Imagine a pub on some hazy afternoon
with warm autumn sunlight being cast through the room
the second pint started, the discourse fermented
a large group of friends feeling fairly contented
And yet damn the conversation for Luke is not in it
no one’s paid him attention for nigh on a minute
his lips start to quiver and his head starts to dip
then before you know it, Luke stands up and lets rip:
Luke’s got a joke, Luke’s got a story
here comes a witty line about Tories
Luke’s got an outlook it’s best if you listen
one way or another he requires your submission
Let’s cut to a wake, the sound of Spanish guitar
guests more focused on death than on Luke’s repertoire
which simply won’t do so he bellows the question:
who here’s not seen my Austin Powers impression
and without an answer he’s poofed up his hair
stuck out his teeth and said yeah baby yeah
till everyone’s squirming and forcing fake smiles
and wishing someone had breast fed Luke as a child
Luke’s got a joke, Luke’s got a punchline
hear his new theory from the literary frontline
Luke’s got an opinion about a game of sport
He’s not listening to you, he’s just planning retorts
So let’s visit Chez Luke and Luke and his missus
entertaining some guests with coffee and biscuits
and of course Luke holds court like some navel gazed teen
before collecting applause and leaving the scene
A friend takes the chance to recount her weekend, though
as her yarn starts to mount to its witty crescendo
there’s a noise from the doorway and all turn to see
Luke who says: woah, I just done a really long wee
Luke’s got a joke, Luke’s got a gift
for writing himself into those urban myths
remember that weird thing, that one off, that fluke
yeah well that, that actually happened to Luke
He’s so good at the voices just watch him act
it’s like John Cleese is right here in the flat
no no no Luke we don’t think you’re a twat
do your Mrs Doyle that’s brilliant that
no Luke don’t stop, please tell us more
just don’t, you know, “mention the war”
let’s not bother with the Comedy Store
just get Luke to do some of Blackadder 4
Luke’s got a joke, Luke’s got gag
he’ll repeat near verbatim lines from style mags
Luke’s got a verdict, shut up, let him rave
and when he’s finished give him what he craves
If you see a class enthralled in their lesson
or a couple of lovers stealing a second
a group of old buddies chewing the fat
a brace of old dears going yakkety yak
be sure Luke’s not far from these charming vignettes
with a perfect rendition of the dead parrot sketch
or some neat aphorism from the cavernous jaws
of a life that’s just echo and hollow applause.
The poet strides across the boards reeling
off his verse like some touched religious nut
slowing down to emphasis the feeling
he is sure will be aroused. Then a rut
of his groin at the front row, this means he’s
sexy too. Look at him there, smoldering
away like Heathcliff, shooting the stale breeze
to a crowd of teenagers bordering
on the edges of shrill hysteria
have you ever seen a crowd more engaged?
a final waggle of his posterior
then poetry comes all over the stage.
Silence. The students are slack-jawed and dumb
‘til a hand’s raised, tentative, polite
Wryly the question begins with an um
Then why on earth are you’re trousers so tight?
Skinny black almost elastic drainpipes
Clutching those spindly pipecleaner pins
taking sapling steps. You’ve seen the type -
flat trainers and thighs that look like they’re shins.
That’s what I always wanted: anorexic
heroin chic, like those boys in The Strokes.
I wanted to be thin with legs like sticks
all rib cage, with biceps as thick as spokes.
But as sure as man can’t fly and Scousers
can’t take a joke, I can’t wear skinny jeans
yet still I tried to squeeze into trousers
that had clearly been made for ditzy teens.
Why did no one tell me that I looked a prat?
Like an apple balancing on a pair
of compasses; moon faced, sack stomached, fat
giving off the unmistakable air
of someone so completely out of place
I’d stand out from all the other geezers
sweat beading like gelatin on my pallid face -
I looked like blamonge skewered on tweezers.
And for what? What was the human lollipop
impression in aid of? The gut on stilts.
I was just frowned at like a golliwog -
popularity falters as dignity wilts.
Nothing stinks like effort, reeks like trying,
Nobody wants to be too self-aware;
that question made me see I was lying
to myself. Time to find something else to wear.
