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.
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
As I did with my last show, I’ve been keeping a diary charting my progress from the very first day I started work on my new show, to the present moment. Obviously, as the show has not yet been performed before an audience, there may be spoilers here. But not many people read this blog, so that should be OK!
Bouncer diary
23.8.22
Decide on theme of show to be based around appearance on BGT
25.8.22
Write some linking material about poetry, and start work on opening poem ‘Welcome to my Show’
26.8.22
Work on ‘Welcome to my Show’ and an autobiographical poem called ‘Orange Juice’, which may or may not be used to add background character.
28.8.22
Sat in the sun in the back garden in Brixham. Worked on a new poem, provisionally titled ‘This City Never Seemed so Cruel’, the obligatory downbeat poem for near the end of the show. Also worked on some linking material about my Great Uncle, and a bit about Thundercats.
29.8.22
Back in Paignton. Heard the Squeeze song Hour Glass on the radio, and then some show tunes, and the idea for a call and response poem came, with a similar structure as the chorus of the Squeeze song. Called ‘Everyone Wants Fame!’ Jotted it down on a ticket, then home, worked on the poem. It’s the bare bones of something fun, but it really needs to be 30% funnier.
30.8.22
Worked on ‘Everyone Wants Fame!’, added two jokes.
31.8.22
Worked on ‘This City Never Seemed so Cruel’, ‘Orange Juice’ and ‘Welcome to my Show’.
1.9.22
Wrote new poem ‘You Should Write a Poem About That’, plotted the storyline and poem list for the show, then worked on a new version of ‘Fabaranza’ written from the point of view of the BGT producers.
4.9.22
In Brixham, worked on linking material. Wrote the goose joke, and then one other joke, and then thought, ahh, that’s two jokes, a good days work, let’s relax for the rest of the day.
5.9.22
Back in Paignton, more work on linking material.
6.9.22
Paignton, worked on linking material, then started to put the show together so far, right up to the Covid section.
7.9.22
Worked on ‘You Should Write a Poem About That’, then typed up all of the show so far before working on more linking material. Worried that the version of my portrayed in the show is negative, whiny, too much like a victim, and generally unlikeable.
8.9.22
Worked on rewriting linking material, added a few more jokes and funny lines. Worked on ‘You Should Write a Poem About That’, took out the line about all other poets being bastards!
9.9.22
Unexpected day off due to yesterday’s death of HM The Queen. Started work on the BGT phone call linking material.
11.9.22
In Brixham. Worked on new poem, ‘The Contestants Await’.
12.9.22
Worked on linking material and ‘The Contestants Await’.
14.9.22
Worked on the start of the BGT section. Worked also on the ‘Everyone Wants Fame’ poem.
16.9.22
Worked on the BGT hotel section. Went to a coffee shop and thought of two jokes about the contestants which made their way into the show script.
18.9.22
(In Brixham). Worked on the BGT section. Almost finished the first draft of the script, just need to write a kind of summing up section. Current word count is over 7000 so it may need editing down.
19.9.22
First draft completed!
24.11.22
Had a read through of the linking material having worked on the Cold Callers project in the intervening months. Pleasantly surprised at the cohesiveness and tone of the show.
27.11.22
Had a complete table read run through of the show at Brixham’s Sunrise Rehearsal Studio. 52 minutes, happy with that. Had a couple of rewrites to ponder: Fabaranza as a poem instead of a song, and tightening up the lyrics of the opening song Welcome to my Show. Also, does the show need the Covid section? Seems put in just to get on the one liner list! Later on, back in the Rehearsal room, rewrote the opening song ‘Welcome to my Show’.
28.11.22
Paignton. Ran through ‘Welcome to my Show’ a few times, then rewrote the song ‘Fabaranza’ as a fast-paced poem.
30.11.22
Began line learning ‘Welcome to my Show’.
1.12.22
Line learning ‘Welcome to my Show’.
2.12.22
Line learning ‘Welcome to my Show’.
3.12.22
Line learning first batch of linking material.
5.12.22
In Brixham. Ran through ‘Welcome to my Show’ several times and videoed it so see how it looked. Worked on linking material.
6.12.22
Paignton. Line learning linking material.
