Oliver's Poetry Garret

Lost Commuters

2009-05-06T23:18:00.000Z

Well, it is May already. . . and I have not written a blog entry for two months.

Whatever I am successful at, it is clearly not blogging.

I have had Bloggers' Block - largely from working hard, writing poetry, travelling and planting my allotment. All activities that suddenly seemed more important than writing for an audience of two or three people!

Although, of course, I am really writing this blog for myself.

It has been a frentically hectic time. My life seems an express train at times.

I returned to Zell am See, in Austria, to visit my elder daughter which I really enjoyed.

Booking accommodation over the web, I ended up sending the first couple of nights in the youth hostel and the next three in the Grand Hotel - a vast contrast.

Both overlook the lake, which was frozen, and the Youth Hostel was friendly and very inexpensive.

But, despite its huge kitchen and team of chefs, the food was terrible, even at the low price they charged.

They desperately needed a visit from Gordon 'Boil-in-the-bag' Ramsay!

After a couple of days, I dragged my broken suitcase round the lake to The Grand Hotel, Zell am See, which really was the last word in luxury.

On the face of it, it was expensive, but when you considered the delicious five-course dinner was included plus the lovely swimming pool, sauna and jacuzzi, it started to look pretty reasonably priced.

It took me a little time to get used to the nudity in the sauna, but I must say I thoroughly enjoyed my stay there.

It was a most beautiful week in Zell am See.

The frozen lake seemed magical to me, particularly at night, and I love walking around it.

And, unlike on my previous visit at Christmas, it snowed fairly constantly. Zell am See looks great in the snow, terrible in the rain!

Of course I ended up checking Zell am See's nightlife which, if anyone, I found even worse than before.

Visitors to Zell am See in the winter come to ski or snowboard and to drink.

Even though I am no stranger to the bottle, I was a bit shocked by the sheer level of drunkenness in the town.

This was made worse by the fact the season was drawing to an end and was less busy than at Christmas, giving it a "drinking in the last chance saloon" feel about it.

Perhaps the worst place was the Diele Bar where I was told the ski instructors get free drinks for taking their ski groups for apres ski.

The result: young people pissed out of their minds by 6pm. I encountered one who'd fallen asleep and was still snoozing slumped over a table last at night, hours after his so-called mates and instructor had departed.

The other nightspots were not a hell of a lot better.

In the Dutch-run Slam Cafe they were friendly, though their main interest was to get you drinking shots in large quantities.

I was interested to learn that the Slam Cafe is only open in the ski season - for about four months a year.

But it was at least better than the dreadful pool-table bar where, what looked like under-aged boys, were learning to smoke through straws.

Crazy Daisy's was even worse, with its lazy bar staff and abusive English band, playing cover versions and boasting about their short hours and large sex life (yawn!!)

I quite liked the intimate Greens Bar, although the people were on another planet with booze.

The Viva Disco is a club to avoid - like a throw-back to Romeo and Juliet's, in Hull, circa 1980!

Actually, all of the nightlife is much of a muchness.

In one bar I was drinking my expensive halves of lager at the same rate as the threesome next to me (ski instructor and two girls) were doing cocktail and spirit chaser rounds at 70 euros a time.

And the singer himself got so drunk, he couldn't remember the lyrics to the covers any more!

For all that, I enjoyed my second visit to Zell am See. Going to the frozen waterfalls at Krimml was fantastic, and my days in the Grand were just that.

Sadly, my skiing did not improve.

I was in just as much pain as on the previous occasion and really did not enjoy it much, apart from the wonderful scenery.

Since my return I have been really working hard at everything.

In the evenings I've been editing my long, narrative poem, The Commuter's Tale.

It is coming along well, though every time I think I have cracked it I realise there is still a bit more to do.

I went up to the Lake District for a day and a night and stayed in a beautiful place called Arnside, overlooking the Morecambe Bay.

It was hugely tidal and very tranquil - a little-known gem.

Sometimes when you plan trips overseas, one forgets just how beautiful Britain is.

I have put a lot of my spare time into the OxFringe gig I did, which was quite a success.

I was sharing the show with three other poets and we did about 25 minutes each in two sets.

The whole show had been entitled The Lost Commuters, which I found quite flattering as it related closely to my contribution.

It was all brilliantly organised and themed. We all wore commuter clothes - and hats.

And 'train tickets' were handed out to the customers at the door.

Despite a wretched cold, I did a dozen minutes of funny performance poems for my first set and then read 13 minutes of The Commuter's Tale, in three extracts.

Overall, a great experience, and I would love to go back to do more at OxFringe.

It was also a joy working on and performing with the show with my fellow poets - Mac McFadden, Danny Chivers, and Laura King who also a great job in organising and publicising the gig.

The April gig at Lewes Poetry at the Lewes Arms was also a big success.

I was promoting the leading poets of the Frogmore Papers - Jeremy Page, Ros Barber, Joe Sheerin, Rachel Playforth and Ellen de Vries.

The venue was full to capacity with a great atmosphere - and all the poets and the limerick competition went down well.

It gives me particular joy that the club succeeds as well with a bill of page poets as with performance poets - it is almost unique in that respect.

For instance, the following gig - on 21 May 2009 at the Lewes Arms - will feature the rising rap star MC Elemental.

Lewes FC's end to the season also created a lot of interest.

It was the Mighty Rooks' worst season in memory - largely thanks to the Board and their appointed coach, Kevin Keehan.

But it has to be said that once Kevin Keehan finally saw he had to do the honourable thing and quit, life at the Dripping Pan started to pick up.

It was incredible to see Lewes beat Altringham, chalking up their first league victory in five months, having equalled a record for number of consecutive losses in the league that had stood for more than 100 years!

I cannot recall attending a more enjoyable football match.

That glorious 2 - 0 victory will stay in my mind forever, I hope.

Whatever his virtues, Kevin Keehan was a remarkably bad choice of coach. Yet, for most of his tenure, he seemed to blame everyone bar himself.

I was proud to see that when he quit, he told the Sussex Express that the last straw had been the fans, myself included, calling for his resignation.

And I would like to think that my High on Spring Water column in the excellent fanzine Ten Worthing Bombers played a little part in his decision.

Certainly, I think the fanzine became a far harder product to get out after he left. It suddenly dawned on us all that KK was all we had been writing about!

Sadly, Kev had quit before my dig at him in Mark Steel's Lewes documentary on BBC Radio 4, although no doubt he was listening.

Now, we are in the post-Keehan era. The not-so-mightly Rooks came bottom of their league and have been relegated.

With any luck, the bar will be open during the entire match next season.

I was quite touched by the last game of the season, when Lewes held the impressive York - the Mighty Minstermen - to a 1 - 1 draw.

We played with great spirit and, in the bar afterwards, fans mingered with players and staff and cheered the Rooks to an echo.

Not many clubs would have seen that after the kind of season we'd had. It was wonderful to hear!

On the subject of sport, I have taken up tennis, one of the few sports I have a little skill at.

Though far more of my time has been taken up by the allotment.

After two months of hard graft, I now have 35 lines of crops in.

My plot is fully cultivated - from top to bottom, a real rarity for an allotment.

I have a builder's muscles as a result, and also sun burn!

It is magic up at Earwig Corner in the early evening. Sometimes I sit there, sipping a can of beer and just soak up the atmosphere.

One memorable night, after I'd cycled up, it started to rain heavily as the sun was setting.

As you can see from the image above, it was sublime.

Oliver's Poetry

First Anniversary of Lewes Poetry

2009-03-07T23:15:00.026Z

The first anniversary of Lewes Poetry - staged upstairs at the Lewes Arms on 24 February - was a massive success!

I had been a tad worried about the turn-out that I might get on a cold Tuesday evening in February, even for a former slam poetry world champion.

But I should not have fretted. We pulled in a fine crowd. And Elvis McGonagall did us proud.

His is an amazing act: funny, erudite, fast and topical।

Elvis's accents are spot-on, his impressions superb, and his political radar magnificent.

In performance poetry, he truly is the cream of the crop - and a hell of a decent chap as well.

Elvis was ably supported by actress Dani Carbery, who has, coincidentally, followed me down from Leamington and now settled in Lewes, and children's author Kate Tym whose sexy and intimate poems were enjoyed by the audience (although I could see her husband squirming!)

The Limerick Contest went with a bang and was won by my old salsa chum Felix Beacher who then got up to read his own outrageous, saucy poem.

Overall, it was a show with something for everyone, and I was so delighted that we could fill an upstairs room on a Tuesday night.

Indeed, the entire year has been remarkable.

From a very humble start in 15 February 2008, with a handful of people and a dog, watching imaginative Ash Dickinson do his stuff, to the sell-out gig with the brilliant performer Attila the Stockbroker.

The visit by The Birmingham Poets - Richard Grant (Dreadlockalien), Lorna Meehan and Simon Lee - was also a joy, as was wacky cross-dresser, poet and children's illustrator Rachel Pantechnicon.

And that's without mentioning the comic A F Harrold, expressive Justin Rhyme, and talented page poet Catherine Smith.

The year of poetry has also been enriched by some of the oddball characters swinging by the club: crazy cat Jared Louche, Pallette, Dancing Man Paul Duckett, intense Tony Kalume, out-of-left-field Charlie Devus and Felix to name but half a dozen.

What a year!

I couldn't have done it without the hard work of the Lewes Poetry team or the support of Abi at the Lewes Arms (and her predecessor Dave).

The club is back on Thursday, 30 April 2009 with the Frogmore Poets: Ros Barber, Joe Sheerin, Ellen de Vries and Jeremy Page.

And on Thursday 21 May, I am putting on rising rap star MC Elemental.

See you there - upstairs at the Lewes Arms.

Oliver's Poetry

The Bleak Mid-Winter

2009-02-20T22:22:00.010Z

Blimey O’Reilly! What an absolutely depressing beginning to 2009!

I cannot recall a more miserable start to a year. If I was still working up in Leamington I’d be suicidal.

What with ranting Robert Peston's recession (soon we’ll all be brassic lint and speaking in silly voices), the ceaseless bad weather, obnoxious outpourings of Jeremy Clarkson and Jonathan Woss (why is it the rich and famous who are dishing out the abuse? What have they to moan about?), and general bad-temperedness of commuters on the train, it has been a ball-buster.

Apart from gushing Kate Winslet, is anyone feeling happy about their life?

To compound matters, I have not been particularly well, a cocktail of minor complaints apparently beyond the curative gifts of my £120-grand-a-year GP that makes my life uncomfortable.

I was so knackered by the end of last week that I just lay in my bed in the early with the electric blanket on attempting to keep warm. I wish hibernation was an option.

Let’s look on the bright side.

I succeeded in not drinking a drop of alcohol during January (after the New Year’s Eve binge with Lord Midders), and the Poet Chef kept up his roasting of various joints (pork, lamb, beef, chicken) during the month.

The January gig at Lewes Poetry was great.

