Robert Garnham – Page 29

Spout, the bonus material

During the writing of Spout, I wrote far more than I needed to for the actual hour show. In fact I had several poems about tea left over which didn’t make the final show. I used one or two of these at various performances, but the definitive version of Spout did not contain any of the following poems.

So here, for your delectation, are the poems that didn’t quite make it in to the show for reasons of tone and narrative. Hope you like them!

Typical

I went for a date with a real fun guy
We got on well, didn’t have to try
But what he did just made me cry
He dunked a biscuit in his cuppa.

Typical.
Typical.
Just when I thought I’d
Found the perfect man,
He dunks a biscuit
In his cuppa.

I know you are a sexy hunk
But I was almost sick when I saw you dunk.
Your biscuit is now a sodden lump
When you dunked it in your cuppa.

Typical.
Typical.
Just when I thought I’d
Found the perfect man,
He dunks a biscuit
In his cuppa.

You might say I am very picky
But what you did just made me sicky
That’s the last time I’ll offer you a bickie
If you’ll dunk it in your cuppa.

Typical.
Typical.
Just when I thought I’d
Found the perfect man,
He dunks a biscuit
In his cuppa.

Oh my god
Oh my god
He just dunked a biscuit in his tea.
I drink mine out of the saucer.

A cup of tea with Darth Vader

A cup of tea with Darth Vader
Would have saved us all from
Three trilogies and especially
Those prequels.
A bright and breezy bed and breakfast, perhaps,
Our small table cluttered with cups,
Wobbling slightly but that’s ok,
He uses the Force, and points to the
Tea pot and says, doesn’t if
Look like R2D2?
Ha ha ha ha ha. (Breath intake).

We’d lean back in creaky wicker chairs.
And eat cookies.
Wookiee made cookies in creaky wicker chairs.
I’d check my reflection in his
Shiny plastic helmet.
Do you think the emperor really likes me?,
He’d ask,
And I’d say, don’t be daft, Darth.
More tea?
Is that too much milk?
I know you like it on the dark side.

There’s a crocus in a vase on the windowsill.
It’s so peaceful here.
It’s usually noisy where he works,
No wonder they call it the Deaf Star.
Have you ever actually met Yoda?, he asks.
He sounds just like Miss Piggy.
And then he laughs again.
Ha ha ha ha ha. (Breath intake).
And the couple at the next table look over
And smile,
Non judgementally.

Poem

I took each cherished friendship,
Chopped and diced,
Immersed in boiling liquid.

A fool might see such behaviour
As destructive,
Willingly subverting
Delicacy,
Ungrateful in the afternoon.

But when I drink,
Oh,
It perks me up.

Shall I reuse the tea leaves?

Shall I reuse the tea leaves
That is what he asked.
I know I should use some new ones,
I just can’t be arsed.
Shall I reuse the tea leaves
And pour on boiling water?
Shall I reuse the tea leaves
Or do you think I oughta
Clean the pot swill the pot
Start all over anew?
Or shall I reuse the tea leaves,
What am I to do?

To which I replied,
Reuse them, reuse them,
Oh, you dirty boy,
Oh yes!

The eternal workmans lament. Thirsty work this, love. Thirsty work this. Working on the plumbing in the Wild West saloon. Tut tut tut. You’ve had some cowboys in here.

It’s a tea drinker for me

I prefer a tea drinker.
Always have and always will.
Their steady nerve means
They won’t spill
That blessed drink on the
Windowsill
Or wherever else they’re drinking.
It’s always gets me thinking,
It’s a tea drinker for me.

I always like it hot
That they know their way
Around a pot.
Go ahead and drink the lot!
But you’ll probably need a wee.
It’s a tea drinker for me .

If you have the patience to wait
For a brew
Then I’d willingly spend my time
With you
I can read it in your lips
And in between the sips
My heart it leaps and skips
There’s a tingling in my hips
That I have found the perfect man
Who’s no stranger to PG Tips.
They’re buy one get one free.
It’s a tea drinker for me.

They bring me so much joy
The paraphernalia they employ
For a tea which we both enjoy
And when we’re done you deploy
A tone which is almost coy
As you ask, shall I reuse the same tea leaves?
And I say, you dirty boy!
Oh yes!
It’s a tea drinker for me .