And with that my relief blew like a keg
Months of a waistband imprinted on hips
having a bollock squashed into a leg
of fumbling with buttons, struggling with zips
months of avoiding shop window reflections
for fear of catching a black denim sausage
so like an ostrich, no ego inspections
and yes, I looked a bit like an ostrich
months of wondering if I pulled off this look
like the man in the shop said that I did
sniggering into his jeans order book
or whether I just looked like a dick
were over and it was clear to me then:
if you’re in a hole you should stop digging
don’t worry about all the other men
If your ego’s that fragile stop bigging
yourself up. never be afraid to cough
always scratch the itch, always quench your thirst
and if your jeans are too tight, take them off
but only… wait until you get home first.
Seven PM,
we’re here – Stepney
pre-weekend beers
extended sesh
meek Drew meets gentle Beth
he resembles Dexter Fletcher
her eyes gelled green
she’s Renne Zellweger meets Betty Spencer
svelte yet sexless
hey sweets he creeps
pets her tender flesh
pecks her sherbet cheek
she merely tee-hee-hees
then screeches Feed me Drew!
They enter The Ten Bells
(est. seventeen-seventy-three)
where he spends freely
they get entrees, mezze, Red Cherry Reef
(the effervescent refreshment)
desserts, then creme de menthe
The wretched DJ peddles the cheesy dregs they respect
beery lechers get wrecked, then enter senselessness
she jerks her perfect feet,
he pretends he’s the Shed Seven geezer
Mmm tres sexy
Hey Beth, Drew wheezes, next week let’s see Lenny Henry
Eek! Why yes Drew! Lenny Henry’s the best jester ever!
Beth respects Lenny Henry
she resents these new leery types
she’ll never ever get them.
Next scene:
Beth tells Drew she seeks self-betterment
she’s well zen
she stretches, extends, stresses, bends every week
ten secs per stretch! she tweet-tweets.
Drew detests her self-betterment
he swerves the cheerless speech
tells her the new VW Beetle’s very speedy
She clenches her teeth,
eggy, yet reserved.
Then lezzers enter The Ten Bells
Yes, lezzers.
Beth gets testy.
See,
Beth’s meek. She’s never seen lezzers,
Beth’s never seen rebels, sheepbreeders, serfs,
Jeez, Beth’s never seen Bez.
The Lezzers explete freely, they spew phelgm
Beth eyes them, these Ellen Degeneres style femmes
her cheer depletes keenly
Drew’s mettle’s tested
See,
Beth’s never felt seedy
Beth’s never felt greedy
Beth prefers her sphere teeny-weeny.
Her Eden serpent free.
The lezzers spy Beth’s repelled leer
they send her the V
Heckled, The Meek jet
Stepney’s been sleeted
Drew bleep-bleeps the new VW
Beth’s left, she feels wet.
Below are some standard interview questions, each with a range of possible answers. Simply choose the answer that you would give in an interview situation.
Question 1: What do you feel you would bring to the team?
(a) An unquantifiable sense of wellbeing.
(b) An in-depth understanding of almost all sexually transmitted diseases.
(c) A tiny little bowler hat. It’s too small for a person – maybe it was made for a mouse.
Question 2: Why did you leave your previous job?
(a) I foresaw my own fiery death.
(b) They were all like, hey, do all this stuff, and I was like, no way, and they were like, vamoose.
(c) My hands were too small.
Question 3: What would you say is your greatest weakness?
(a) I underestimate the determination of the Bolivian people.
(b) Anything thinner than a quarter of an inch makes me uncomfortable.
(c) When I throw my head back to laugh victoriously, I expose a vulnerable spot under my chin.
Question 4: Do you have any questions for us?
(a) What’s your favourite Christmas song?
(b) What’s up with your nose? It’s all kind of squooshy, like a bad grape.
(c) A train leaves London at 10:00 travelling at 60 mph. Another train leaves Edinburgh at 12:00 travelling at 80 mph. Assuming each takes the most direct route, who was offered the presidency of Israel in 1948?
IF YOU ANSWERED MOSTLY (A):
Your boundless optimism is matched only by your astonishing stupidity. Once, you tied the dog’s lead to the back of the car because you thought he could run fast enough to keep up. It has taken you years of counselling to recover. One day, you will start to fall apart and will stand naked in the cold cooked meat section of the supermarket, holding a hammer in your left hand and weeping uncontrollably.
IF YOU ANSWERED MOSTLY (B):
At the age of thirteen, you experienced what can only be described as a profound religious awakening. In the sky, you saw what you believed to be the face of God and were filled with a sense of indescribable wellbeing. Then you realised it was a blimp. This disappointment was to dog you for the rest of your life. Sometimes, when you have lain awake all night looking at the cracks in the ceiling, you remember that moment, those few, precious seconds when everything clicked into place and the world made sense. In the pit of your belly, you feel a cold knot of regret. All you can think, as the sky outside your window starts to lighten, is that, somewhere along the way, you lost something. Something fragile and beautiful that you can never get back. Also, you eat too much dairy. You might want to consider switching to soya milk.
