"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
My, isn’t Dorset a long way away? It took a five-hour train journey and a one-hour drive
to get to the Bridport Literary Festival for a gig with the splendid Elvis McGonagall and A F Harrold (and Miss Toots, right). This is my dream line-up and the gig went really well – an audience of around 100, giggling and sighing in all the right places. The good people of Dorset, it seems, like flat beer and filth. Whenever they looked like flagging I did another poem about sex, and they woke up.
The good thing about a long train journey is that you can work uninterrupted for hours. We frilly creative types have to fill in a great many forms in order to get finance, and I spent much of the journey writing about National Poetry Day. Back home, I went straight to Buxton to see Othello. I wish I hadn’t. The Icarus Theatre Collective production was poorly lit and hard to hear, with a set that obscured crucial moments of the play. On the bright side, the writing was excellent…
As the people of Cumbria endured their nightmares of rain, I got drenched in Birmingham scuttling to the Writers’ Toolkit conference. I was speaking on creative businesses and also on promoting poetry. The whole event was friendly, well-organised and really useful. Thanks to organisers Jonathan Davidson (above, with new Birmingham Poet Laureate Adrian Johnson) and Sara Beadle for doing all the hard work.
Speaking of good organisation, I trembled to hear where the Loop e-zine were having their
More photos here from the lovely Vera (above right). And so, back to Macc Marina for a restful Sunday – where they are quite keen on a pint themselves…