Lewes poet Catherine Smith read well and pulled in quite a decent crowd as well as a respectable number of open mic poets.

It was an excellent evening even though, or perhaps because, I was as sober as a judge.

And there was a hilarious moment when her performance was interrupted by the entrance of two boys asking for their tennis ball back! (They thought it had somehow magically made its made in from outside through a closed window.)

With the help of hypnosis, I have been gradually memorising a selection of my poems to help to improve my live performances.

My first outing without my poetry book, at the Poetry Café in London, went amazingly well.

I recited a couple of poems word perfectly and they actually went down much better than they would have done if I’d read them.

And, yet, there is so much wrong with our dysfunctional country it is hard not to feel down at heart.

Every day I see the misery etched on the faces of the people on the train to London: the abject penpushers toiling pointlessly for this department or that; the no-longer-deluded financial service posse wondering if that day will be their last of paid employment; the ragged-jeaned builders soon to return to their eastern European country of origin which is now no poorer than Third World Britain.

“The end of boom and bust” – what a lie that turned out to be.

How long how Golden Brown keep up the ludicrous claim that the economic mess we are in has absolutely nothing to do with him, despite him running the economy since 1997?

People I see around London every day are getting seriously depressed.

The trains were delayed every day this week because of suicides.

Most of the passengers don't care; they behave like animals in their panic to get a seat.

Britain is becoming a nastier place, from sick people celebrating Jade Goody's apparently imminent death to the horrible toilet humour that passes as comedy with the likes of Clarkson, Woss and the rest of that overpaid BBC shower; from the BMW bastards who sacked thousands of workers an hour's notice to the union bosses who did nothing to the Labour Government that passed the laws allowing it to happen.

Half of Britain is in a day-dream. For instance we have been trying to buy a new radio for our VW van and made the mistake of going to Halfords in Newhaven.

We selected a suitable CD radio but last week the assistant refused to let me buy it, insisting I return to talk to the guy who fits the radios.

This I did, a week later, only to be told by the radio-fitter that it would cost 120 quid to fit the radio and the speakers we wanted and he did not have time anyway.

He told us not to buy from Halfords but to go to their rivals, Road Radio of Brighton.

What a waste of time.

No doubt the man was trying to save us money or himself a task, but if Halfords go bust and he is out of a job, he only has himself to blame.

Doesn't Halfords bother to train or motivate its staff?

Doesn't anyone have any pride in their work any longer?

If the Newhaven branch is typical, I very much doubt Halfords will survive the recession.

I find myself living increasingly in the past.

As always at this time of year, I start to wonder what happened to the numerous friends and mates I have lost touch with over the years.

The list is a long and chequered one.

I always yearn to get in touch with people but am held back by:

1. Lack of time to track them down (my contacts book was stolen at Finsbury Park Station in 2002),
2. Lack of time to meet them, and
3. Concern they won’t want to meet me (or, horror of horrors, even remember me).

When I quickly manage to trace someone through the web, such as my old Poole Grammar School classmate Paul Eggleton, now gainfully employed as a termite boffin at the Natural History Museum, I am gripped by doubts about whether I really want to see them again.

The whole business of retracing the past plays large in my daydreams and nightmares.

Poetry-wise it has not been a bad time, I suppose.

Surprisingly, I have completed the first draft of my long, narrative poem, having written 200 stanzas.

Now for the challenging business of revising it.

And planning for the first birthday of Lewes Poetry – on Tuesday, February 24 – is going well.

The great Elvis McGonagall – recently slam poetry’s World Champion and a star of BBC Radio 4’s Saturday Live – is headlining, performing a double set.

It should be a tremendous night (and only a Lady Godiva (fiver) in door-tax).

Another welcome development is that the legendary Frogmore Press approached me and asked if I would put on their published poets at a special night of Lewes Poetry on April 30.

It will be another good evening.

Its founder Jeremy Page pushed a copy of an old edition of Frogmore Papers through letter box. I have read it cover to cover - some excellent poetry.

I went to see Lewes FC play Wrexham at the Dripping Pan last Saturday.

On the terraces I bumped into Attila the Stockbroker and his charming wife who had come to see the Mighty Rooks battle the Mighty Red Dragons who, sadly, triumphed by 2-0.

I have written up this latest humiliation for the Rooks for my column High on Spring Water in The Mighty Rooks’ fanzine, Ten Worthing Bombers.

Anyway, Attila introduced me to stand-up comedian Mark Steel who was there to make a programme about Lewes for BBC Radio 4, and I ended up being interviewed about the glory days at the Pan, when the bar was open and we won our matches.

I felt a bit of a fraudster as I have never been an avid attender of matches, though those I have been present at feature large in my memory.

There I go again, living in the past.

At any point I can slip into a sepia existence.

My old schoolfriend Russell Tandy has written to me of his current odyssey in south-east Asia.

It is good someone I know is doing well.

The snow here was fun was a day but, after that, just made life harder and more miserable.

Here, the River Ouse has burst its banks in Lewes and as I left London the other night it was snowing again. Horrible wet snow. I wished I could escape.

But there is always something to put a smile back on your face.

I took my younger daughter to an activity day at Newhaven Fort this lunchtime and ended up joining a rap class schooled by an amazing guy called MC Elemental who has a at:

Finally, I went to see the amazing American Jared Louche's Lewes Art Lab, Experiments in Darkness, Distortion & Delight at the Foundry in Lewes.

It was weird with a capital W, and also bloody cold. I could not honestly say I understood it.

It seemed rather random to me. Nonetheless I enjoyed it and take my hat off to the amiable Jared for promoting such a totally way-out event.

In tribute I have randomly littered this blog entry with images from it.

I look forward to seeing those of you who can make it at Lewes Poetry.

Oliver's Poetry

The Poet Chef: Roast Chicken with Lord Midders

2009-01-14T22:45:00.000Z

The Poet Chef (1): New Year's Eve French Roast Chicken with Lord Midders of Iceland

It was New Year's Eve in the Drink Tank.

An ideal chance, I thought, to launch my new part-time career as The Poet Chef. I might not have the (turkey) breasts of Nigella, or have claimed to have shagged Delia, but I share a name with Jamie (Oliver), and, with no previous experience to my credit, feel sure am set to revolutionise chefing!

To be frank, in the past I have never troubled the kitchen staff with my presence.

But having been ribbed mercilessly for years over my lack of culinary skills, my new year's resolution is to learn myself to cook with a little teach from the televisual masters or, at least, their extensive philosophical writings on the subject.

While I am at it, I might as well pass on my new-found knowledge to other gentleman and ladies who have also previously relied on Downstairs (or the Mr Microwave) to do the kitchen chemistry honours.

So, it was New Year's Eve. My dear, dear friends Midder was due to jet in from Iceland for the night. And a couple of guests were expected later. Until he and they arrived I was on my Jack Jones - with a festive feast to plan.

Firstly - and, in the absence of guidance from the Poet Chef via this journal, this is a crucial tip - I consulted a recipe book.

In case, like me, you have not come across this strange animal before, it is usually a great tome packed with wordy accounts of how to cook, illustrated by large colour images of Nigella's cleavage, Jamie's impish smile and moped, Ramsay's furrowed brow and so on.

On this vital occasion, I played safe and selected one called Good Housekeeping, wiped off the thick layer of dust wtih my sleeve, and skipped the section on vacuum cleaning.

Inside, I found what seemed like a dream template for a New Year's Eve roast fiesta for Lord Midders and company. . . French roast turkey with all the trimmings.

So, off to Wilberforce Waitrose I trundled with my tartan shopping trolley complete with customised wheels and OAP gangsta rap booming out from the transister.

At the supe, it was packerooed. Clearly, I was not the only Poet Chef in Lewes preparing to entertain an Icelandic peer of the realm.

Lady Luck was in. The most expensive bird in the joint - a large free range organic chicken - was still unspoken for, so I snapped it up, along with a slab of butter, 5lb of King Edwards spuds, a sprig of tarragon, a large lemon, four large corgettes, six large carrots, two large onions and fair sized piece of broccoli, which I always like because it seems to be talking to me: 'Broc-Ollie!')

Of course I also picked up a couple of bottles of Champagne (one good to start, one more average to follow), some Becks beer (from my mother's home town Bremen), a pack of sausages wrapped in bacon overcoats, because they looked funny, and some blueberries.

Back to Chez Olivier to dump the stuff - and straight out again to Lewes Station to greet Lord Midders (alongside the Mayor of Lewes and other local VIPs).

We quickly cast off the local dignitaries and returned to the house for a couple of cheeky glasses of wine and a chat.

Midders - himself a wonderful chef - was suitably appalled at my plans to use butter on the chicken.

'Goose fat, Ols,' he stressed, 'Goose fat!'

So back to Willie Waitrose we traipsed where Lord Midders soon had the entire staff running around like blue-arsed flies - in the elusive search for goosey fat.

Eventually, the manager found the last packet, and, to make the journey more worthwhile, Midders also stocked up on beverages, including what he described as a 'bottle of senior red'.

As our reward for our cooking efforts thusfar, Midders and I dropped by the Harvey's Brewery flagship pub, The John Harvey Tavern, for a pint of Harvey's Best Bitter which went down a treat.

Back at base, it was Four O'Clock already. After passing on a few tips on goose fat basting, Midders knocked back his medicinal whisky and retired for his siesta, leaving me to get down to the parlous business of cooking.

1-2-3, 1-2,3, I pre-heated Mr O, the oven, at full power, cut the lemon in two and shoved one half up Madame La Chicken's tradesman's (is that how Nigella describes it?) - and added my big sprig of tarragon for good measure.

I then greased her (the chicken, not Nigella) like a topless mud wrestler using Midders' goosy-goosy-gander fat applied with my bare hands. God, it felt good!

Poet Chef Health Tip 1: Always wash your hands after handling meat and ensure that nothing that's been in contact with the uncooked bird touches the other foods you are preparing. Otherwise, you might get the salmonrushdie strain of food poisoning, and have to spend years hiding out in safe houses at huge public expense.

Mathematics has never been my best suit (the Gieves and Hawkes pinstripe is), so I was glad Mr Waitrose had already calculated the cooking time - at one hour and 45 minutes (or 105 minutes).

It is worth remembering that Mr W is an optimist and assumes your oven is fully effective, rather than a bit crap, as I am always been told ours is.

As a result I decided that two hours at near full blast would do my bird no harm. I understand it is actually rather hard to overcook chicken unless you really incincerate it.

So, my bird in a roasting dish went into the oven at Force Eight on the Gas Scale, and then I did something very important: I worked out all the timings for the meal and wrote them down on a scrap of recycled paper (a Tax Credits envelope or similar Government waste of trees).

Without a note, it is easy to get distracted during the long roasting process, and forgetting where you've got to. An American management guru once told me: 'If it's not written down, it's not a plan', and I am sure he had cooking in mind.