IF YOU ANSWERED MOSTLY (C):
Tell no-one what happened here today. Do not tell your friends or family. Do not even tell your spouse/partner (delete as applicable). You are in grave danger. We all are. I prayed that this day would never come. God, how I prayed. But now it is upon us, and we are as twigs in the great river, swept along by forces that we, as twigs, do not understand. The water is deep and treacherous, with many dangers, such as rocks, fish and weirs. And remember, we’re just twigs, and hardly in a position to do anything about those dangers. But sometimes, just sometimes, if enough twigs work together, they can create a mighty dam and halt the river’s flow. Obviously, we’re talking about a lot of twigs here. And possibly a beaver. You could be that beaver. I know I said we were all twigs, but forget that. You’re not necessarily a twig. You have the potential to become either a twig or a beaver. You’re some kind of shapeshifting twig-beaver with no control of which one you’ll end up as. If you become a twig, you’ll be swept along with the rest of us. But if you become a beaver, things will be very different. Because of the whole dam thing I was talking about. Of course, you need more than just twigs to make a dam. You need mud. And that mud is our hard work and our belief in each other. That’s what binds us together. Along with the beaver. Which, as previously stated, is you. So, in conclusion, try to be more like a beaver.
Standing in front of the bay windows
of my crisply vectored apartment
wearing a promotional tee-shirt
I got free from a box manufacturing company,
looking out over the red light district
on the lower east side of the city
and wondering where I’m going to find my next job,
It’s easy to forget that none of this is real.
Catch me on a bulletin board
and I’ll talk of my teenage years on Mars,
The fog bank that used to wait for me at the end of my street.
The universe felt so hopelessly unfinished.
I owned a gun that never ran out
and wandered through abandoned processing plants
looking for something to be afraid of.
The sky looked like a painting of the sky,
I titled it “Kronos Sandstorm and Landscape with Items.”
Buildings were still drawing themselves
as I ran up the stairwell.
Sometimes we hunted the fog; sometimes
the fog hunted us, but it was worst for my father,
caged in a universe built purely
of flickering green text until the age of thirty
by which point specificity had driven him insane,
His wax cylinder voice crackling over the desert.
I’m not sorry.
Such advances are irrepressible:
we’ve moved into the cities,
simulated Biblical traumas,
secured our magnificent fractal coastlines.
There’s nothing left out there to map.
Just shallow memories of how it used to be.
Ghost stories exchanged endlessly across a dry bar
in a virtual reconstruction of Manchester,
where folks can still remember how it all began:
When “all of this was just a co-ordinate in the planetarium”
A gun sight in an unlit room that we decided to call home.
I am astonishing.
I am telling you this because you may not have noticed;
I am, after all, far more perceptive than you.
I am also more handsome
and more comfortable in group situations.
My hands are better than your hands.
Your hands look like the hands of a child,
not the kind of hands that could behead a king
or calm a bull whose rampage has already claimed three lives.
Those are the kind of hands mine are.
They are really good hands.
When I say words, they sound right,
whereas you mispronounce everything.
What is an orangutan-g? Is he drinking an ex-presso?
You make me sick.
Even my sick is better than yours.
Your sick is pale yellow and milky,
like banana Nesquik, whereas mine,
mine is robust and chunky,
like country vegetable soup.
When I throw up on myself,
it looks so good.
And when I fall over
because I have stubbed my toe on the corner of the sofa,
I do it with the impeccable poise
of an olympic gymnast.
People hold up scorecards with high numbers on
and nod approvingly.
They would if they had access to scorecards.
I am so much better than you that it baffles me
how you could be considered a viable alternative
to me.
Why would anyone talk to you
when I am available?
It cannot be that they find your humility charming.
I am more humble than you.
I am the most humble man that ever lived.
I am sat by your bed on a Saturday afternoon
and you tell me the things you’ve realised you’ll never do
fly in a helicopter
watch the Foo Fighters live
do the Monopoly board pub crawl.
We went to different unis
but still emailed each other most days
best friends since infants when we’d play in sandpits
and with Micro Machines on your bedroom floor.
You tell me the happiest day of your life
was when you met Denis Bergkamp
in the furniture department at Jarrolds
and I remember the time you told me you’d slept with my sister
and I didn’t dare admit that I’d already slept with yours.