7.12.22
Line learning linking material and began line learning ‘Zach’. First five minutes of the show memorised.
8.12.22
Line learning ‘Zach’.
9.12.22
Line learning ‘Zach’.
26.12.22
Been ill for two weeks so unable to line learn or rehearse without erupting into coughing fits. Staying in Brixham for Christmas. Had a great line learning session in the Sunrise Rehearsal Studio, memorised the whole Zach poem and videoed it too.
27.12.22
Brixham. Worked on the Zach poem and the subsequent linking material. Started a video diary.
29.12.22
Paignton. Linking material and You Should Write a Poem, which I also rewrote.
30.12.22
Learning You Should Write a Poem
31.12.22
Learning You Should Write a Poem.
1.1.23
Brixham. Learning You Should Write a Poem, plus ran through whole show so far, about 12 minutes.
4.1.23
Paignton. Line learning You Should Write a Poem.
5.1.23
Line learning You Should Write a Poem.
6.1.23
Line learning You Should Write a Poem. Managed the whole poem with no mistakes, 3m30. Then performed the first 12 minutes of the show with no mistakes.
7.1.23
Line learning linking material.
8.1.23
Brixham. Line learning linking material (producer phone call section), then started work on a possible backing track for Welcome to my Show. Very camp.
9..1.23
Line learning linking material. Chatted to film maker John Tomkins about filming the show with an audience.
10.1.23
Line learning linking material.
11.1.23
Line learning linking material. Chatted to photographer Jim Elton about taking photos for the publicity pictures. That evening, performed two minutes of linking material at the online Woking Write out Loud gig. People laughed at the funny bits!
12.1.23
Rewrote ‘Who Wants Fame?’
13.1.23
Line learning Who Wants Fame?
14.1.23
Line learning Who Wants Fame? Chatted to photographer Emily Appleton about taking publicity photos.
15.1.23
Brixham. Line learning Who Wants Fame? Then to Paignton, to Emily Appleton’s studio, had head shots taken in various poses for possible poster designs.
16.1.23
Paignton. Line learning Who Wants Fame?
17.1.23
Line learning Who Wants Fame?, and adding some choreography.
18.1.23
Went through all the material I’d learned so far. Then line learning linking material. To Exeter, performed five minutes of material and the Zach poem at Taking the Mic. On the train home I started rewriting Fabaranza.
19.1.23
Rewriting Fabaranza.
21.1.23
Rehearsing the show so far and experimenting with different tones of voice.
22.1.23
Brixham. Line learning linking material.
23.1.23
Line learning linking material.
26.1.23
Bristol. Line learning linking material. Back to Paignton. Started learning ‘London’.
27.1.23
Line learning London.
28.1.23
Early morning session, line learning London.
29.1.23
Brixham. Didn’t get into regular Barnstaple Theatrefest so applied for an ‘alternative space’, pledging to do four shows.
30.1.23
Line learning London.
31.1.23
Line learning London. Barnstaple Theatrefest alternative space application successful!
1.2.23
Ran through all the learned show so far. Experimented with using song or different tones of voice on Who Wants Fame. Line learning linking material. Then in the evening, completely rewrote Who Wants Fame, now based on the music to Three Little Fishes, with an incredibly stupid chorus.
2.2.23
Continued rewrites of Who Wants Fame. Line learning linking material.
3.2.23
Line learning new version of Who Wants Fame.
4.2.23
Line leaning Who Wants Fame.
5.2.23
Brixham. Line learning Who Wants Fame and linking material. Also worked on the poster after Emily’s photo arrived.
6.2.23
Paignton. Line learning The Contestants Await.
7.2.23
Line learning The Contestants Await and Who Wants Fame. Then worked on the show poster.
10.2.23
Line learning The Contestants Await.
11.2.23
Line learning The Contestants Await.
12.2.23
Brixham. Line learning linking material and rewrites of Fabaranza.
13.2.23
Paignton. Line learning linking material and rewrites of Fabaranza.
14.2.23
Line learning Fabaranza.
15.2.23
Practising random bits of the memorised material so far, then line learning Fabaranza. Evening, went to Exeter and performed five minutes and Who Wants Fame?, at Taking the Mic. Fluffed one line but generally it went well and people laughed at the jokes.