Poet Chef Health Tip 2: Do not lean your cooking note against the stove as the Poet Chef has done. It is very likely to catch fire at some point and burn down your house.
Once my gorgeous, sexy bird was well and truly in Mr O, I got together all my veg for their own New Year's Eve shindig.

Joining Mr Spud, Mr Carrot, Madame Corgette, Herr Broccoli and Miss Onion was Monsieur Garlic, lovingly nurtured by The Poet Chef at his Earwig Corner Allotment in Lewes.

Garlic tends to be roasted in his overcoat but I decided to give him a go naked to add a Frenchie taste to the flavour.

Anyway, I got the whole veggie team together for a festive photo op.

Luv Jub, as they say.

Then came the tricky matter of the roast potatoes. As a total novice at cooking, I was a bit concerned by this, but, after studying the cook book, I took the peeled spuds and dropped them into a pan of boiling water for a minute. Yeah, no kidding, just 60 secs!

After that, I got the pan off the heat and let the spuds stand in the very hot water for another nine minutes. Out they came, I dried them and dropped them into Mr Oven next to the bird which had been roasting for about 20 minutes at that juncture.

The point of this little pantomime is to seal in all the goodness in the potatoes before you roast them like Tom Brown on a bad day on Flashman's fire.

At the same time, I added the Mr Onion and Monsieur Garlic to the roasting pan, bunging on a bit more goosy fat all round.

Thereafter it was plain sailing (well, cooking).

Lord Midders re-emerged refreshed and fragrant, having slept and bathed.

He insisted on personally checking the goosey basting, adding even more goose fat, and ladling the juices over the spuds with a silver spoon.

That done, we settled down to have a good gossip and started on the bottle of senior red. Very tasty.

I read the first 20 of so stanzas of my long narrative poem.

All the time the oven was exuding aromas sweeter than a brace of Premiership footballers roasting a Wag. Which reminds me, you should turn the bird after 20 minutes to make sure top and bottom get a fair share of the action. But she should end up on her back, breasts up.

That's enough chef filth, back to the poetry!

Midders was going to read some poetry but his glasses were kaputt after he'd sat on them, lending him a suitably eccentric look. All the same, he made an appreciative audience.

When the senior red was finished, it was time to cook the vegetables.

This should be a piece of cake, but how many times have you visited expensive restaurants and found the veg a bit soft or a bit hard.

Just popping them into a pan of boiling water and going off to watch Chelsea on the telly or wax your pantyline is not good enough. They require rigorous checking to guarantee that the texture of the carrot, broccoli or whatever is absolutely spot-on.

The secret of cooking is, urr, timing! I reckon that carrots should take about 20 minutes, thinly sliced corgette and the clumps of broccoli (like slices of a lung) a bit less.

Your bird should stand for quarter of an hour after her roasting, so the veg should be going on the stove not long after she comes out.

After one and three quarter hours of roasting, I took out the bird, and Midders tested her with a blade - like a sharp knife through hot butter. Perfecto! The potatoes had also roasted well as had those lovely big onions, always my favourite part of the roastie mix.

The garlic had certainly added to the favouring of the juices, which I filtered off to add to boiling water and an Oxo chicken stock cube to make a delicious gravy, but removing its overcoat had meant it had deteriorated in the pan.

I fried the little sausages in their bacon pyjamas as a side dish rather than a starter.

Another quarter of an hour on, the table was laid, the Champagne opened, the French chicken carved, the veg drained and served – to make the perfect New Year's Eve. If I say so myself, it was pretty damn good fare.

Our guests arrived and we had a right raucous feast, with blueberries and ice cream and a selection of exotic cheeses for dessert. We drank the two bottles of champers and rounding it all off another bottle of wine and a session on the port, taking us well into the New Year.

Not bad for a first effort at cooking. If you do what I did, you can't go far wrong, me old cocks.

Next time: The Poet Chef makes Shepherds Pie or something.

***

Lord Midders stayed a couple more days and I was sad to see him return to Iceland. We hope to catch up over there in the summer.

I never drink alcohol in January, and this year the month has seemed more torturously hard than usual.

It has been ghastly cold and is dismally dark when I arise at 6.25am. My only comfort is that I no longer have to go up to the miserable Midlands on a Sunday or Monday or hang out in Lonely Leamington on weekday nights. That glorious thought alone keeps me going at bad times.

There's been the odd joyful moment but I am suffering this month and not being able to drink has made it worse. Today, the fog was so thick crossing The Thames, you could not see the water!

Last week the Serpentine was frozen, which I found quite exciting on my lunchtime constitutional, and beautiful photographically.

And I have done a lot of poetry editing, revising all 140 stanzas so far of my long narrative poem, and all of my other 2008 poetry.

In 2009 I want to break out of my poetry web-cage and publish poems more widely.

It is a wretched time, though.

Every night robotic Robert Peston brings more bad news, delivered with his trademark, extraordinary intonation; the Palestinians are taking another pasting (and there was I thinking that Tony Blair has sorted that one out, just like he did with Iraq), and the train is unbearably crowded, despite all the redundancies Peston keeps telling me about. The appalling people who gravitate towards where I'm sitting, well, I won't start. . .

Did I tell you my big toenails are falling off (after skiing). Sorry, overshare!

It would be fair to say I am not coping with January at all well.

My mind has turned once again to the idea of retracing old friends. This is a difficult one because not everyone would want to see me.

Conversely, I am occasionally contacted by blasts from the past whom - for very good reasons - I do not want to meet again.

On my lunchtime walks I have been thinking a lot about this. It reaches to the core of the nature of friendship. Friends often come about through circumstance and, only when there is a genuine commonality, do they survive a change of that circumstance.

Personal time is limited, and people are constantly reprioritising their friendships to segue with their current situation.

Most of us will know people who have vanished off the radar after forming a relationship or moving to a different town; all contact, emails, phone calls, Christmas card drying up without explanation.

In a little town like Leamington the lives of the indigenous population were dominated by their extended families and old schoolfriends. Incomers did not even register socially. Only when small town people move to a new town or city, do they suddenly start trying to socialise with those they previously would have shunned.

In terms of the old friends I want to contact, I am worried about being cold-shouldered or finding I have nothing left in common with them.

The people I would most like to see again go way back – and may not even remember me. I am always amazed when I meet old mates of all the shared times that they have forgotten, and, indeed, old mates sometimes say the same of me.

I am still trying to discern if to contact someone and when to let sleeping dogs lie.

Wish me luck!

Oliver's Poetry

Christmas Skiing in Zell am See

2008-12-31T08:00:00.005Z

We spent Christmas in Austria, skiing at Zell am See, an attractive town tucked between an enormous lake and a great mountain.

It was the first time I have been abroad at Christmas and that was an odd experience; the Austrians treat Christmas Eve as their "Christmas Day" and even that seemed low-key compared to Christmas in Britain.

Of course we did all the usual Christmas things – as well as enjoying Zell am See skiing to its full. I had fun skiing, despite being atrocious at it.

To be fair, I was no worse than when I took it up two years ago at Obergurgl but that did not stop me from bruising my big toes so badly they went black - and cutting up my ankles and shins.

My instructor Gavin – a country lad from Shropshire – was completely unfazed that I was virtually a complete beginning and fairly hopeless.

He optimistically took me up the mountain to watch me fall down blue and red slopes, struggling to turn those skis, awkward mothers that they are, especially on any kind of incline!

It had clearly snowed heavily in Zell am See before we arrived but, after that, the snow in the town had melted, turning to horrible slush in the rain and then dry streets, and, on the pistes, the snow-making machines toiled all day and all night to retain their white overcoat.

My ski group were great. Some of them were almost as prone to disaster as me, but braver, throwing themselves down steep inclines with substantial jumps at the bottom, knowing it could only end one way - in a crumpled crash.

I fell over so many times I lost count, and with such comical effect that even snowboarders would stop to have a good laugh and help me back into my skis.

Nightlife in Zell am See was varied.

The best places to hang were Greens, the Dutch-dominated Slam Cafe, and the Diele bar, which had the best dance floor and tunes.

I did not like B52's, not the friendliest of bars, nor Crazy Daisy's, which was remarkably uncrazy and dull on the two nights I dropped in.

For afternoon tea, the Imperial Bar at the Grand Hotel was very fine, and unusally reasonably priced.

And at the top of the mountain, the madcap oldie DJ who decapitates champagne bottles with a sabre was worth a look.

Zell am See is an expensive place to visit, especially with the euro and the pound virtually at level pegging (once commission had been paid).

At the town's Irish bar Flannagan's - conveniently situated beside our apartment - a pint of Guinness was almost a fiver. Likewise, coffee and a snack in a cafe.

And a lunch and a beer on the slopes would set you back 10 to 15 quid. And don't expect much or any change from 100 quid for a day's skiing all in, once lessons, ski hire and ski pass are all paid for.

Skiing is a great break, though. Faced with the terror the slopes and ski lifts, your usual concerns are soon forgotten!

I have been back three days now, trying to tie up the loose ends of 2008.

It has been a pretty good year overall; I managed to escape Leamington Spa after two solid years of tunnelling, and am loving it back in London.

Not surprisingly, I have not spent as much time writing poetry this year as in each of the previous three years.

All the same, my long narrative poem is coming along - and I am resolving to try to get my work published in 2009.

I feel like I have always wanted to write but have found myself at the fringes of the writing world.

Although I was successful as a journalist and had hundreds of thousands of words in print in national newspapers and magazines, my attempt to get a novel published was not a success and I am yet to publish any poetry or other work on anything but the worldwideweb.

Maybe that does not matter and I should be to content to write for myself.
2008 has been a difficult year in some ways. As you get older, woes pile up. When you are young, you simply don't notice the down side to the same degree.

Not that I am complaining. Life is still sweet.

And I had some good poetry gigs in 2008, in Oxford, Leicester and the Poetry Cafe in London - and some excellent ones at Lewes Poetry, especially with Attila the Stockbroker, Dreadlockalien, Justin Rhyme, Catherine Smith and Lorna Meehan, at the Lewes Arms, Lewes, East Sussex.

Though I was very sad to hear of the poet Adrian Mitchell's death.

Mitchell, the original alternative poet laureate, was a great ambassador for live poetry.

I recall him performing in a room in the Royal Oak pub in Lewes - as part of Lewes Lit Live festival two years ago. He was awesome; a mesmerising performer even on his 75th birthday.

Afterwards I approached him to thank him and mentioned that I did a little poetry.

He was hugely encouraging and it was partly because of that and his performance that I was inspired to launch a live poetry club in Lewes, Lewes Poetry at the Lewes Arms.

The baton was passed.

I was also saddened to read of my favourite playwright Harold Pinter's death.

My immediate reaction was not, as usual, to read the obituaries, but instead to re-read three Pinter players, The Homecoming, No Man's Land, and Landscape.

I love their use of language, sportiveness and sense of dramatic surprise.