I remember when you first fell ill
when you’d phone me up crying
and I would mute the TV
tell you everything was going to turn out okay.
We talked about things we’d do one day
travel the world and fall in love with barmaids
eat chicken legs in a hot air balloon
go on the pedalos at Centre Parks.
I visit on Saturdays
tell you everyone sends their best wishes.
We listen to the football on 5 Live
I wish I could come round more but I’m so busy with work
my office is such a commute.
Once we’ve watched Final Score with Ray Stubbs
I go and get your shopping
at first you’d make me a list
but now I just stroll the aisles
thinking of the kind of things you like
mango and passion fruit smoothie, cinnamon danish pastries,
bacon.
Once I’ve put the food in your cupboards I go back to your room
and you say
‘I bet all of our primary school teachers are dead by now’
I think back to Mr Holland and Mrs Phillips
and realise you’re probaby right.
You get tired by the evening
you take your tablets
wash them down with a sip of Kronenbourg
and I think back to Millenium Eve
when we took pills in a Camden bar
climbed up the fire escape at midnight
stood on the roof
flapped our arms like eagles
and talked about infinty.
I don’t blame you for leaving me
I see your new boyfriend around sometimes
he seems nice,
always says hello
and I think he’ll make you happy.
You said any clothes you’d left at the house
could go to the charity shop
and the lady in Barnados beamed such a smile
when I came in with a bin bag under each arm.
I took every DVD we ever watched together to the man on the market
sold them for a pound each and made enough
to buy a new pair of trousers
that are really comfy.
I don’t even mind sleeping alone.
I never got used to being woken by you grinding your teeth
or setting the alarm for six every morning.
And when you returned your key
you could have just dropped it through the letter box
but you didn’t, you rang the bell,
came upstairs, told me about your day,
checked your emails like you still lived here,
poured yourself a glass of wine
and didn’t mention that I was drinking alone.
And when you made me promise to keep the house tidy
to Toilet Duck the U-bend
and regularly scrub the hob
for some reason I didn’t feel patronised, I just thought
being with you was the best thing
that ever happened to me.
And I do try to keep the house clean
and I do take out the recycling every second Monday
and I do water your plants
and I do forward your post
and I do know I’ll meet someone new
and that there’s no rush
and I do hope that you’re happy
but sometimes when I think about you
it makes me feel a bit sick.
Colonel Crampon Goes Off
His brolley drips pools of dreary water
on the mock marble floor at Kelvedon station
he remembers when there used to be a porter
here to help with bags, chat to whilst waiting
now there’s just a fat man that sells bad news
and worse coffee. Colonel Crampon buys both,
his Telegraph expunging the same sad truths
we’re all going to the dogs, and Crampon’s past hope.
Prince of Wales check, the tie with the stain
his eyes droop unable to stand to attention
H ow many of us are there waiting for trains
he wonders, sick as schools boys in detention?
How many of us quaking at the high windows?
Told to be terrified of the Muslim, the mugger
hands shaking, gaudy eyes agog at these grim shows
and she’s gone, yes she’s gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.
The electric train clack-clacks towards the capital
the carriages pillaged by cock-sure commuters
news strewn like shell casings, cheap and fanatical
eat this, wear that, and pay less if you do it on a computer.
and somewhere past Ilford the fields simply run out
grey concrete slabs replace dumb cattle grazing
a black box of flats loiters, looms like a lout
but castrated like the violent rain on the glazing.
like the daily medicines of radio and books
he pours on the milk-curdling scream in his gut
which is stoked by the leers of celebrity cooks
by those new Labour girlies who spin us and glut.
till onto the concourse and blitzkrieged by sex
tired tits pushing up, skin scraping on rubber
you can’t see the love for the special effects
and she’s gone, yes she’s gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.
A black cab from the rank to the jewelers on Bond Street
where sixty years ago he’d breezed in on leave
with a month’s wages that left him light on his feet
his black hair, moustache, the two stripes on his sleeve
the stuff of war films now, as a gaunt ghost in the glass
stares back. He doesn’t go in. Instead shuffles along
down to The Strand, where they had walked in the syrup past
arm-in-arm like human beings should, through a throng
of excitable knobbly-faced young Brits
to Simpsons where he’d proposed and she’d said yes,
then down John Adam Street, where a grimy tramp sits
on the stained pavement, his face a caved-in mess,
and onto the north bank where six decades previous
his English reserve flew and he had to stop to hug her
oh but life gets so stark, so dreadful and tedious
’cause she’s gone, yes she’s gone,
bugger all this,
bugger.