19.2.23
Brixham. Line learning and practicing Fabaranza. Afternoon, went to Totnes and performed at Word Stir, tried out some linking material in front of an audience.
20.2.23
Paignton. Fabaranza more light rewrites.
21.2.23
Line learning Fabaranza.
22.2.23
Ran through all of the show so far and was very pleased at how much I remembered. Then line learning the section after Fabaranza. Good progress.
23.2.23
Line learning linking material. Also, ordered a game show style buzzer as the only prop for the show.
24.2.23
Line learning linking material at the shop before work. The buzzer arrived. Evening, performed a little of the new linking material at an event at the Little Theatre, Torquay.
26.2.23
Brixham. Line learning linking material incorporating the buzzer.
27.2.23
Paignton, Line learning.
28.2.23
Line learning linking material.
1.3.23
Line learning linking material.
2.3.23
Line learning This City Never Seemed so Cruel.
3.3.23
Line learning This City Never Seemed so Cruel.
5.3.23
Brixham. Line learning This City Never Seemed so Cruel and linking material. Made decision to read the final poem from a piece of paper during performance to accentuate the fact that it was a piece written, so therefore the line learning phase is completed. On to actual rehearsing, now.
6.3.23
Line learning This City Never Seemed so Cruel.
8.3.23
Ran through the whole show so far. 58 mins so will have to prune maybe the last poem. Also decided that the back of the piece of paper uses for the last poem will have David Walliams written on it in big letters. Email from Guildford Fringe offering a date which I accepted.
9.3.23
Rewrote ‘To the Celebrity’.
10.3.23
Rehearsing ‘You Should Write a Poem . .’.
12.3.23
Brixham. Writing the show blurb and publicity material.
So a colleague from work was chatting to me the other day. ‘I’ve seen your act’, she said. ‘You become a completely different person when you’re on stage. In fact, you seem to be much more awake’. I didn’t know if this was a compliment or not. And I remember back in 1996, when I first moved down to Devon with my parents from Surrey, and then surprising them with the announcement that I’d decided to take acting lessons at a night school run in a local theatre. ‘I suppose this means that you’ll want to grow your hair long’, my Dad replied. (Mind you, hair length was always a touchy subject with my father. He would complain about the students at the local college with their long hair and he would declare that everyone should have the same hairstyle. Dad had gone bald in his mid twenties). So it really does come as a surprise when people discover that I am a comedy performance poet. It’s like having a secret double life. It’s not like I’m the sort of person who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but I probably would preface the boo with ‘I hope you don’t mind, but . .’, before I said it. If anything, my parents had always taught me to be polite. ‘Hang on a minute. Exactly why are you going to Milton Keynes next week?’, someone might ask. ‘I perform comedy poetry. That’s what I do’. ‘You? Really? But you’ve never said anything funny’. To which I might have responded with, yes I do, and sometimes it rhymes, but he was quite right, I never say anything funny, and by the time I’ve thought of such a witty comeback, they’ve long gone. I’m not the most outgoing person. I don’t go out much and I probably have around two or three friends. I’m not a big drinker and I hardly ever go to pubs. And yet in spite of all this, I’ve managed to make something of a career as a comedy poet who stands on stage and does outlandish things and makes people laugh. How on earth did this happen, and how did it come about? Quite by accident around twelve years ago, I started performing comedy poetry. I went along to a gig and I really liked the atmosphere and the people, and I asked the host whether it would be possible to come along and read some poems. Id always written comedy poems, only I’d never really shown any of them to other people. I still don’t know why I decided to do this, and I remember being incredibly nervous in the days before, but the night itself went well and people seemed to laugh at the right moments. After a while, people started inviting me to other gigs in other parts of the country and before long, I was zipping about all over the place to strange and erotic places like Lancaster and Swindon. I was just as surprised as anyone else. Looking back, I didn’t think it would ever be possible that I’d have the ‘guts’ to stand up in front of a group of people. For a start, I’ve always been what you might call an introvert and it’s probably still the same now. Part of working in the arts is having the confidence to put yourself forward for opportunities, and this is still an area where I struggle. I’ve never applied for funding or any other kind of sponsorship because, well, that’s not the sort of thing you do, is it? I hardly ever apply for big gigs or