No Man's Land brings back happy memories because I saw Harold Pinter perform in it (in the role of Hirst) at the Almeida Theatre, Islington in London, in 1992, I think, and Landscape, because I lit it as an post-graduate at University College, Cardiff, in 1984. (I had never done a play with so many rapid lighting changes.)

Pinter and Mitchell. Two great men.

I look forward to seeing you at Lewes Poetry in the new year - and wish you all a successful and poetic 2009!

Oliver's Poetry

Photo Reflections

2008-10-17T23:39:00.002Z

September and early October proved hard going – and not just for the banks (why does Robert Peston speak in that odd way?)

The Summer, by contrast, was idyllic for me - with wonderful stays in Edinburgh, Greece and Italy.

Once back in Blighty, everything seemed to start going pear-shaped!

Sometimes I feel my life is like 100 plates spinning on tall poles.

When I – most unusually – take three weeks off in a month, they first lose rotational speed, then wobble, and start to crash to the ground.

I shan’t bore you with the details, but in September and early October, problem followed problem.

I struggled to keep my life on an even keel.

Then, just when I thought I was getting on top of it, a scrote plundered my bank account, making me thousands of pounds overdrawn (and I couldn't even blame Peston).

My best guess is that while paying for meals in Greece or Italy my debit card was cloned, and then – a month on – a villain started spending my cash on the Continent like there was no tomorrow.

Now the account is frozen and the bank – which, typically, did not notice a thing – is investigating.

I have been in reflective mood following this. . . but also, strangely, because of photography.

Let me explain.

In 1970, aged 10, I started taking photographs – and have never stopped.

I have tens of thousands of them from the past 37 years, but until recently I have never attempted to catalogue them.

So early this year, I decided to see what I had in terms of images!

I thoroughly enjoyed cataloguing the black-and-white photographs I had taken in the 1970s and those I had inherited from the 1950s and 1960s.

However, with new images coming in all the time, I was never likely to finish the task unless I put a lid on new arrivals.

Rashly, I decided to catalogue the photographs in the collection taken this year.

I should not have bothered.

Rarely have I endured such a tedious exercise.

What I always considered to be a hobby is really an addiction.

So far this year there are 73 sets of images in my collection – most 36s, some 24s, and about two-thirds film and one third digital.

Going through them was one of the most boring things I have ever done.

I could not believe how repetitive my photography has become.

Even though I am taking pictures largely on film, I suffer from photographic diarrhoea, producing 20 images of an object or person where one or two would suffice.

When the penny dropped, I stopped taking photos for the first time in more than 35 years.

It has been a revelation.

For the first time in a long time I have been looking at sights of beauty and truly appreciating them.

For instance, the other day I arrived early on a Saturday morning at my allotment at Earwig Corner and found it shrouded in mist.

As the sun rose behind me, the dew on my shed evaporated like steam in a sauna, and before me the blanket of mist over the landscape gradually lifted during a period of at least half an hour until the distant chalk cliff came into view like a giant sticking its head through a cloud.

It was a really beautiful sight and one I would not have appreciated through the viewfinder of a camera.

It makes me think that photographers are often so obsessed with capturing images that they do not truly look and appreciate.

On holiday in Greece and Italy, I noticed it all over the place.

People were so mad about filming that they snapped away and videoed constantly, hardly glancing at what they were recording, probably never to be viewed.

Now I have started to look for myself again, I realise that photographs cannot compare with the sheer depth and stunning beauty of the original.

The best lens is the eye, the best camera is the brain, the best images are held in the mind’s eye.

By comparison, many of the images in my enormous collection pale into insignificance.

Sure, there are some interesting pictures of subjects I would probably have otherwise forgotten.

However, there are also some atrocious shots, and the overall impression is of a maniac behind the shutter release.

This and my woes set me thinking more deeply about a whole range of areas.

Why do I attend my local church in Lewes?

I was appalled by the pronouncements of the vicar – or 'Rector' as he likes to be called – at the recent Harvest Festival service.

He preached that it was “un-Christian” to buys eggs or chickens that were not free range.

As it happens, I buy free range produce.

However, if I were struggling to feed a family on the breadline, I would not appreciate being called 'un-Christian' for buying a bargain battery bird from Tesco.

Readers of this blog may recall my previously mentioning this Anglican priest as the man who produced his stinking socks for his homily at a Christmas morning service.

(What do you make of that, Mad Priest Blogger?)

Moreover, you can attend his church for weeks on end and hardly hear a mention of Christ, such is the obsession with the Old Testament.

The Rector a nice chap, but the problem with the C of E, as with the Roman Catholic Church, is that parish priests have an enormous amount of freedom and are hardly controlled by their bishops.

The best of the clergy are marvellous, but the others either embark on their own kooky journey of faith – or do something really bad.

The other day I was thinking of the Rector’s pleas for his congregation to tithe – give one tenth of their income – to the church.

Then I walked past the great big comfortable rectory and looked at the two newish vehicles parked outside, and thought: ‘No, I will make my own choices, thank you very much indeed.’

I think I shall find another church in Lewes to attend – and keep my donations indexed-linked to the cost of a pint of Harvey’s Best Bitter.

Then I started to think about the internet and my presence on it.

Why have a spent some much time creating three websites – Oliver’s Poetry, Oliver’s Poetry Garret and Oliver’s Poetry MySpace – and what part do they play in my life?

All three have been in need of some tender loving care, and when I see the time that others expend on their sites, I feel incapable of competing.

Firstly, I guess I write for the same reasons I photograph.

It is a compulsion and an obsession.

When I was a child, I was always making notes, just as I was always thinking of taking photographs, pocket money allowing.

So I write for someone.

When I was national newspaper columnist, my words would have been read by hundreds of thousands or even millions of readers.

Now they might be read by just a handful, but I don’t mind.

I derive pleasure simply from the process of writing.

MySpace is really the home of self-publicists (though aren’t all websites?) and the people who use it most enthusiastically are plugging their music or comedy gigs.

It is interesting to follow what of my former Joe’s Comedy Madhouse acts are up to.

But, despite its initial phenomenal success, MySpace strikes me as a poorly designed and ultimately flawed platform.

It is ugly to look at and few users I know run successful blogs off it or reply to email on it.

Anyway, I have given all my sites a fresh lick of paint.

But what’s good in my life?

The Poetry Café has been kind to me and my experiences out have inspired me to start a long narrative poem based very loosely based on the life of Byron.

Thusfar I have written 85 verses (of eight lines each).

It is a bit of fun and I am quietly pleased with progress.

Also on a positive note, I was lucky enough to witness The Mighty Rooks (Lewes Football Club) chalk up their first win of the season (after a mere 12 matches) - against The Mighty Yellows (Oxford) - on the hallowed turf of The Dripping Match (down my street).

Chris and Chris have signed me up to write a column for the Rooks' unofficial fanzine, of which they are editors.

I am calling it High On Spring Water (Lewes have closed their ground's bar during matches), and I am told the first edition will appear in the next issue of this marvellous organ, which is entitled Ten Worthing Bombers (and a bargain at less than two guineas).

Returning to my reflections on photography, I have taken one photographs from each of the recent films I have had processed and used them to illustrate this blog entry.

Now I am up to speed with my 2008 cataloguing, I have taken a vow to stop taking photos like a lunatic.

On a recent visitation to York, I stayed in a hotel which had marvellous Victorian photographs adorning its walls. Each a beautiful one-off.

From now on I shall be a Victorian photographer, taking a frame here, a frame there. Thinking and planning my images, not wasting film.

At least it will give me a chance to get on and catalogue my photographic output for the 1980s, 1990s and the rest of the 2000s.

By the way, don't miss A F Harrold's performance at Lewes Pint of Poetry, Lewes Arms, on 24 October 2008.

And I have used some of my archive pictures to liven up some of my old blog entries (see below).

Enjoy!

Oliver's Poetry

Lewes Football Club

2008-09-12T20:41:00.004Z

A black cloud hangs over Lewes FC.

After my local club's promotion to the Blue Square Premier League, its board responded in an extraordinary manner.

It sacked the successful manager Steve King, lost almost all its players, and hired a new manager with virtually no track record at football management!

Football is by no means my forte. However, I think I can spot an accident waiting to happen.

The final fixture of the last season - when Lewes topped its league and were about to be promoted in supposed triumph - was more like a wake than a party.

In the stands, we supporters sang: "Sack the board! Sack the board! SACK THE BOARD!"

The dumped manager - King of the Pan - was in tears.

The talk among supporters was of boycotting the following season's fixtures.

A week or two later, at a send-off for Steve King organised not by the club but by its supporters and held in the function room of a Lewes pub nowhere near the Dripping Pan ground - Steve King showed how hurt he had been to be summarily dismissed by Lewes FC.

Steve told me he simply could not believe the way he had been treated and was still in shock, but, even then, he said he would return as Lewes FC manager if asked.

In a ponderous interview in the Sussex Express, the board members articulated their thinking.

To cut a very long one short, their argument appeared to be that they had been bankrolling the club for yonks and could not afford to continue to do so.

You got the distinct impression that promotion to a higher league had been the last thing they had wanted for Lewes FC, with spurious educational goals ranking higher.

It turned out that the danger area for Steve King at Lewes had not been the Relegation Zone but the Promotion Zone.

Perversely, it seemed that if Steve King had not been such an honourable, decent and hard-working man, he could have kept his job by fielding weakened sides for away matches to notch up sufficient losses to prevent Lewes FC from going up.

Predicatably perhaps, many Lewes supporters decided at the start of the new season to stand by their club despite grave misgivings over the behaviour of its board and the choice of new manager.

Indeed, it was only fair to give the man in question, Kevin Keehan, a chance to show what he could deliver.

Nonetheless, it should be said that Mr Keehan could do with a spot of PR advice.

His regular utterances to the Sussex Express suggested from before a ball had kicked that Lewes FC would be damned lucky to stay up this season - hardly inspiring a feeling of confidence in its players or fans.

Mind you, Keehan is a man true to his word.

Under his stewardship thusfar, Lewes has indeed played like a team destined to go down.

Moreover, the joy of watching Lewes play has vanished.

We used to quaff pint after pint of beer in the stand and sing ourselves hoarse. The home fans and visiting fans would happily mix and trouble was rare.

Watching Lewes play was great fun - regardless of the result.

This season that has changed. The fans are segregated and the away fans are not allowed to use the Lewes fans' facilities.

You are searched for knives, knuckledusters, semi-automatic firearms and SAMs (surface to air missiles) before entering the Dripping Pan, and, horror of horrors, the bar is closed and booze is banned from the ground.

To rub salt into the sober wound, the quality of the football is far worse than it has ever been.

I endured the match against Crawley, albe torturous to watch.

Even to the untrained eye, it was crystal clear that Lewes played - and lost - dreadfully agin a side which was no great shakes.

At time of writing, according to my man on the inside (the BBC Sports website), Lewes FC has played nine matches and accumulated a measly three points (a mean average of just one third of a point per match!), after losing six times, drawing thrice and not winning at all!