I want a man who drinks a cuppa.
They always make a splendid lover!
In bed at night under the cover
Laying there after a late night supper
Lie back says he, and settle on
I’ll go and put the kettle on
A special brew for you and me
It’s a tea drinker for me

I get no kicks from champagne
But again and again
The same refrain
A man for me
Who knows how to strain
Do I really have to explain?
A beautiful brew inbiber,
A handsome consumer of cha,
No Rosie Lee poseur for me
No crafty kettle cacophony
But what I want I think you’ll see
Is a tea drinker for me

Thirsty work, this.

A monastery of monks in the middle of march,
A sandy haired handyman sanding the landing
A tickle a cough and his mouth somewhat parched.
My throat is so dry, oh, it really is.

The abbot in his habit fails to grab at the hint
Profers a prayer, pats his pocket for a mint
From the depths of his habit, a lozenge or Locket.
My throat is so dry, oh, it really is.

A service is rendered and the monks sing so splendid
And pray away the ailment of the day
And in sunbeams a-slant they grant him a chant
While he calls to the hall like a bad pagan fool,
My throat is so dry, oh, it really is.(a-heh)

In silence and solitude to show their deep gratitude
The veteran bretheren search for comprehension.
In calligraphy, an epiphany amid the handyman’s cacophony,
That a caretaker may care but who cares for the caretaker?
My throat is so dry, oh, it really is.(ah-heh, ah-heh)

Perhaps they could mention divine intervention
So proficient and omniscient and somewhat efficient
A miracle empirical from on high so invisible
A potion a lotion no need for emotion.
My throat is so dry, oh, it really is.

The monastery monks slip from their bunks
And say unto he, would you like a tea?
To which he doth smile, and gently reply,
Yeah, go on then, you twisted my arm.

Dolly tea time.

A porcelain play tea set
And a suburban patio,
My friend’s daughter
Plays dolly tea time,
Pours from a quartet size pot
Into tiny cups on tiny saucers,
Pretends to gossip.

Would you like a cup?

Do you know, I would!

She pours with practised care
And passes me a tiny cup which I hold
In one hand,
Pinky extended,
Saucer in the other.
Mmmm!
Though it’s only water,
This whole scenario is pretend.

Would you like a refill?, she asks.
Dolly is already on her second cup.
Go on, then. You twisted my arm.

Another dainty cup, how like her mother
Does she pour with absolute concentration,
And I sip like a good neighbour.

Because it’s only human to pretend,
Let go of the normality in us all,
Disengage with grown up concerns and find
Genuine pleasure in pretend tea time,
And so you know what?
It makes her feel good,
It make some feel great!

Mmmm!

And by the way, where did you
Get the water?, I ask.
And she replies,
From the toilet.

Not many things went wrong for me at Edinburgh this year, except for . . .

The fact remains that this year I had an incredibly enjoyable time at the Edinburgh fringe. And this is in spite of many things going spectacularly wrong. But the good news is that I had a show I was proud of, and which seemed to get people chatting. There were many times during the week after a gig in which people were eager to share stories about tea and their families, and they wanted to pose for selfies, and one even gave me a packet of biscuits, which I had with my cuppa the next day. But wow, other things certainly went wrong!

Now let’s just put this in to context. Two years ago I flew to Edinburgh and arrived to find that I had lost my passport. That was a bummer. And then the next year, I again flew to Edinburgh, and while I arrived, my luggage didn’t. So I had to spend the first two days of the fringe wearing and performing in the t shirt and the shorts that I had been wearing on the plane. So this year I thought, to hell with flying! I’ll catch the train.

There was also a bit of guilt involved in this decision, for believe it or not, it’s cheaper to fly from Devon to Edinburgh than it is to get the train. My guilt stemmed from the environmental damage that flying can do and the idea that I was saving myself a few hours made me feel bad, particularly as I was only going to perform a show about tea. Ironically, the planet bit back. On the day that I travelled from Devon, the rain was so intense that the line flooded north of Carlisle. So I had to get off at Preston, catch a train to Manchester, a train to Newcastle, and then finally a train to Edinburgh, arriving five hours late during a massive thunderstorm. Oh well, I thought, that’s my bit of bad luck for this year.