showcases, either. If someone asks, that’s great, and it makes me really happy for the rest of the day. But the idea of asking them gives me the willies. Another reason is my dyslexia. I just can’t handle all the forms and the paperwork and the incredibly complicated questions using big long words like community stakeholder engagement or financial budgetary management. My mind just fizzes and pops and nothing makes sense. I’ve tried to get funding on numerous occasions, like the week or so I spent filling out an Arts Council form to apply for a development grant, only for them to immediately reject it because the form I’d used was for project grants. I’m also really bad at self-promotion. I think the default setting of a comedy poet is to downplay one’s achievements. It doesn’t seem natural to talk about one’s successes, particularly if you’re having difficulty thinking of any to begin with. A friend of mine, who works in the arts in the theatre side of things, said, ‘Just make it up. They won't check’, but that would make me feel very nervous. And it’s not just me. When I put on a poetry night in Torquay and asked a comedy performance poet to headline, I was overjoyed when they said yes. I asked them to send me some publicity material and a blurb, and the blurb they sent was so self-deprecating that I don’t think anyone would have bothered coming along if I’d used it. ‘X performs poems, badly. A lot of his friends have told him to pack it all in. None of them have any literary worth. He’s won slams in places like London and Edinburgh, but only because no-one else turned up’. The version of me who appears on stage is nothing like the version of me who exists 99% of the time. The persona I’ve created is just that. I don’t even wear the same sort of clothes on a day to day basis. And this is interesting, because for the 99% of the time that I’m not performing, the very idea of it also gives me the willies. It’s not my natural environment. Again the thought comes to mind that this is not the sort of thing that should be happening to someone like me! Yet one or two people have said that there are parallels between the stage ‘Robert Garnham’, and Robert Garnham the human being. Someone once said that they kind of liked my ‘vulnerability’, and my sense of being ‘ever so slightly nervous’. Yet typically, them saying this made me even more nervous! Nevertheless, it’s rather comforting to me to know that there aren’t too many differences between the two different sides of my personality. Social media creates avatars, versions of ourselves that we want the world to see. I see poets and comedians in the real world acting more or less the same as the version of themselves that appears on stage, and to this day it makes me wonder where they find the energy. My other little rule is that I never mention my comedic poetic adventures in ‘real life ‘. I’ve never shown any of my friends any of my books or videos, and frankly, if I did, I’d feel very embarrassed indeed, and as for my family, well, I've never even mentioned it to them at all. For a start, nobody is interested. It’s like living a bizarre double life, like some kind of poetic super hero. But that’s what makes it so amazing. Right at this moment, reading this, I wonder how on earth I can possibly stand in front of strangers and not completely clam up. I go through a comprehensive sequence of preparation methods before I perform, including putting on a costume, doing my hair, changing my glasses, lying on the floor, doing breathing exercises, and then listening to very loud music. I think it’s fair to say that I’m not a natural performer! I still get very nervous indeed. Indeed, people ask me about the nerves, and I reply that perhaps it’s good that I’m so nervous. It means that I’m concentrating on what I do, and that kind of allows me to step away from the introverted version of myself. Nerves are a sign, perhaps, that I care about what I do. It still comes as a surprise, though. Often, I’ll be on a bus, or doing my laundry, or walking home from work, and I’ll think of what I’ve done and what I’ve achieved, and it really makes me smile. Sure, it feels like it’s been done by someone else, but it’s a person I know really very well. This last year I’ve worked very hard on my performance and next I need to start working on being a bit more forthcoming and what my dad would describe as ‘pushy’. I’m like the kid in the corner who wants to join in but is too scared of the big kids. I was chatting about this to another friend, who’s a poet, and she reckons it might be a class thing. I don’t have that middle class sense of entitlement that some of the bigger names might have, nor do I have the confidence that I have a voice that should be heard. I take great comfort in those who are naturally quiet, who seem to have made a successful career, and have done so through a mix of intelligence and luck, and I think, oh, I think, wow, I, too, have been really lucky!
Robert Garnham 