A show about going nowhere, a show about life, a show about growing up LGBTQ in a suburb of Surrey in the 1980s.
Performance poet Robert Garnham takes the audience on a journey from a time where everything seemed to stand still.
Tag Archives: theatre
I’ll never be employee of the week
I’ll never be employee of the week
You see their face in photographs
So proud in shirt and tie.
It’s an accolade I’ve never had
And I often wonder why.
Of course I work the best I can
With all the skills that I have got
‘Hello there!’ I’m supposed to say to customers
Instead of my usual ‘What?’
I try to learn certain procedures
And apply them to my job.
Apparently the company frowns upon
Calling a customer a ‘jumped up nob’.
Explain where you’ve used initiative,
My boss said the other day.
I haven’t thumped anyone in weeks,
Was the only thing positive I could say.
Our health and safety policy
Ensures that risk is now no more
Though it doesn’t specifically mention
Racing office chairs across the shop floor.
One moment a young trainee starts
Months later in the ranks he supersedes’ ya
Calling him a spotty faced squirt
Only leads to a grievance procedure.
Apparently a stock count is essential
Though the store room is in such a mess
It saves so much time if you can
Just try and give an educated guess.
Asked if I’d cash up the till
It’s a chore that’s no longer in my range
After I told my line manager
That I’ve developed a fear of change.
A workshop in customer services
Is something I’ve been asked to join
Since someone came in for a refund
And left with a knee in the groin.
And then there’s a sudden malfunction
With the self service automated scanner
Apparently it’s not company policy
To repeatedly hit it with a spanner.
An employee of the week I’ll never be
Nor a candidate for an actual promotion
My home made sign in the window, ‘free shoulder rubs’
Caused something of an unwanted commotion.
It’s time for your annual review,
My line manager this morning said.
We looked at each other and just sighed
And then went to the pub instead.
In the Glare of the Neon Yak
In the Glare of the Neon Yak is a riproaring piece of spoken word storytelling set on a sleeper service in the middle of winter. A train full of circus performers are being stalked by a mysterious entity which seems to mean more than just its eerie manifestation. A portent, an omen, the Neon Yak symbolises dark times. Will our hero find love? Will Jacques, the tight rope walker, get back together again with his ex, the circus clown? Does the secret of the Neon Yak lie in the hands of a randy old lady? Has the buffet car run out of sausage rolls? Will Tony the Train Manager find where they’ve put Carriage F? An hour show combining poetry, storytelling and music, In the Glare of the Neon Yak is the sparkling new show from spoken word artist, Robert Garnham.
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Some whimsical poems to entertain you.
Hello, here are a selection of poems in a video which may lighten your mood and add some much needed whimsy to your day.
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
To be quite frank I’m shocked you even asked.
I’m not that bothered
I’ve never hovered
A friend went once
He’s never recovered
Though many people say it is a blast.
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
The sound of it really is quite daft.
It’s got a big skirt
It lets out a spurt
according to some
It makes your fillings hurt
And my buttocks too so that’s both the fore and aft.
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
And if I did I’d sit right next to the raft
I hesitate
To see if vibrate
I told my friend Sam
She couldn’t wait
Shall we do it? I asked, yes, she said, not half!
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
They’re expensive I’d need to go into my overdraft
The thrills I seek
They’re kind of meek
I hope it doesn’t
Spring a leak
And then my god there’d be an terrible drought.
I’ve never once been on a hovercraft.
It’s chilly I’ve heard I’d have to wear a scarf.
A sleepless night
It doesn’t seem right
Why the hell would I go
To the Isle of Wight
Just sit on the cliffs and point at it and laugh.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
Mooching round my bungalow
What shall I have for my tea?
People would call
They’d stand in the hall
They’d look around
And say is that all?
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d go from room to room
I’d only need to use one plug
Whenever I use the vacuum.
It’s ever so static
The fridge automatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or possibly a chalet.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
It’s like a home in half
Talking about my bungalow
Only makes people laugh
I ignore their glares
Or shout, who cares?
There is no cupboard
Under the stars
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or perhaps a ground floor flat.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
With roses round the door.
When people visit my bungalow
I say, this is the ground floor.
My heart is empty
Depravity
It’s easy to fight
The gravity
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d sleep closer to planet earth.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d get right down to business
Living there in my bungalow
No fear of altitude sickness
I’d make my stamp
Buy a standard lamp
I must admit
It’s kind of camp
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
Juicy
This is the show that I was supposed to have toured the U.K. with this year. Alas, it was not to be.
Life can be so juicy at times. Juicy like a sweet apple, filled with goodness. It’s the small things that make it so ripe for exploration, for prodding and poking. Robert Garnham’s new show is an hour or so of performance poetry and spoken word, comedy rhymes and whimsy by the bucket full.
With poems about life, LGBT issues, being envious of beards and the pitfalls of fancying a surfer, Juicy culminates in an extended theatrical piece about love and lust set at an airport departure lounge.
Multiple slam champion and longlisted as Spoken Word Artist of the Year in 2016 and 2017, Robert has performed everywhere from the Womad Festival to London Gay Pride. He has recently featured in a tv advert campaign for a U.K. bank.
Toothpaste advert Dental expert Argues with god
She’s not an actress at all
She’s got a lab coat
And glasses
And she’s talking ever so slightly
To the left of the camera
About how various experts recommend
A certain brand
And god says lighten up
And she says go pro
And god says lighten up
And she says
You can feel the difference.
She’s persistent.
He’s omniscient.
Her lab coat is sparkling
Unbelievably white
Subconsciously saying to the viewer
‘Our toothpaste must be good
It must be.
It really must be.’
God hasn’t got time for this,
He’s got an earthquake to set off
In twenty minutes
In order to punish a small town in Italy
Because parliament has been
Debating gay marriage.
God is a bastard like that.
Ninety nine percent of dentists
Recommend this brand
She says
And god rolls his eyes because
Thirty eight percent of statistics are just
Someone speaking out of their arse.
I saw an advert the other day and
Some bloke was wearing a white lab coat
And I thought here we go, more toothpaste,
Butq he was a washing machine technician
And he was flogging Calgon,
Whatever the hell that is.
Dazzle with brilliant whiteness.
Thou shalt not question the ways of
Thy lord and master
Removes ninety percent of most plaque.
Thou start not
Covet thy neighbours wifi.
It’s all one
Meaningless slogan
After another.
Do you need those glasses?
Have they actually got lenses in?
Bold frames, aren’t they?
And that clipboard
Just keeping tabs on everything, eh?
These are the questions I’d also
Ask of god, along with,
Why should we worship You?
Even if you are our lord and creator,
Are you really so sensitive?
I said to the dentist,
Why do you always look
So down in the mouth?
At least you get to the
Root of the problem.
A golfer came in and said
Most of my teeth are fine,
But I’ve got a hole in one.
Sorry, that’s
My easily triggered gag reflex.
Why have your shorts got so many pockets?
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
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.
Robert Garnham 