Ha. The next thing that happened was to discover that due to a massive mix up, the details of my show did not appear in the PBH Free Fringe brochure. They had the right picture, but the wrong name and description of the show. So I’d arrived at Edinburgh to perform a show that nobody knew about. A secret show! The upshot of this is that I had to do far more flyering and promotion than I have ever done, and that’s the part of the fringe that I hate the most. Flyering and promotion. I’m hopeless at chatting to people, and making small talk. I’m hopeless about talking about my own work and bogging it up. It’s an embarrassing thing to do, and I’m very English in that respect. Yes, I know that it’s good, but it’s not the done thing to tell other people this. I come from a background where I was always told not to boast, and always to put others first. I must have talked so many people out of coming to the show!

So the week went fairly well, all things considered. People would turn up for the non existent show that was meant to have been at the same time as mine. Some of them stayed. None of the other spoken word artists at the fringe knew that I was there beyond my immediate friends, but I had an audience every day, small though it often was. And the show was received well.

I caught the train home early on Sunday morning thinking that it couldn’t possibly be as bad as it had been going up. The weather was much better, and I only had to change at Manchester coming back. Oh, the luxury! And just as I was sitting back enjoying the feeling of accomplishment on having survived the fringe for another year, I began to congratulate myself on using the train and doing my bit to save the planet.

And then when I arrived back at Paignton, I discovered that some bastard had nicked my luggage!

Home from Edinburgh and a gig in Hampshire

I’m writing this in a chain pub in Woking, Surrey. The pub rhymes with never-vrooms, you know, like a car that’s just built for show. It’s been the weirdest three or four days.

On Saturday I did my last show at the Edinburgh fringe, and while it was not one of my best performances, some friends came along and we had a great time. Indeed, as I fed out into the Saturday night drizzle of Cowgate away from my venue, I felt a little sad. I also felt something else, because the venue has been plagued by drain problems all week and the pungent aroma kind of became second nature after a while. Indeed, while I was flyering outside I would worry that people thought it was me. And then even this worry dissipated, unlike the stench, which just kept on going.

On Sunday I caught a train to Devon. Yes, all the flipping way, changing at Manchester Piccadilly. The first leg of the journey was interesting because I was sitting in a seat that was sideways to the direction of travel, so the Scottish and English countryside was just a blur in front of me. Once we got to Preston, the train became very busy indeed. And when someone went to the toilet cubicle next to me and had a power dump, it took me right back to my venue on Cowgate.

Things got interesting just as pulled into Paignton. This was the moment that I discovered someone had absconded with my luggage. This was annoying more than anything else, because the suitcase contained a week’s worth of dirty laundry, but it was all of my usual every day clothing and a hell of a lot of pants. The only comfort was the idea that it would have been opened excitedly, the criminals wondering what kind of designer clothing might lurk within, only to find vintage Primark pants. Alas, though, the teapot hat was in the case. Yes, the hat which I wore during every performance this summer. The teapot hat, lovingly knitted by Bristol poet and artist Hazel Hammond, was no more. A victim of crime.

The effect of this was that it kind of ruined any sense of achievement in actually arriving home. Instead of relaxing and pondering on the week, I had to go on to websites and fill in description of the case and what was in it, knowing that it would probably never be seen again.

I spent one day in Devon, and then I was off on the road again. I arrived at my hotel last night here in Woking and the receptionist asked me if I had any form of ID. Passport? Drivers licence? Don’t worry, she said, we can take a provisional drivers licence, too. Alas, I had nothing like this, but then an idea struck me. ‘I’ve got my book’, I said, reaching in to my backpack and pulling out a copy of Nice. ‘That will do’, she said, smiling.

Last night I performed in Petersfield at an event called Write Angle. This was an event that I have wanted to get to ever since I took up spoken word ten years ago. I remember looking for videos online of my favourite performer, Rachel Pantechnicon, and the videos seemed all to have been filmed at Write Angle. I caught the train from Woking to Petersfield, a town I knew nothing about, and found the venue. The demographic was somewhat older than my usual audience, and that’s saying something, seeing as though I normally perform in Devon. ‘I thought you were much older’, the host said. I noticed that he had used a picture of me in a wig in the publicity material. ‘That’s because I was wearing a wig in your photos’, I pointed out. ‘Ah! Now, do you wear that so that you look like John Hegley?’, he asked.

The gig went well. I did the Spout show, hastily removing all of the more fruity, sexual poems, and I had no way of knowing if the audience liked it or not, as they were all very quiet and respectful, though at one moment there were four camera phones trained on me, which was a little weird. And I knew that nobody would tag me on social media later on because for some reason the host announced me as Mark Garnham.