So brogue upon brogue he climbs up the stair well
wrought iron shaking under thunderous clout
mind wailing in tune with the intruder alarm bell
till fire doors bang open and London spills out
in front of him, a half mile up, his comb-over flies
and Crampon screams bulging eyes, red faced and spinning
Bugger all this, bugger double-think and lies
those meat-headed men and traitorous women
Bugger your media, Bugger your stars
bugger your make-overs, bugger this time
bugger your shopping malls, bugger your bars
if that’s your sanity then this will be mine!
and he ran to the edge with an arthritic dive
as police burst onto the roof top to scupper
and he flew like an angel laughing, alive
and I’m gone, yes I’m gone
Bugger all this,
Bugger!
Before my voice even broke
I turned my back on being a bloke
You see, I grew up in Colchester
Where very little culture stirs
A soldier town where cabbies boast
‘bout how they used to beat up Blur
and me in bottle green cords
coming back from after-school activities
would see from the windows of my father’s Ford
what I thought boys all grew up to be
smashed-glass vowels, pastel polo shirts
the gnarled veterans of a thousand fight nights
mushroom chinos and blocky arses
brandishing bottles of Smirnoff Ice
Nice
By 14, In the flashing lights of the under-18s disco,
I saw kids so weighed down
with the gold round their necks
that they boogied like mini forty-five-year-olds
middle-aged teenagers with dragon tats
And it just left me so cold
I don’t want to be like that
So by 16 I was arty
I used to cry at parties
And pour my heartsie-wartsy
Out to girls who listened well
I’m different! I’d say
No one understands me
That’s why I write this poetry
Do you want to see?
It’s very… personal
My God! Teenage girls were easy to impress
Just paraphrase the Manics and their views on “otherness”
And you’ll get your greasy paws on many a nubile breast
But alas just like a teenage boy I knew it couldn’t last
And after years of avoiding my fellow men I arrived at an impasse
University – a Casanova’s hell
Where all the other girly-boys wrote poetry as well
Christ! It was like being in a room with sixteen mes
It was like Green Peace had sneezed
This is a verse about an orphanage I helped build in Belize
An interrogators spotlight and a mirror, I was like Dorian in the loft
I was so in touch with my feminine side I’d ripped my bollocks off
Something drastic had to be done
No more Malibu and coke
I had to follow Kylie’s bum
Yes I had to be a bloke
So I sought the company of men
The company of men
Adams, Stewarts, Peters, Craigs
Davids, Barrys, Glenns.
Not the kind of girly boys
that hid behind their fringes
Normal guys that liked football
And motor cars and minges
They all had such gall
And the posters on their wall
were emblazoned with such wit
One said “room with a view,”
but it didn’t mean a view
it just meant a big pair of tits.
The company of men
Mine’s a lager, again
I hope they print my joke about cocks
In next month’s FHM
And I found myself thinking
What’s wrong with this?
We all like to go drinking
we stand up when we piss
We can hang out,
Just get together and shave off our stubble
Locating the clitoris — what’s all that about?
Pint of beer? Make mine a double! Pint of beer …
Oh who was I kidding?
I thought Lucy Pinder was the minister for foreign affairs
Although some of the other chaps did think it was a good idea
I just didn’t fit in
So I’d flit between nights out chasing skirt
In a drunken stupor
And nights chasing the perfect metaphor
Discussing the pros and cons of BUPA
until the nights in with the girly boys
turned into hideous benders
and the search for a shit-hot simile
ended up with us swinging our members
Have you seen my extended metaphor
And it’s in iambic pentameter
Hurling one-liners at each other
With all the restraint of a cab-rank punch up
And yet meandering back through terraced streets at dawn
With a chinoed ape pushing along a stolen Tesco trolley
I heard sentiments so warm
And at times the most precise insights into human folly
Till it became clear that I’d been quibbling over dialect
Someone will say tomato his mate will say ketchup
But at heart we’re all frightened the same
What’s in polo shirt? What’s in a name?
The clink of a pint glass?
The scratch of a pen?
The cry of a baby?
The company of men.
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Homework 2012 1. Boat Party
4th JUNE
2. Karaoke
27th JUNE
3. Games
25th JULY
4. Battle
29th AUGUST
5. True Stories
26th SEPTEMBER
6. Viral
7th NOVEMBER
Find out more here
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