They are well into the Relegation Zone (third from bottom in the table), and have a extraordinary goal difference of minus 18!!

It is a good thing we could find some other boys to take on Croatia!

My friends on the local rag say the last Lewes FC match was televised - by the hated Setanta - and Kevin Keehan endured the shame of being interviewed on live TV while fans behind him chanted: 'Keehan out!' and 'Sack the board!'

Even the usually kindly and magnanimous Sussex Express describe it as 'a night of national humiliation for the Rooks'.

Strangely, the Lewes FC website appears to have been suspended. . .

I recall watching just a few years back a Lewes match where the then manager (not Steve King or Kevin Keehan) was banned from the touchline, the then physio was barred from the ground, and Lewes's goalie was sent off.

Lewes still scored eight times and won by a margin of six goals.

I must have downed a gallon of ale from the club bar during their glorious afternoon - the sort of historic, crazy football you had to see to Adam 'n' Eve.

Sadly I cannot see it being repeated unless Lewes can trade Kevin Keehan for Kevin Keegan.

Surely, Newcastle could find a role for Keehan - and Tyneside's now-heel-kicking King Kev could come down south to create a Lewes Wonderland.

Far more likely, though, Lewes FC will go down at the end of the season - and, to universal relief, dump its manager and re-open the Dripping Pan bar in joyous celebration!

Oliver's Poetry

First Season at Lewes Pint of Poetry

2008-07-19T22:48:00.021Z

The first season at Lewes Pint of Poetry climaxed with an extraordinary, eclectic show featuring some of the most unbelievable poets.

It was gratifying to see how quickly the club - upstairs at the Lewes Arms, East Sussex, UK - has formed a character all of its own.

For when I first told friends in Lewes of my idea of setting up a poetry club in the town, at least one of them said it would never work and I should forget it.

At times, over the past six months, it has indeed been tough-going. . . with many top performance poets not exactly jumping at the chance to drive hundreds of miles to a little-known town in the deep south.

However - through hard work and perseverence - there have been some remarkable nights.

The visit by the 'Birmingham Poets' - Dreadlockalien (former Brum Poet Laureate Richard Grant), the superb Melinda Deathgoth (pictured bottom), and Simon Lee - was a particular hightlight, with local poetry stars John Agard and Grace Nicholls in the audience.

Legendary punk poet Attila the Stockbroker's incredible 100-minute performance to a packed house in mid-March was also very memorable.

Italian poet and broadcaster Emilia Telese (pictured above) brought an unusual and classy flavour to the club in June.

Before launching Lewes Pint of Poetry, I had been used to playing (fine) gigs in Leamington and Leicester where the audience almost entirely comprised poets.

So, it has been thrilling to find myself running a club where the majority of the crowd are genuine spectators who have paid to be entertained rather than to perform for around three minutes.

I wanted to genuinely bring together the published poets and the performance poets, and this has happened with the likes of gifted published poet Catherine Smith sharing a stage with great performers such as Lorna Meehan or Rachel Pantechnicon (pictured top).

Of course, my free-wheeling hybrid of a poetry love-in is not everyone's cup of Assam.

A couple of grumpy open spot poets have deigned to give me the benefit of their inexperience with advice that I should run the club entirely differently, with more poets, with less stage time each, and a conventional approach to MC-ing a poetry gig.

Yet, despite my flawed approach in their estimation, my some miracle Lewes Pint of Poetry continues to flourish! Come September - with the help of the team - we will be back with the best of page and performance.

I can hardly wait! See you on September 26.

Next gig at Lewes Pint of Poetry

Who's performed at Lewes Pint of Poetry

Oliver's Poetry

The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford

2008-07-09T21:48:00.003Z

Ford Madox Ford has fascinated me ever since I read his classic First World War tetralogy Parade’s End – one of the most thrilling works of fiction ever written.

So I was interested when the modern novelist Julian Barnes wrote in the Guardian Review about his take on another Ford Madox Ford novel, The Good Soldier.

The story's narrator – a bland, American millionaire named Dowell – is not to be trusted, argues Barnes.

Julian Barnes believes the reader must treat every “sentence with care and suspicion and must prowl soft-footed through the text”. To illustrate this, Barnes cites the first line of The Good Soldier - “This is the saddest story I have ever heard” – and says the narrator is telling the story not hearing it.

It is a moot point. Dowell repeatedly says he is trying to tell the story as if “at one side of the fireplace of a country cottage with a sympathetic soul opposite me”.

Therefore, Dowell is both telling and hearing the story.

In other respects Julian Barnes is spot-on: Dowell’s account is not to be trusted.

Although the story is supposedly told in one sitting, his views of the other major characters – his love-aholic, unfaithful friend Edward Ashburnham, long-suffering cuckquean Mrs Ashburnham, and Dowell’s cheating wife Florence, change as he goes on.

Far from being a “bumbler obliged to convey an intrigue of operatic passion which he only partially understands” as Barnes suggests, Dowell is pulling the wool over our eyes.

Through his indolence, dullness and baffling belief that beautiful women should marry him and be happy, Dowell mixes the brew for the tragedy, culminating in the untimely deaths of Edward and Florence. Dowell is the true villain.

But through his sly, propagandist telling of the story, the narrator shrouds his abject culpability.

Oliver's Poetry

I'm Back

2008-05-31T12:00:00.009Z

Hey, I'm back!

It has been two-and-a-half months since I last posted a blog and I must confess I have missed doing it.

I stopped because I had quit the Leamington Garret and my old job in the Midlands to move full-time back to Lewes - and a great new job in central London.

My return to the Big Bad City has been superb. I love the buzz of being in London again after more than three years working in a field in the back of beyond.

And the Oliver's Poetry website is two years' old.

I am pleased to have been able to keep it going – to promote the work of some truly fascinating and talented poets.

The Second Birthday issue features five new poems and - also on the home page - the poems most visited on the site over the past 24 months.

Today I also launch my new blog format “The Throg” – defined as a blog of around 300 words usually illustrated by three images.

I promise my throgs will be more focused and specific than my previous blogs.

So, what of the last couple of months?

Well, I enjoyed my post-job break in France; had a fun poetry gig at Borders in Oxford as part of the Oxford Fringe, and hosted two wonderful nights at my own club, Lewes Pint of Poetry, starring Attila the Stockbroker (pictured performing there) and former Birmingham Poet Laureate Dreadlockalien.

I also performed at the Poetry Society’s Poetry Café for the first time and adopted a manic kitten called Smiffy (pictured above).

On a sad note, another of my journalistic peer group has passed, Dina Akass (Malik).

Dina was one of the most affable souls I have met; always thinking the best of people and lighting up their lives like a beacon of hope.

A rare gift.

Oliver's Poetry

Seven Things I Love (and Seven Things I Hate) About Leamington Spa - The Final Leamington Blog

2008-03-19T16:00:00.004Z

This is my final missive to you from Leamington Spa...

After more than two years writing this journal from my garret in Leamington Spa in Warwickshire, I am going home - to Lewes and London.

It is a strange feeling. I have often daydreamed of this moment, but now it has finally arrived I have very mixed feelings about it.

Not that I want to stay. No way, Jose!

It is just that somehow I have made this schizoid life work, and now I have to dismantle it and that is easier said than done.

I have moved home many times in my life but have never had such a complicated departure, with enormous issues with handing over my day-job and with getting my chattels out of the Leamington Garret and into the Lewes Garret.

In truth I am leaving most of my possessions. Just abandoning them. That includes Ruthie Boswell's old music system, the computer, two sofas, an armchair, a triple bed, duvet, all the kitchen utensils, pots and pans, iron and ironing board, broadband router, telephone et cetera.

Even getting my CDs, clothes and books into the Lewes Garret has proved difficult. So I have no choice but to ditch the rest of the stuff.

An added complication is that I am planning to go on holiday to France the day after my leaving do, so I absolutely must not leave the Leamington Garret that day with more than a suitcase of stuff!

The Garret is weird now.

After Attila Szalo’s departure, I have been living on my own in an increasingly desolate pad, oftentimes high winds howling outside.

The curtains went back to Lewes last week, so now I am staring at the flats across the Pump Room Gardens, feeling exposed and naked.

So, what was it about Leamington Spa? Why have I rued it with a vengeance?

And what - in anything - have I loved about it?

Let's start with the good things:

Seven Things I Love About Leamington Spa

1. The Reckless Moment comedy club

This Monday night comedy club - run by post-graduate University of Warwick film students Tom Hughes and Pete Falconer - is beautiful.

It is one of the most joyous comedy clubs I have ever been to, and has, on occasions, made me incredibly happy.

Tom Hughes is a great, upbeat compere and Pete 'The Meat' Falconer makes a perfect comedic partner.

Tom and Pete book great acts and only charge two quid on the door. A remarkable treat!

2. PureAndGoodAndRight performance poetry club.

Promoter and performance poet Sean Kelly has done an extraordinary job in invigorating the Leamington poetry scene with this monthly club.

I have performed on great nights there on the same bills as some fabulous headliners.

PureAndGoodAndRight is two years' old now - and back at the Fox pub, in Clarendon Avenue - on the third Wednesday of every month.

Check it out!

3. The Architecture, the Gardens and the River Leam

I love the Regency buildings of Leamington.

It is, in so many ways, a lovely looking town.

Jephson Gardens are beautiful and, despite its many faults the council strives to renew the flower beds throughout the Spring and Summer.

Combined with the turbulent beauty of the Leam, it is a great place to live.

It is a shame that the people of Leamington so often do not seem comfortable with what they have.

4. The Millennium Balti Indian Restaurant, Bath Street, Leamington

An incredibly inexpensive (particularly for booze) curryhouse. My favourite place to go when feeling lonely and low in Leamington.

My visits there have often preceded visits to the Apollo cinema, just round the corner from the Garret, where I have kept up to speed with the worst Hollywood can offer!

5. The Jam at Kelley's bar.

This took over from the Jam at the Jug, which was scrapped when the Jug & Jester was taken over and went to the dogs.

It is nowhere as good as that fine event, but, when it happens, it is nice to see the likes of Shanade in full flow.

6. Rhubarb.

My favourite restaurant in Leamington Spa. I had some great times there, and, when my boss generously offered to take me out for a valedictory lunch, I chose it again.

I love the elegance of it, the photos on the walls, the laid-back music and the sexiness of the waitresses!

And the food's good, too.

It's a cool place.

7. The Pure.

My health club for one month recently. Not cheap - it was £52.50 for the month - but worth it! I went there 19 times in total (therefore, only £2.76 a visit!), and loved the pool, jacuzzi, sauna and steam room.

Often at 6.30am, I would have it all to myself and fantasise it was the Garret's own private swimming pool (only one minute's walk from my front door).

I was not as keen on the gym facilities, but, hey, you can't have everything.

While on the subject of health centres, I should also mention the much cheaper council gym and swimming pool at Newbold Comyn where I have spent many happy hours, especially in the enormous pools.