Back at Petersfield station last night, I waited for the last train home to Woking. It was a warm night and the moon was riding high, and I felt that strangeness within of not really knowing where I was, geographically, and perhaps mentally, too. The whole week has been an odd blur. Two young ladies arrived with a blow-up inflatable man, which one of them had tucked under her arm. And when the train arrived, it was full of football fans. And yet, this being the Surrey Hants border, everyone was very quiet and respectful and for some reason, as the train approached Woking, the football fans replaced or covered up their football shirts, and gently wished each other a pleasant evening. I don’t know if this is just because people are more polite in these parts, or if their team had lost and they were all embarrassed. I might look up the result in a moment.

So yes, it’s morning now and I’m in the pub adjacent to the hotel. I shall be getting a train very shortly back down to Devon. I’m absolutely loving life as a spoken word artist at the moment, even if I did wake up this morning and not even remember which town I was in!

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Seven : A joke offered to Frank Skinner, and semi naked men.

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Seven

So today is already my last day at the Edinburgh fringe. As always I’m going to feel very guilty leaving tomorrow morning. Guilty knowing that so many of my friends and my new friends will still be here, working away and worrying and celebrating and commiserating and I’ll be on a train going back to Devon, hopefully. Or stuck at Preston again.

This is my sixth time at the fringe. I started out with Dan Haynes in a show called Poetry Ping Pong, and since then I’ve brought Static, Juicy, In the Glare of the Neon Yak, and of course, Spout and The Two Robbies. I also had one year doing guest spots at other people’s shows. And that was the best. It was totally worry free!

I went flyering today. And I met some very interesting people. One lady pointed at my flyer and said, ‘oh wow, it’s you!’, like this was the most amazing thing ever. And then I met a gentleman who was very excited because he had just seen Eddie Izzard walking along the street. ‘I saw Frank Skinner the other day, too’, he said. ‘And I told him a joke! It goes like this. Why shouldn’t you wear Ukrainian underpants? Because Chernobyl show. Ha ha ha! Do you get it? Chernobyl show. Yer-nob-will-show! Ha ha ha! Do you think he will use it in his act?’ I told him that he might do.

My audience yesterday was amazing. Not only was it my biggest yet, (if you include me, then it was in double figures), but a couple from Leith came along, and they had seen me last year. Indeed, they’d come especially to see me, which was totally amazing to know that I have fans in so many parts of the country. And after my show they gave me a packet of Scottish shortbread as a present. How many other performers get presents from their audience, I wondered.

As soon as my show was done I had to scoot across town to a cabaret where I was doing a guest spot. While I was doing this, the most amazing torrential rain storm erupted. I had to shelter halfway at a shop awning because the rain was so intense. I think it would have been dryer to stand in a shower, that’s how intense the rain was, and the street became flooded within less than a minute. I was joined by a party of young men who were obviously out on the razz, and as the rain intensified they took off their t-shirts as they surrounded me. And I was thinking, hello, this is a nice day at the office. I’m sure they might have taken off more had it been even wetter.

So it’s been an amazing week and as ever, I have no idea how I’m going to go back to normal civilian life. This has been a week of amazing memories and wonderful people, and apart from the train dramas at the very start, nothing has gone hideously wrong. And will I be back next year? If I can get my head around flyering, and actually enjoy it, then yes, definitely.

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Six : The ennui is setting in

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Six

And then before you know it the fringe experience is almost at its end. I only have two more shows to do and one guest spot and then that’s it. The end of Spout, for now, and I can start looking forward to doing poems about things other than tea. That’s going to be such a bonus. I’d almost forgotten that anything else existed as a potential for poetry.

I’m writing this in a crowded bar at midday having just seen Melanie Branton’s lovely kids poetry show, Rhyme Marmalade. And that’s the amazing thing snout Edinburgh during the fringe, you can end up seeing anything and whatever your friends might be doing, rather than reading about it later in social media.

I had one of those days, yesterday, during which I was walking around the city almost all day. I tell you, I was knackered by six in the evening. It was my fault, really, as I’d spent the morning doing my laundry at the student accommodation and half of that time was figuring out how to load credit on to the card that one needs to use the washing machine. And that left me with less time actually to get out and do the things I needed to do.

And one of the things that I needed to do was to go over to the new town area and appear at an LGBT cabaret show at eleven o clock at night. Only it was due to start twenty minutes after my show ended. So I did a dry run, choosing the route and finding the venue so that it didn’t come as a nasty surprise when I had to do it for real. I then discovered that I’d left some bits at my student flat that I needed, so that meant a walk across town in the other direction to fetch them. It was one of those days.

