist.
But one day, oh, Disaster struck.
Lady fortune deserted me at just the wrong moment. Halfway down the bus steps in preparation of a Pant-assisted disembarkation, A jab on the brakes of the bus and I almost fell, Toppled down the steps yet saved at the last moment Only to see that bulky bulging bag bounce, Fall from my hands, and spill its contents Far and wide throughout the lower deck.
Like a fountain, an explosion, A brief firework display Of briefs, The lower deck passengers, Like astronauts welcomed home by a ticker tape parade, A knicker tape parade, Sat and flinched as pants rained down in all their Gussetty glory, Some put in mind of the Blitz, others Of a particularly uncoordinated acrobatic display. John from the chip shop had Y-fronts on his head. Jan had a pair land in her lap. The lad at the back went right off his KFC When his six piece variety box was breached By boxer briefs While these suddenly animated underpants Simply slithered down the bus steps, A musty Niagara, a thousand stinky slinkies, While I held on with all my might, Now surfing this Predominantly Primark-produced wave of polyester pants, While some kind of dark conjuring or undie witchcraft Caused one of them to stick to the front windscreen, As the driver, suddenly obscured When a pair of XXL novelty Spider-Man scats Wedged over his eyes, nose and ears Like a multi coloured Mexican wrestling mask, Slammed on the brakes.
Hardly anyone screamed. That old wartime community spirit As disposable gloves were handed around, And a rake borrowed from a nearby hardware store And the canvas bag refilled, That I should escape that bus with my dignity As tattered and shredded As the vast majority of those intimate undergarments.
Monday morning I handed the bag back. Cheers, he said, I owe you one.
I'd do anything for my mother. She brought me into this world And she was there during those teenage years When I was all Hormones and acne And now I try to pay her back Anyway I can Often and without fail Except when she asks me to go to the shops And get her a Daily Mail.
I mean, What if someone sees me?
I’m not religious But I believe that one day, God Was violently sick And that the vomit spewed forth In a never ending cascade, A torrent of absolutely disgusting Relentless upchuck And when she finished she Wiped her chin and said, There, I’ve gone and created The Daily Mail.
Oh thou art a putrid and filthy concoction In those pestilential pages A generation booms its last and softly dies Amid sofa advertisements, Nodding in agreement with letters to the editor, Opinion dressed up as fact. Your headlines are misleading, Your logic is twisted, You stand for an England Which never existed. You’re a comic with no humour Your editorials are absurd Peddling anecdote and rumour And about as patriotic as a turd.
There’s a middle England somewhere, A place of patios and pathos, Middle class porcelain and so achingly white Yet you wouldn’t know it because Everyone’s so bloody crimson with rage Because of what they read on the page Of the Daily Mail. The lace curtains twitch When there’s someone in the cul de sac Because nothing sells better Than righteous indignation And a subtle reassurance that The reader’s prejudices are normal. Anger has become performative And inevitably, heteronormative.
Oh, Daily Mail, Oh you rancid hate-mongers, Oh,You peddlers of puke, Oh, You snivelling badger-breathed scumbags, Oh, You’re a parasite on the face of intellectual debate, A fart in the public toilet of common decency, A ranting screaming spitting shower of bastards Who make Mussolini look like the Chuckle Brothers. I’d rather snog an electric eel Than be seen Carrying your stench-emitting Saliva spitting Gibberish-dribbling Mould-seeping Sorry-assed excuse for casual racism And institutionalised transphobia.
Oh dear! They haven't got any, Is what I say to the Muv When I come back from the shops Empty handed. Well, she says, It is popular.
This poem was a part of my new show, Bouncer, but was removed just because of the way it fitted in. I still think it’s quite good. I hope you like it!
London
Hark, doth London linger. In lingering humdrum exhaust fume longer Doth it linger With that sweat tang white van traffic jam Lingering in the humdrum London. River bridges glower tower block Chock a block gridlock London. Overcast mellow weather does it settle Yellow smog hacking hacking Hackney cab London. London fun with traffic tang On the tongue Coming undone I might succumb Lingering loitering London. Sunday parks car parks Cutty Sarks Torn apart grabbed my heart Seedy humping in London fun parts. London looming in surly amid the Hurly burly London fog so swirly You never get there early In London.
Sweaty set sweat stains Train seat sweat stains and the Sweaty armpits tube hanging Sweat stains hanging from that Tube strap sweat stains Tube strap pulsing veins Very much like the tube map. Mind the gap. Sweat stains armpit blotch like Map of Greater London.
Drunken wine bum Drunk on London London low life lowdown lurking. London terminus ominous terminus Probably verminous Not cleaned since Copernicus. Charge by the hour Ever so sour looming tower And I hover likewise I have the power Eardrum thrum in London.
City city pretty scape Skyscraper cityscape Mass escape city pretty Sitting pretty cityscape. London undone fun run London London squares and bars and fairs and cars and bears Kick that burn that kicking in Floating high on fog bank London.
I hover tentative grey sky Square mile London longer Doth it linger deep within My city my thing my History my place my dream My London.
‘Twas a night of balmy breezes, Sensual and moist, the air itself Awash with thrusting expectation and a breath Which rattled the palm trees. The sea, the surf, The semi-naked delirium of sly bodies. The moment our eyes met I knew That by midnight we’d be ensconced in Slippery passion, And later that night as my hot hands hovered over your Manly and feral chest You closed your eyes in erotic ecstasy and said, ‘I see Ronnie O’ Sullivan is Through to the next round of the snooker’.
A momentary blip, I thought, And as you drew me closer with your Muscular arms And I succumbed to the obviousness that lurked Deep within the moment, I felt a growl of pleasure rise up within you And the following words spilled forth From your sensuous lips: ‘And Mark Selby is up three frames to one In the quarter final’.