Well, those are the good things.

Now take a deep breath, Leamington - here are the bad ones:

Seven Things I Hate About Leamington Spa:

1. The Unfriendliness of its People.

During my adult life, I have lived in Poole, Hull, Cardiff, Gloucester, Coventry, London, Cotesbach in Leicestershire, and Lewes.

Yet none of these places are a fraction as unfriendly as Leamington.

If you end up washed up here, your chances of making friends with the locals are minimal.

They are an insular bunch who like to hang out with each other, talking rollocks and occasionally fighting like wolves.

On the other hand, maybe it is just me (as Tom Hughes suggested).

2. The Loneliness.

Much of my life in Leamington has been a lonely existence.

I have lost count of the nights I have aimlessly wandered its streets or drunk on my own in dreary bars.

But, again, maybe this was my fault.

3. The Pubs.

Most of the pubs of Leamington are rubbish!

I can’t think of a city where the public houses are quite as uninteresting.

The Jug & Jester was for a time an exception but it blew it with an appalling revamp – and the demise of the brilliant Jam at the Jug.

Now it is as bad as most of the rest.

The Sausage is OK, but the last time I went there, a couple was having noisy sex in the only cubicle in the gents lavatory! (at about 9pm on a Tuesday night).

I like the White Horse and love the Robbins Well, home of the Reckless Moment and for a while PureAndGoodAndRight, but the other pubs are hugely soulless.

4. The Local Authorities.

Warwick District Council and Warwickshire County Council get away with daylight robbery.

At the Leamington Garret, for instance, the Council Tax is extortionate for a property of its diminutive size.

The bins are not even collected and you cannot even buy a parking permit to park on the street outside (because it is classed as a non-residential street despite all the residents).

When you complain, Warwick District Council shamelessly blames Warwickshire County Council which then ignores your complaint, not even bothering to reply.

The latest outrage is that when I tried to cash in the rest of my parking permit (for a 6pm to 9am pass for a car park nowhere near my home), I was told by Warwick District Council that there would be a fiver surcharge, meaning I would receive a quid back.

The council lackey told me that this fee was excellent value!

I told him that Warwick District Council could stuff their car park pass up their fundament!

5. The Nutters.

Of course all British towns have mad people on their streets. It is Government policy.

The so-called 'mentalists' of Leamington, however, are pretty thick on the ground at my end of town.

Sometimes I am dodging them to the way to the shops, crossing the road where two of them are shouting obscenities at each other, only to hassled by another on the other side.

The younger Asboes hang around the band stand in Pump Room Gardens, beneath the Garret.

When they come of age, they graduate to basking around the railway bridge, cider in hand.

6. The (Fighting) Women.

Quite a few of the females of Leamington are particularly adept at punching each other.

I was genuinely shocked when a huge brawl erupted outside Pizza Hut in the early evening, or a woman was bleeding from the face outside Voodoo, police sirens wailing in the background.

Even in Coventry in the 1980s, the women generally left it up to their lunatic fellas to fight for them, rather than get their hands dirty.

7. The Drugs.

Like some other little British towns, Leamington has a serious drugs problem.

The E generation stumble around in a daze, their grey matter blown.

I found heroin addicts living in the bushes of the Pump Room Gardens in the summer, their mingy rottweiler chasing me when I used to jog in the mornings.

Coke abounds. Stoners are everywhere. None of this is helping to make Leamington a better place.

Indeed a certain section of the under-25s are like a lost generation, with narrow horizons and even slighter prospects, drugs dealer on speed dial.

But maybe this is true of every small town in Mr Bean's Britain, and it has just come to my attention in Leamington.

Well, those are my loves and hates about Leamington Spa.

It is now 10.20pm on my penultimate day in the Leamington Garret. Joni Mitchell's Blue is on the mono; my remaining three candles are lit in the living room window, and I am sipping a can of Stella, my first drink of the evening.

The last week or so has been a whirlwind of activity.

Last Tuesday I went out for a drink with Tom Hughes and Pete Falconer.

Pete came up to the garret afterwards to help me cane Attila's bottle of Hungarian spirit.

It had a most bad effect on us. We were soon dancing like crazy men to Elvis Costello's My Aim Is True, with the garret windows open wide, the volume pumped up to the maximum.

Pete then suffered an inclement turn of health, and I awoke the next day with the worst hangover I have ever had (worse even than my last attempt at drinking Hungarian spirits).

I threw out the remaining bottle of Budapest firewater. Hungarians must have stomachs of steel (or die young)!

The following night I went to see my dear, dear friends at the Cotesbach estate.

It was a great evening in the Sickle & Stick, of real ale (I quaffed about a gallon) and Staghorn, at which, amazingly, I won.

It was so lovely to see all my friends there.

I was also very interested to hear that my old pad, the Pi House, now has a new dweller.

I was home for the weekend and had a tremendous second night of my poetry club, A Pint of Poetry, at the Lewes Arms, Lewes, East Sussex.

The headliner Attila the Stockbroker was superb and the venue was packed.

A good friend from London also performed and we had a visitation from my dear cousin.

I will blog more about this gig later - when I get the pictures back.

This week so far has been wonderful but utterly exhausting. I swear I dropped off for a few minutes in a meeting at work this morning and I was so jaded in the early evening that I slept for an hour.

The end of my time at the day-job has been blighted by trying to save my images before I have to hand back my laptop.

I have had a terrible time with faulty memory sticks.

It has reinforced my dislike of digital photography.

Most digital images will die with their computers. Unlike 35mm film which is immortal.

I have a sense of the clock ticking and not being able to keep up with it.

This evening I have read the electric meter with Mr Rigby the Landlord, given a thank you card from myself and Attila, packed my case, walked to the supermarket to buy 16 quid of cakes to give to my colleagues at the day-job tomorrow (a tradition there for leavers), and tried to clean the flat.

It is, I realise, a hopeless task.

I have vacuumed throughout and spent an hour spraying and scrubbing the bathroom and kitchen, but realise it would take a day to free these spaces from a generation of grime.

I can only hope to make it vaguely respectable!

Returning to the theme of Leamington loves and hates, I suppose the biggest in both categories is this place.

At times I have been scared witless here; it has been like my prison.

Yet at other times – especially in the past few months – I have been tremendously happy in the Garret.

It so many ways it is an awesome place with a wondrous view.

Other people make all the difference to it.

When there is pleasant company, it is great in this flat. When there isn't, it is scary or simply lonely.

It is ten to eleven now and I Dylan's Blood On The Tracks is on the mono.

I was told today that my ex-boss Graham Jones (ex-Daily Star and CNN) had died, in his late fifties, I believe. I was saddened by this news.

He was certainly not a popular character but I always got on with him quite well, while occasionally suffering his other side.

Surprisingly, for a hard-nosed Fleet Street news editor, he took to coming to my comedy club, Joe's Comedy Madhouse, and thoroughly enjoyed its sheer awfulness.

R.I.P. Jonesy.

It is late and I have not done my ironing, washed the kitchen floor, taken out the washing – or, most important of all, written my leaving speech.

God knows what I am going to say.

It is the day of my leaving - 19 March 2008 - and I have just had my leaving presentation, which was extremely nice.

My speech went down well and people laughed in the right places.

And my colleagues gave me a bottle of Taittinger champagne, two lovely Sheaffer pens and, best of all, a new edition of the Oxford Book of English Verse.

It opened at Byron's She Walks In Beauty, which I read out to my colleagues...

Well, I have 10 minutes to go now.

I will soon be leaving my day-job building, going to my leaving do in Leamington, then the Leamington Garret and the end.

Leamington Spa, I have loved and hated you these past two years, but I will sure as hell miss you.

Oliver's Poetry

Farewell Attila!

2008-02-25T10:55:00.021Z

I am back in the Leamington Garret. It is very empty.

My flatmate Attila has gone, leaving the garret in immaculate condition.

Hungarian spirits, chocolates and a greeting card are on the table. I feel very moved by Attila’s efforts.

In this flat I have truly had the best and worst of flatmates. When he was evicted my first flatmate - the one before Attila - completely trashed the pad. There was broken glass, rubbish, flour and other trash everywhere.

By stark contrast, Attila has been left it perfectly clean; probably cleaner than it has ever been.

I shall certainly miss Attila Szalo. A nicer guy and finer flatmate one could not hope for: reasonable, tolerant, decent, good-natured and kindly, in every respect.

Attila also had a fantastic - and surprisingly English - sense of humour. We used to laugh like idiots at our respective misadventures and misfortunes.

I guess that to some degree we were united by a desire to leave Leamington Spa – a drear Midlands town so utterly alien and unfriendly to both of us. Such a poor joke!

Coincidentally it is two years today that I moved into this flat.

I shall forget that mad-mad day and night in which my first flatmate James and I hauled sofas, washing machines, beds, matresses and every other heavy or light item up seven flights of stairs. It did my back in. I am still in pain!

The events that followed sometimes seem like a bad dream. I have never lived anywhere that I have been through such totally varied sensations – from the agony of terror and violence to the heights of happiness.

The one thing that I thought would never happen, in this scary flat up in the sky, is that I would end up living here on my own.

It is pretty well the last thing I would have wanted.

But the thought of trying to find another flatmate – risking a nutter - for just three-and-a-half weeks was too horrific to contemplate.

It is almost midnight. I remember two years ago we were flat-out with exhaustion by this time, and had gone down to James’ dad’s local.

Tonight I have been to the Reckless Moment comedy club, a quiet night with some good new talent (I suspect that were Warwick University drama students).

Friendly faces. Yet I wonder how I shall survive the next three-and-a-half weeks here.

Attila Szalo has returned to Hungary and then plans to travel the world for bit.

There was no doubt his major motivation was to leave Leamington Spa.

If his break in England had come in London, I would wager he would still be in the UK.

You can’t blame him, though. I am sure that if were not English, I would have quit the country after living in Leamington for a year.

Once you have seens girls punching it out on the street on a Sunday night, or a 10-person brawl outside the cheap pub at 7pm on a Tuesday night, it is not hard to find the grass greener elsewhere.

I reckon that, not including tonight, I have another 15 nights left in this one-horse, cowboy town.

Suddenly the flat seems huge. Again it looks different. It seemed to change totally after James left. Now it looks and feels different again now Attila has departed.

It changes its complexion with the cast, taking on the personality of its denizens.

I got here tonight, after driving at highish speed up the usual motorways, remarkably, in rush-hour traffic, sometimes fighting to keep the Astra Martin on the road, and found that, despite all our efforts, the James Blunts at British Telecom had cut off the Internet connection.

Has there ever been a more incompetent company? In the post was a letter from BT thanking us for our continued custom!

In a sense, though, it seems apt to be left here, cut off, off-line, truncated, tapping away on a computer bought for 15 quid from the day-job, playing Elvis Costello CDs through dear Ruth Boswell’s 1970s music centre. Only 15 nights to go. . .