So I only had the time to see one show, and that was Dominic Berry’s show at the Zoo venue, and I loved every moment of it. Dominic has always been one of my favourite performers and a personal influence so it was great to catch up. I won’t give anything away about his show, suffice to say that it is brilliant, funny and meaningful all rolled in to one.

So, then. Two more days of flyering. Two more days of Spout, and the sound bleed coming from the room next to my venue, where it sounds like someone is being murdered every night. And then a thirteen hour train journey back to Devon followed by work the next morning. Oh well.

This bar is getting crowded now of people coming in for the next show. Apparently she has on office party, and she’s also been on the radio publicising her show. There must be fifty or sixty people in here. My average audience has been two. . .

Onwards, as they say, and upwards.

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Four. Or is it five?

The Edinburgh fringe is hard work. It’s a fourteen hour a day job mostly spent out of doors. The flyering is conducted in a sea of humanity, people from all over the world in anoraks and rain macks, holding umbrellas aloft, wearing earphones, desperate not to get flyered. It’s physical and it’s relentless. There are hills everywhere, and cobbles. It’s impossible to walk in a straight line because of all the hills and the cobbles and the tourists but every now and then you might meet someone who seems genuinely interested in what you have to offer.

Yesterday was possibly my best ever day at the Edinburgh fringe in six years or so. I flyered all morning with Rob Barratt for our show at Banshee Labyrinth, which is my favourite venue in Edinburgh just for its sheer quirkiness, but also because the performance space is amazing and atmospheric. Nervously, with five minutes to go, we hung around outside the venue and it looked like there was nobody interested. Rob went inside to prepare our space, when a group of people arrived for our show. And what a show we put on! Rob whipped the audience into a frenzy with his audience participation poetry, and my material went down really well too, and we made such a great atmosphere that I wished every show could be like this. We were funny, whimsical, charming, non threatening and generally made everyone feel great, and that made me feel great, too.

I spent the afternoon in my student accommodation rehearsing for the BBC slam, in which I as entered. This meant that I couldn’t do any flyering until twenty minutes before my actual show. I arrived at the slam, met the other wonderful poets including the amazing Carys Hannah, and took a deep breath, and went for it. As luck would have it, I was drawn last, and for my first poem I did Beard Envy. And the audience seemed to like it a lot! I got through to the next round, amazingly, during which I was first on, and I did, ha ha, the Orgasms poem. Once again the audience seemed to love it, and afterwards I did think to myself, gosh, have I just gone to the BBC and spent three minutes talking about orgasms? Alas, it was not good enough to get through to the final, but I had an amazing time and it really made me feel upbeat.

I then hurried over to my venue and did a frantic twenty minutes of flyering, fully expecting that I would be going home early with no audience, and I didn’t mind, as I was pretty exhausted. Y now. My flyering was somewhat interrupted by the spectacle of watching a man dressed as a clown drive his Nissan Micra into the pedestrianised zone and get pulled over by the police. Amazingly, I ended up having the best audience of my fringe so far! How on earth does that happen?

Admittedly, a lot of them had come specifically to see me. How they found my is anyone’s guess, as I’m not in the Free Fringe brochure, but they’d seen me at various gigs all around the Uk, in Cheltenham, Wolverhampton and Swindon, and they told me afterwards that they even quoted the Fozzie poem to each other at odd moments. This made my day, as it proves that there are Robheads in places other than south Devon!

So I did the show and it was probably my best performance yet. And it made me feel amazing! The audience lingered around afterwards to chat, which is always a good sign.

It’s the next day now, and I’m writing this while I’m waiting for my laundry. It’s been an astounding week so far!

Edinburgh Fringe Diary Day Two : Molly the ghost and a stained glass Berlusconi

It rained, yesterday. It rained like you wouldn’t believe. And I mean that. You wouldn’t believe now much it rained in Auld Reekie yesterday. It was a relentless deluge which lasted all day, persistent and it made everything moist. As I walked into the city from my university accommodation I thought, well, there’s no way I’m flyering in this. I hate flyering at the best of times, but when you’ve got a show that has no publicity whatsoever, and is so wet that your fliers are going soggy while they’re still in your backpack, it all seems ever more unnecessary.