I’d seen you in the cocktail bar, All trendier promise and the kind of body That if it were any more buff Would have been that of a buffalo, And our eyes had met in the steamy heat, And I’d felt the exotic wonder that time should deliver A man who made my heart a-quiver Knowing all along it was too good to be true, When I said I wanted to spend the night with you, To which you’d replied, but have you got a long cue? (I’d thought you meant The other kind of queue).
Now here we are in the throes of passion And as I tried to lose myself To the insanity of the moment, That inexorable oblivion Of skin on skin and souls ablaze And the sheer physicality of heavenly bliss, You purred, ‘John Higgins came from a five frame deficit To go in to the semi. It’s just a question of getting that moment of luck. But you have to earn luck, don’t you? Sure, your opponent can miss a shot, But you’ve got to take advantage. Don’t let the moment slip. Foul shot and a miss. Foul shot and a miss. Foul shot and a miss. And then before you know it you’ve reached Some kind of parity with your opponent Sometimes Sometimes Sometimes The pink just wont go in No matter how much you chalk your cue. The pink just wont go in The pink just wont go in Tickets to the final are sixty quid a shot. The pink just wont go in. Oh my god, Ronnie O’Sullivan!
We lay in each other’s arms for a bit And then, quietly, you sing, ‘Snooker loopy nuts are we. Me and him and them and me. We’ll show you what we can do With a load of balls and a snooker cue.
Pot the reds and Screw back For the yellow green brown blue pink and black. Snooker loopy nuts are we We’re all snooker
Hello, here’s one of my earliest poems from around 2009 / 2010. It’s an experimental piece which I only ever performed once, and then forgot completely about, until I found a video of it. This is from a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Anyway, the video is below and that’s followed by the poem.
Vintage Robert Garnham experimental sound poem
Poem
Ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Think to the pen to the page to the mic. Wink to the pen to the page to the mic. Sink to the pen to the page to the mic. Pink to the pen to the page to the mic. Drink to the pen to the page to the mic. Kink to the pen to the page to the mic. Link to the pen to the page to the mic. Zinc to the pen to the page to the mic. Jink to the pen to the page to the mic. Ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Wink to the think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Drink to the pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Kink to the drink to the pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the pen to the page to the mic. Link to the kink to the drink to the pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the page to the mic. Zinc to the link to the kink to the drink to the pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the page to the mic. Jink to the zinc to the kink to the drink to the pink to the sink to the wink to the think to the ink to the page to the mic.
Gasp.
Jonathan removed my antlers and said, ‘Not in here, the clientele are mostly Dutch’.
When does a mess become a muddle? When does day become the night? When does a spillage become a puddle? When does a shudder become a fright?
When does a brag become a boast? When does a mess become a fuss? When does bread become toast? When does a train become a rail replacement bus?
When do we become middle aged? And do we only know we are middle aged when we've lived Our whole lives? Is it only then that we can look back and say, oh yes, That's when I was middle aged, that's when I had a Midlife crisis, The day I went out and bought a jetski?
When does a crowd become a throng? When do pants become a thong? When does a dirge become a song? When does a whiff become a pong?
When does a settee become a sofa? When does a look become a demeanour? When does a pamphlet become a brochure? When does a verbal warning become a grievance procedure?
When did I decide that maybe you weren't the one for me? Was if at the opera, or was it in the supermarket? Or was it that time I came home and found you in bed With a stamp collector from Barnstaple?
When does a trumpet become a bugle? When does an imposition become an impertinence? When does prudent become frugal? When does a TV advert become a nuisance?
When does pruned become sheared? When does uncanny become weird? When does stubble become a beard? When does a poem not have to rhyme?
When do we lose ourselves to the delirium of the Beauty of the world of the planet of the people of the creatures Of the moon of the tides of the sea of the land of the cities of the Absolute if the spiritual of the technological or the brave of the bountiful Of the beautiful, possibly at two PM on a Thursday afternoon.
This is a poem from my new show, ‘Bouncer’. It’s about something that people say to me every time they discover that I’m a comedy performance poet. I’m sure lots of other people also get told this especially if that’s the sort of thing they do.
I hope you like it!
My new show will be coming to various places in 2023 and 2024. At the moment it is booked in for the Barnstaple TheatreFest Fringe, the Guildford Fringe, and for two weeks at the Edinburgh Fringe. I’m also hoping to do it at other places, too.
Here’s the new poem:
You Should Write a Poem About That, from ‘Bouncer’, 2023
Ink flowing from a polished nib Blotch on the paper Mrs Henderson See those letters dance Find that rhyme Slam it on the page Boom, that's a poem! Do those similies look good together? It’s a dating app for metaphors! That’s what poetry is. Any fool can do it And I’m living proof.
Oi, Professor of Whimsy! Got a poem for us? Well, so impertinent! But as it happens I’ve got a cracker! Not only a poem but A new show, A new show! Do you like poetry? Do you like Keats? I don’t even know what a Keat is. No thanks you can keep your cup of tea I’d rather have some poetry!
It’s my new show! My new show! The show I’ve just written It’s a new show! It’s a word jamming grammar scamming Rhyme scanning beat panning Big slimy monster of a show! It’s a finger licking word flicking Rhyme dictionary-picking big bad Grumbler of a show! It’s so new it’s still got the cellophane on it! It’s got that new show smell, Red wine and angst. It’s a new show! This is the show. This is the start of the show. Oooooo I can’t wait for you to see it. Oooooo I can’t wait to perform it. Oooooo did I tell you it’s a New show A new show Welcome everyone to my New show
Robert Garnham 