What is surprising is the enormous amount of stuff in the Leamington Garret. Two years ago, when James and I moved in, it was virtually unfurnished.

Now I am on my ownsome – surrounded by masses of furniture and ornaments. My first flatmate really did leave most of his chattels here.

I am going to make an effort to chuck stuff out, but I know I shall be leaving, in three weeks' time, a flat full of possessions.

Funny thing is a lot of it is good stuff.

Hey, I had better turn in because Attila’s marvellous, amazing Hungarian pear-based liquor is doing amazing stuff to my head – and I have a 6.30am appointment with the pool at Pure!

Here’s a picture I took out of the Lewes Garret window this morn.

* It is a day on, almost witching hour again.

Today I have had to nurse the mother of all hangovers. That Hungarian spirit was stronger than rocket fuel. No amount of medication could alleviate my symptoms today.

Only after drinking three large glasses of it did I notice it says on the bottle that it is a mere 52 percent proof!

I probably would have been saver drinking diesel from the Astra Martin!

All the same I have been working feverishly to get ahead of the curve.

I am determined to leave my departments at the day-job in good shape. Out of a sense of pride in a job well done, I suppose.

I am probably a bit autistic.

I like everything to be just so, and obsess about it if it is not. Until I drink. Then it can all fly into the air like a deck of cards!

It occurred to me today how bad I have become at networking. I have literally hundreds of scraps of paper or backs of business cards with numbers of contacts scrawled on them; yet I never bother to put them in a contacts book or even use most of them.

I must change, and start networking, using my contacts.

I guess the reason I don’t is more about shyness and embarrassment (and laziness) than anything else.

I tried to talk to British Telecom today. I got cut off twice and eventually, after another 30-minute wait, talked to a gentleman in India who could not help me.

When I worked as a business journalist at CNN Television, we often used to get the then Chairman or Chief Executive of British Telecom on our show as a guest.

The anchor, Becky Anderson, always seemed finish by asking him when he was going to resign.

Nothing seems to have improved in the intervening years.

British Telecom appears every bit as wantonly incompetent as it has ever been.

It gleefully turns away business and revels in making its customers’ lives more difficult.

I don’t think I shall bother pursuing them; I can write this journal offline and upload in my lunch hour at work or at the Lewes Garret.

At least the music on the computer is working. I think I would go mad without it.

Actually, being without the internet will probably help me.

I might even revise my 2007 poems and write a few new ones. I want to write something about leaving Leamington.

Tonight I stayed late at the day-job, then went to the Pure health club, chatted to the people in the pool and sauna, and came back here to the Garret and started to pack.

By my last day, I want to have all bar one suitcase of stuff out of here.

The morning after my leaving do, I will close the case and jump on the train. Never to return.

Prince’s Count The Days is playing. Seems apposite.

* Would you believe that the Sussex fuzz managed to overturn a cop car in the street outside the Lewes Garret, without any other moving vehicles being involved.

The fools seem to have been speeding along at around 4am, hit a parked car and turned over their police car, writing it off.

It were not for alacrity of our neighbour who was awoken by the noise and photographed the car from her window, I strongly suspect the whole affair would have been covered up.

The fuzz were damn quick in removing their wreckage. It was gone by the time we were up, with only some orange sand and broken glass to show they had been there.

I sincerely hope a prosecution is going to result from this appalling incident.

The speed limit is 20mph and, although the fuzz tend to believe speed limits do not apply to them, these maniacs must, I estimate, have been doing three times that.

I may even drop Norman Baker, our industrious and parochial MP, a line about it.

* Eight Pints of Poetry, our poetry club in Lewes, is getting some excellent coverage.

The local glossy what's on magazine, Viva Lewes, has published an excellent interview with our next headliner, Attila the Stockbroker, plugging the gig.

Incidentally, Attila the Stockbroker (not to be confused with Attila the Flatmate!) has sent me a poem which is now up on Oliver's Poetry.
Do come to see him in action at the Lewes Arms, Lewes, on Friday, March 14! (My cousin Laura (Hi!) says she is coming to the gig, and, having read my last blog, says Weymouth and Portland Bill are her favourite places in the world - so I have scattered some more images of them around this blog).

The renowned poet and Warwick Poet Laureate Jane Holland has published an account of the last Eight Pints gig, with a couple of images, at Poets on Fire.

Finally, the earth really did move for me at the Leamington Garret. I was awoken by the earthquake, with the walls quivering like jelly and my bed and clothes rail rocking violently from side to side.

Confused, I got up and assumed someone had been trying to break in. Then I fell asleep again and woke up at 4am and 6.30am, believing I had dreamt it!

It is a shame Attila missed possibly the most exciting event to ever hit Leamington Spa!

Oliver's Poetry

Opening Night at Eight Pints of Poetry!

2008-02-24T19:00:00.009Z

The first night of my poetry club – Eight Pints of Poetry! – went well!

Ash Dickinson, the Edinburgh Fringe’s current slam poetry champion, performed two good half-hour sets; I compered, reading more than 15 poems, and a very good open spot, Iona Jette, did about seven minutes.

After a tremendous family effort flyering during the previous week, the room was half full (rather than half empty!) which I thought a respectable result for the opening night.

And the crazy talk and drunken antics downstairs in the bar afterwards reminded me of the sozzled excesses of the Joe’s Comedy Madhouse years (not necessarily a good thing!)

The next gig is on Friday, 14 March (Doors: 8pm, Show: 8.30pm), again at the Lewes Arms, Mount Place, Lewes, East Sussex.

The headliner is the legendary Attila the Stockbroker. With a packed room and a few more open mic-ers, it could be the perfect poetry night!

I have been in the Lewes Garret for 12 days now.

It is nice to be home, having a rest, but I have found it hard slipping into the vibe here in Lewes. Strange! It makes me wonder how I will get on soon when I am back fulltime.

Before I left, I did my last performance on BBC Coventry and Warwickshire Radio. It was the best of the three.

I was on with a guest presenter, John Butler (not my Oxford friend of the same name but a Cov Kid and former stand-up comedian), and the resident guest for the slot, the station’s poet laureate Jo Roberts.

I felt more relaxed than before; we had a good chat about the council’s plans to invest a billion quid (yes, a thousand million pounds) in another re-development of its precinct.

When I had lived in Coventry 20 years before, I pointed out, the council had been planning to re-develop the precinct. Now they are starting again!

Before the show, I had looked at images of Coventry before the blitz of 1940.

Although I had worked as a reporter at the Coventry Evening Telegraph from 1986-88, I had never seen these pictures before.

I was struck by how beautiful Coventry had been, and how much damage Gibson had done with his master plan for concrete re-development.

Moreover, I walked past the shanty town bit of the city centre, the Parson’s Nose et cetera, and saw it condoned off by the police because a murdered man’s body had been found.

I thought: Coventry has not changed. More than 60 years after the end of the Second World War, it still hasn’t been rebuilt.

And 20 years after I left, its people are still slaughtering each other!

On BBC Coventry and Warwickshire Radio, I recited a poem I had written on this theme, Coventry Precinct.

Then I read Give Me A Haircut Like Byron!, and Women. They seemed to go well.

It was one of my better performances; I felt great afterwards. I shall miss BBC Coventry and Warwickshire Radio – a fine institution, worth the licence fee on its own!

The following day I was due to interview a 1970s sex symbol who now runs a stud in England’s West Country.

I set off from the Leamington Garret bright and early and was almost there when I got a call on my mobile from her scatty personal assistant.

To my astonishment, I was told that the ex-siren was in London that day!

It turned out that her assistant could have told me this days before but had simply forgotten – until I had driven hundreds of miles at high speed and was almost there!

She offered to re-arrange the interview but, in my disgust, I told them to shove it, and went to Weymouth for the day.

I should explain that Weymouth is one of my favourite places in the world – and a mere 200 miles from Leamington.

Admittedly, it took a little time to drive to Weymouth, but I was there for lunch – fish and chips in the baking hot sun. For a day in February, the weather was quite extraordinary.

I loved the quintessential blueness of the skies, the wide open beaches, the bustling harbour.

Some of my happiness memories are in Weymouth.

My father would drive the family Morris Oxford from Oxford to Weymouth.

The journey would seem to take an eternity (it is almost as far as from Oxford as from Leamington), but it was worth it to splash around in the acres of paddling waters, row my beloved inflatable canoe, and play the amusements.

I found the Weymouth shop where I think I bought the canoe, and went into the amusement arcade that me and my brothers liked the most.

Remarkably, inside it seemed hardly changed. I swear one of the attractions was even exactly the same - more than 35 years on!

Sundown found me at Portland Bill – a spectacular spot on the Isle of Portland, attached to Weymouth by the slightest spit of land.

I chatted to the twitchers (and they showed me some birds), and I met an old gentleman who was there with his granddaughter.

By the time I’d returned to the Leamington Garret that night, I’d driven 409 miles that day, and was absolutely drained. But happy...

On the way back to Lewes, my faithful motor, the Astra Martin, went through 180 (‘One Hunnnnnnnnnnndrrrrrrrrrrrrred and Ehhhhhhhhhhty!’ as they used to say when my Uncle Jocky was winning at darts) thousand miles on the clock.

During my holiday, the big event was a major birthday for a member of the family.

We went to London for the day, taking in a very misty Hampstead Heath, Keats’ Garden, and a spectacularly beautiful Richmond at sunset.

Friends, I shall leave you with that image as I set off from Leamington with a heavy heart.

Oliver's Poetry

Exeunt Omnes : Jason Tilley's India

2008-02-06T22:02:00.004Z

Hallelujah! A miracle has happened. I have found a great new day-job! I am leaving Leamington Spa! I'm returning to the big, bad city of London!

I can hardly believe my luck. Although I have been happier here over the last few months than before, quitting Leamington for gainful employment is an opportunity I have to - and will - seize with both hands.

It has been a long time in coming. I have lost count of the number of jobs I have applied for over the past two years.

I became so desperate at one point last year that I foolishly enrolled with almost every headhunter and employment agency in London. All to no avail. Until now.

It could not have come at a better time. When I came back after Christmas, my dear flatmate Attila Szalo expressed a burning desire to jack in his job in Leamington to travel in India.

So I invited my old friend Jason Tilley, who has spent the past five years travelling and photographing on the sub-continent, round to talk about India with Attila.

(Incidentally, I selected 18 of Jason Tilley's brilliant images to display with this blog. If anyone is interested in sponsoring his return to India, then please do drop e me through Oliver's Poetry and I will put you in touch with him).

Jason's tales of travelling India were extraordinary and, in some cases, rather disturbing. For instance, a sleazy bloke spiked his drink in a bar and then followed him back to his room, resulting in a narrow escape.

I would absolutely love to travel in India, but, as when I went to Ecuador, I suspect I would spend a lot of time avoiding other Westerners.

Attila has put in his notice at work and leaves on 18 February and I hope to arrange a good send-off for him.