And yet, what other method is there of getting complete strangers to come and see a show about tea?

The town was gloomy. Like a teenager whose come on holiday with his parents. The old tenements and bridges leaned in frowning, like an old lady confused by an iPad. The rain ran in the gutters of Cowgate and actually came up from the drains. I’m sure that drains are meant to work the other way. For a short while there was a fountain in the middle of Cowgate, as the water came up and sparkled in the headlights of the taxis and ambulances.

I went and caught up with Melanie Branton and we chatted in her town centre accommodation about flyering tactics, exit flyering and street flyering, and the shows that she had seen, and it was great to spend time with her. It was also great to be out of the rain. I then went to my venue, the Bar Bados complex, and stuck up posters around the place advertising my show, which at the very least made me believe that I was achieving something tangible and proactive.

And then I tried some flyering. Jeez, it was impossible. Within minutes my flyers became a soggy mush of paper and cardboard. I gave up very easily and went to watch Sez Thomasin’s excellent and thought provoking show about diversity and representation in the NHS, and then stayed in the same room to watch Melanie Branton’s incredibly show about class and her background, delivered its passion, enthusiasm and warmth, humour and emotion.

At this point I really should have done some flyering, but instead I went for a pizza with Melanie in an Italian restaurant in Grassmarket, the most defining features seeming to be a stained glass mural representing stereotypical Italian images, such as a Vespa scooter, the Alfa Romeo logo, the colosseum, and, I swear, Sylvio Berlusconi. And the man at the table next to us had a soup and when he went to put some pepper in, the top came off and pepper went absolutely everywhere. ‘Would you like another soup?’, the waiter asked. ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I’m fine’.

And then I did some flyering. And Melanie helped. And she was brilliant, in the torrential rain and the dim and gloomy Cowgate area, chatting and stopping people and generally showing me how to do it. I’m sure that this would have worked much better if the weather wasn’t so awful. Twenty minutes to go, I went up to my room and chatted to Jemima Foxtrot, who told me that there’s a ghost at the venue and at Banshee Labyrinth called Molly, and if you don’t get an audience, you perform your show to Molly, and she gives you good luck for the rest of the fringe. It seems a better idea than flyering.

And the show? I had an audience, which was a bonus, so no need for Molly. And I think I performed well. There’s a section in the show where I try to throw a teabag over my shoulder into a tea cup and for the first time ever, I actually managed it.

I’m writing this the next morning and it’s actually quite sunny out there. I’m looking forward to doing some flyering with dry flyers and a potential audience who haven’t got their hands full with umbrellas. It’s going to be a long week, but I’m happy to be here, and feeL privileged to be in the festival at all.

Much Ado about Muffins

A stark yellow light bends oblong from
Faux Edwardian windows
Illuminating each individual cobble of the
Pretend medieval street.
A sign hangs and creaks in the autumn breeze,
An antiquated font black on white,
Much Ado About Muffins.

Derek Dubbins is on duty, dour, he damps down
The desk with a bleach soaked dishcloth,
Rain-macked tourists huddle in the doorway
With rucksacks the wrong way round,
Derek sneers, scrubs harder, his knuckles whiten
While his regular clientele read the Daily Mail
And nod in agreement with the letters to the editor.

This is not the sort of place
Where you might ask for soya milk,
A traditional establishment
Harking back to a past that never was,
A display cabinet of scones,
Jam tarts, a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher
And another of that mad orange-faced gibbon,
You know the one,
And Derek himself, gammon red and
Incensed by subjects as diverse as breast feeding,
Health and safety regulations,
The rights of minority groups,
Croissants.
Nothing makes his blood boil more than the expression,
Live and let live.
In short, he’s a bit of a cock.

But Brad does not know this, Brad,
Eager and carefree and delicately attired
In a plain white tshirt and three quarter length trousers,
Converse all stars with no socks, Brad,
Sunny demeanour, a fervent believer
In the goodness of other souls,
Though quite possibly wearying after the
First ten minutes,
Brad lays his slender and manicured fingers
On the freshly bleached desk and says,
Would it be possible to order a wedding cake?

Why of course, says Derek,
Who’s the lucky bride to be?
Oh, replies Brad, that would be me!
Then let’s out a laugh,
Or my partner, my love, my other half,
Bradley.
What?, Derek asks.
Yes, I know, I call him Bradley
Because otherwise we’d both be called Brad
Nothing worse than shouting out your own name
During an orgasm!

No, he replies,
No, he replies,
No, no, no.
I don’t need your custom here.
I don’t need your cash.
Your ways and whims
Make a mockery of my beliefs,
Just go, just dash,
Before I call the police!
And brandishing his stainless steel cake tongs,
Derek watches
As Brad takes leave.

Silence descends upon Much Ado About Muffins.
Nervous cleared throats
And the occasional rustling
Of the Daily Mail.
All
Is as
It should be.

The dead of night.
A moonless midnight,
A silence so deep it stuns.
The kitchen refrigerator
Quietly hums.
Derek slumbers under his duvet,
Dreaming dreams of a new day
Where people know their place,
How great life would be
If everyone were like he.
He imagines a world without . . .

Fairies
Appear at the kitchen window,
Their dainty wings beat softly on the pane,
Each one emits an iridescent glow
Which sparkles, moves,
They let themselves in
And flutter round the room,
Twelve of them
Waving their magic wands,
Light as air.
Gary, Bruce, Dave, John, John, Roger,
John, Dave, Bruce, Gary, Roger and Sebastian.

They land on the marble work top.
Ok, girls, says Bruce,
You know what to do.
We’re here to celebrate
A love that’s true.
Let’s use our fairy dust
And bake with all our might
And feel proud of our efforts
At the end of the night.
Let’s get to work, let’s light the lamp,
It’s like then shoemaker and the elves
But a little more camp!

Ok, girls,
Let’s do this!

They make the base
They drain the dregs
They roll and kneed
They beat the eggs.

They laugh and joke
They take a risk
They craft and cook
They cut and whisk

They stir and mix
And prod and bake
And ice and fill
The wedding cake

And there it stands
So tall and glad,
Congratulations
Brad and Brad. Ley.

The fairies sit back and gaze at their efforts.
A triple tiered masterpiece with icing gently
Soulful like a rococo palace,
By turns baroque and stately, it stands as a
Testament to the love which
Propels the planet itself throughout its lonely orbit.
We shall bring Brad first thing, says Bruce,
Show him his cake, and then,
Our work here will be done.

At that moment the fairies hear
The trundling lollopping footsteps of Derek
On the old rickety staircase, and his
Baritone voice booming,
Fe, fi, fo, fum,
I’m off to have a dump.

Derek spies a suspicious sparkling,
Creaks open the kitchen door,
And there before him, the wedding cake
In all it’s majestic splendour,
The words Congratulations Brad and Bradley
Spiking his heart with a vengeful angst,
He goes bloody ballistic.
Tears into the fresh frosting and flings it, frantically,
Out the back door and into the yard
Where it lands next to the recycling bins.
He turns and stamps back up the stairs,
Stampy stampy stampy,
What an absolute bell-end.

Well, ladies, says Bruce,
No use standing round here all night
With a face like a slapped arse.
You know what to do, my lovelies.

They make the base
They drain the dregs
They roll and kneed
They beat the eggs.

They laugh and joke
They take a risk
They craft and cook
They cut and whisk

They stir and mix
And prod and bake
And ice and fill
The wedding cake

And there it stands
So tall and glad,
Congratulations
Brad and Brad. Ley.

Again, the fairies stand back to admire their efforts.
In divinity does the cake
Seem to defy gravity, its delicate frosting
Reminiscent of a winters forest,
And equally ethereal the finely spun sugar lacing,
Like dew on a spiders web,
As tentative and timeless as love in all it’s glory ,
Less a cake, and more a hymn to matrimony.
We shall bring Brad first things they say,
So that he can pick up his cake, and then,
Oh then, our work here is done.

At that moment, bugger me,
The trundling, lollopping footsteps of Derek
On the old rickety staircase, and his
Baritone voice booming,
Hey diddle dee dee,
I’ve come to have a wee!

A moment or so later the second cake
Joins the first in the back yard next to the recycling bins,
Which he never uses anyway,
And most of the fairies can see a pattern forming.

Alright, says Bruce,
We’ll have one last crack at this.

They make the base
They drain the dregs
They roll and kneed
They beat the eggs.

They laugh and joke
They take a risk
They craft and cook
They cut and whisk

They stir and mix
And prod and bake
And ice and fill
The wedding cake

And there it stands
So tall and glad,
Congratulations
Brad and Brad. Ley.

For a third time, the fairies stand back,
For the cake is a corpulence of crusted creams,
Daintily drizzled with delicious dustings of sweetness,
White with ice frosting, a triple layered dream
Held up with Corinthian columns, finely sculpted
Decorative dainty Daisy chains,
It stands as a hymn to love, a monument to
The deepest adoration, the passion
Which keeps us all from going insane.

A door opens upstairs,
Followed by the trundling, lollopping footsteps of Derek
On the old rickety staircase,
Tiddly om pom Pom,
I think I’ve got the runs!

There’s silence.
He pushes open the kitchen door,
He sees the cake in all it’s majesty,
Congratulations Brad and Bradley,
And just as he’s about to lunge,
Bruce, the fairy,
Suddenly appears right in front of him,
Lit up in ethereal light in the dark of the kitchen light.

Arghhhh!, says Derek.
You!, says Bruce.
Keep away!, says Derek.
What the fuck are you, I mean,
Seriously!

I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, says Bruce.
Really?, says Derek.
Naaah, says Bruce.
Keep away!, says Derek.
Keep away, keep away!
Just what do you want from me?

The fairies surround him, but there’s no menace.
The glow of their wings flits across the ceiling,
Iridescent magic reflecting back from pots and pans.
We want you to love, says Dave.
We want you to cherish life, says Jim.
We want you to open your eyes, says Bruce,
And see that there’s so much else beyond
Your faded jaded introspective worldview.

Love is a dream for many.
Love is a ludicrous nonsense.
Love is the aim of every soul.
Love should never be banished.
Love is a celebration!
Love is the glue that keeps us all sane,
Love is more than just a game.

And love does not care for labels.
Love is a miracle whenever it occurs,
A passion shared is doubled, and it spreads,
Soars, fills the world and builds it up.
There were generations who couldn’t,
The world rattled with their silent screams,
It happens today in places less free,
Hearts torn in twain by the thunder of disapproval,
Lives ruined amid the scream of self righteous bullies.
He who stands against love
Stands against life itself.

There’s a magic in the air
As Derek feels a weight lifted.
He sees the world anew, then stares
Deep into his own soul,
Shudders at what he sees,
Deafening and darkness and the Daily Mail,
Hatred dictated by front page opinions
And the need to appear big.
You’re right, he whispers,
Love shall be celebrated,
And I’d be proud to play my part.

At that moment, a lonely sunbeam
Slants through the window, signals
The dawn of a new day,
And In walks Brad, accompanied by
Gary, Roger and Sebastian.
Proudly, and with a tear in his eye,
Derek announces, here,
With all the blessings of my humble tea shop,
And with honest and newfound best wishes
For a happy life together,
Please accept this
Splendid wedding cake.

Brad smiles, and leaps for joy,
Then bends down and inspects the cake carefully.
That’s very sweet of you, he says,
And it’s a beautiful cake,
But I have a wheat intolerance
And Bradley is allergic to dairy products.

Spout, the official trailer

So yesterday I spent most of the morning on Paignton beach with film maker John Tomkins, making the official trailer for my new show, Spout. Naturally it’s not every day that you sit on a beach in a teapot hat, but I think I was very professional indeed. And the people passing by seemed to enjoy what we were doing!

Anyway, here’s the trailer. Spout debuts next week at the Barnstaple TheatreFest and then moves to Guildford, Reading, Denbury, Bristol, Torquay and Totnes before rolling into Edinburgh for the fringe.

I went to the Straight Pride Parade

I’ve just been to the straight pride parade
I gasped at the masks and the costumes that they made
I offered a salute to the striding blokes with banners
Proudly raising up their porn mags and their spanners

I’ve just been to the straight pride parade
There was a lovely beer tent though I asked for lemonade
Striding proud in line in a slouchy kind of way
Shuffling and lollopping and none of them were gay

All of them were very straight, butch and masculine
And I felt strange stirrings of something down within
To watch all these straight guys belch and march and fart
Did some very odd things to the depths of my heart

I’ve just been to the straight pride fete
All of them moustachioed and several called me mate
None of them wore sequins though a few had anoraks
And then they took their shirts off and rubbed sun cream on their backs

I’ve just been to the straight pride fair
I’d never seen so many definitely straight men there
Straight straight straight straight that was one of their chants
And then they took their clothes off and pranced around in their pants

I had a great time at the straight pride parade
Blokey blokey blokey blokey straight pride parade
Marching proud in line with the world at their feet
But Every day is straight pride day on every single street