Then I shall leave about a month later. (My best efforts to tie up loose ends and negotiate a reduced notice period ended up meaning I was leaving in eight weeks rather than three months).

It is all a bit weird - rather unreal. I cannot get my head around it.

In order to help make better use of the next month, I have joined the nearby and expensive gym - Pure - right round the corner from the Leamington Garret.

It is 52.50 pounds sterling for a calendar month and I reckon I will have to use it at least a dozen times to get my money's worth out of it.

Easirt said than done as I am often only here three full evenings a week.

Today was my first day at the gym, so I got up at 6.20am and went for a swim before work; then went in and told everyone I was leaving; went down to London for a meeting; came back and returned to the gym.

Pure is a lovely gym, even if the human scenery is not quite as spectacular as on the streets of Belgravia (where I was this afternoon).

I like the swimming pool. It is as if the Leamington Garret has its own beautiful, private pool - just a minute's walk from the penthouse!

On the poetry front I have not made much progress. At the weekend I printed out 10 of last year's crop and have started editing them, but anything and everything distracted me.

Today, on the train back from London, it dawned on me that my valedictory appearance on BBC Coventry and Warwickshire is next week, and I had promised the station's poet laureate, the highly affable Jo Roberts, that I would write a poem about Coventry Precinct!

I started it but, having penned only two lines, started chatting to a friendly girl from Birmingham called Lydia who tried to convince me that Brum was an extremely welcoming place.

It occurred to me that she might be right. Perhaps, I should have lodged in Birmingham rather than Leamington Spa. (Too late now).

But I digress... I did not fancy having to find a new flatmate. Having had one good one (and one very bad one), I was not keen on playing Russian flat-lette once again. (The scar has not fully healed).

The Landlord - Mr Rigsby out of Rising Damp - has kindly agreed for me to stay on after Attila goes at no extra rent (after a wee verbal tussle).

Attila's charming and very young looking teenage sister and brother - Zsofi and Peter - are staying in the Leamington Garret at the moment which has greatly improved the quality of the food we are eating, and also caused the Garret to be cleaned in the nick of time for Mr Rigsby's visit.

It is late on Sunday night now and I have just returned to Leamington Garret to find that the effers on the local council have taken down the 9am to 6pm parking restriction signs and replaced them with 8am to 8pm ones. They have also removed the disabled parking.

The former means I will have to set off for work by 8am every day and then park the best part of a mile away from the Garret between 5.15pm and 8pm every night to prevent some Nazi contracted by the council giving me a parking ticket for parking outside my own home.

I am not even able to buy a residents' parking permit because this street, despite its many residents, has been classed as 'non-residential' by local authority morons!

As usual there was absolutely no warning of the impending change in regulation and no consultation. I really hate the local penpushers. And yet still I pay the council tax to bolster their fat wage packets.

It has been a tricky weekend for various reasons. I am becoming seriously worried about how well I am going to settle into full-time life at the Lewes Garret after three years being there part-time. Things could turn very sour indeed.

Only out of total panic and desperation on the employment front did I leave Lewes in the first place, and I don't think I would ever do it again. You become detached from home, and - to be frank - I find it almost impossible to live effectively in two places, let alone two garrets!

All the packing and unpacking drives me mental, as do the exhausting commutes. Incidentally, tonight's door-to-door time of two hours and 18 minutes is a new record for me.

However when I routinely try to drive up on the Monday morning, I was often spend four to five hours on the road in horrible traffic after a 5.25am alarm call, then suffer the rest of the day traipsing around the office like a zombie on ecstacy, generally making an utter arse of myself.

Now it is quiet and cold in the Leamington Garret; almost ten-fifteen with only a few lights still in the block of flats. I can see no one walking around, or doing anything.

Attila is away, presumably in London, and his brother and sister have gone back to Hungary, after a successful stay.

I feel like I am in a numbed state of limbo at the moment. Yesterday I made a list of the things I needed to do before leaving Leamington on the morning of Thursday, 20 March.

It came to 52 items! After working away at it most of today, I have ticked off only four of them!

The worst of it is that I wonder how much of my leaving plans are related to what I feel I ought to be doing - 'to do the right thing'.

When in reality, the vast majority of one's work colleagues, for instance, most probably don't give a fig whether you, or anyone, goes or stays.

I am organising an evening leaving do, but, if previous experience of day-job leaving events up here is anything to go by, it will be a quiet affair.

Regular readers of this journal may recall my efforts to gain a rounded knowledge of English poetry by reading - from cover to cover - the New Oxford Book of English Verse.

The last time I mentioned this I had reached Andrew Marvell, who was marvellous (don't excuse the pun!)

Now at last I am on my progenitor and hero George Gordon Byron. But, boy oh boy, have I suffered on this poetic journey!

I have read some great poetry but also some of the dreariest verse. There certainly seems to have been a slow patch in poetry in the half-century before William Blake came along.

Between Marvell and Blake, I read (some good, some dull): Henry Vaughan, Thomas Stanley, John Bunyan, Thomas Traherne, John Dryden, Charles Sackville, Aphra Behn, John Wilmot, Matthew Prior, Jonathan Swift, Isaac Watts, Alexander Pope, Henry Carey, James Thomson, Samuel Johnson...

And: Thomas Gray, William Collins, Christopher Smart, Oliver Goldsmith, Thomas Osbert Mordaunt, John Scott, William Cowper, Thomas Chatterton and George Crabbe.

I enjoyed parts of a lot of these dead poets, but it was like a breath of fresh air when I reached Blake and went into a purple patch of him, followed the great Robert Burns, the brilliant William Wordsworth, Walter Scott and Samuel Taylor Caleridge.

Before Byron, Walter Savage Landor, Charles Lamb, Thomas Campbell, Thomas Moore, James Leigh Hunt and Thomas Love Peacock slipped in.

And I still have hundreds of pages still to read!

I have a couple of days of no-drinking to go.

This year I have decided that rather than being on the wagon for just January, I would extend it to 10 percent of the year, which means not drinking for 36.6 days (it is a leap year). Or this Wednesday night.

I have not really missed the booze, apart from in certain situations, like getting back to the Lewes Garret on Thursday night after a hell of a journey on the M40, M25 and M23, and really, really fancying a glass of red wine.

I went to The Stage's New Year at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London, for the first time in about five years.

It was strange being the only sober person on that huge room awash with people and champagne.

One of the many things I like about showbiz folk is their tremendous optimism in the face of adversity - at least publicly.

I met one of the girls who didn't become Maria on the hit BBC show. She was delightful and told me enthusiastically about her pantomime and her singing lessons.

Later, I got chatting to a very pretty girl who told me about her forthcoming engagement at the Kings Head pub theatre in Islington, north London.

Only after she had left did a mate tell me, 'That was Abi Titmuss - John Leslie's ex.'

I remembered her name from the popular press. I have never been very good at recognising famous faces (or chests)!

I was more excited to hear that a very dear old friend was getting married, and another had got a girl pregnant who was already married.

More than ever I left the party thinking that we are all getting older; none of my generation can truthfully describe themselves as young any more.

Perhaps surprisingly, I felt quite sad to hear of Jeremy Beadle's death.

When I wrote about television for a national newspaper, I often used to attack his cruel prankster shows.

However, when I met him, he was most pleasant, despite his avowed hatred of journalists.

And Jeremy Beadle took it in good part when I successfully played a prank on him live on radio, and later wrote about it.

If nothing else, he was a good sport, although his true personality will always be a mystery to me.

It is late now and I need to turn in soon in order to make it to the Pure health club before work tomorrow.

I went five times in the first three days I have been a member, but I am not sure I can keep that up.

And I am very worried about my fast-approaching appearance on Coventry and Warwickshire Radio on Tuesday.

I have written about the council's plans to demolish the precinct after decades of redevelopment.

It made me almost nostalgic for my days as the local pop writer on the Evening Telegraph in Coventry (1987-8) - with Jason Tilley taking brilliant photographs for me - but I spend far too much time with my head flush with yesteryear.

Now it is Wednesday February 6 and I have achieved my goal of not drinking for 10 percent of the year.

I have also pointlessly driven 407 miles today and am exceptionally cream-crackered (much more of which in a forthcoming blog).

I am trying to write this on Attila's tiny Hungarian laptop and finding it near impossible (my fingers are too fat) so for now I shall publish (without checking it) and be damned!

Goodnight!

Oliver's Poetry

When A A Gill Met Joe's Comedy Madhouse

2008-01-18T22:00:00.004Z

I made it through the festive season and really quite enjoyed it, despite the occasional bizarre hiccup along the road (would you believe that the rector at Southover Church Lewes produced and proffered his dirty socks, which had been festering for three months, as an illustration of his perplexing sermon on Christmas morning!)

Also, I must mention an extraordinary missive from my dear friend DJ E, who emailed to say he had been reading a book by A A Gill in which the Sunday Times TV and restaurants critic mentioned my former comedy club, Joe's Comedy Madhouse.

As followers of this journal may know, I promoted Joe's Comedy Madhouse in a variety of venues from June 1997 until November 2005, when I decided to close it on a rousing high with headliner Phil Nichol (pictured) performing his Edinburgh Fringe Award winning show, supported by the best of the other acts from the Madhouse years. An unforgettable and unbelievable night in a totally packed venue!

During those eight-and-a-half years, Joe's Comedy Madhouse gave stage time to up-and-coming comedians including Jimmy Carr, Daniel Kitson (another Perrier Award winner), Shappi Khorsandi (Best Newcomer at Edinburgh), Stephen Merchant (Ricky Gervais's co-writer and co-star in The Office and Extras) and Marek Larwood (Best Edinburgh Newcomer) among many others.

Most important of all, I gave stage time to anyone and everyone who wanted it - regardless of how good or bad they were at comedy, but with a particular onus on the genuinely crazy acts (the Comedy Terrorist, for instance, started at my club).

I attended all but one of the Madhouse shows - I was away working in the Holy Land and a huge argument broke out that night leading to the club's eviction from its then venue - and almost always was at the door and then introduced the gig (for years, I did it after a taped introduction which I had made using interviews I had done with Jerry Springer and Gordon Brown).

Strangely, I do not recall Adrian Gill having attended the club, even though I had appeared with him on a late-night chat show on BBC Radio 5 Live on several occasions and, so, one might have thought we should have recognised each other.

I was filled with doubt that DJ E had got it right (central London is flush with madcap comedy clubs of a Wednesday night), but curiosity got the better of me.

So, on New Year's Eve, I went to W H Smith in Lewes to enquire after the alleged A A Gill book, succinctly and deftly entitled The Angry Isle Hunting The English.

In among the B- and C-listers, there was no sign of it. It was all Clarkson, Ramsay, Jamie, Jordan, Morgan, Nigella and various other fine, famous people.

I collared the shop girl who asked me to repeat the name before typing it into her stock computer.

'We had two some time ago, but they've not here no more,' she said with an expression that suggested they'd gone back to the wholesaler.

It was the same story in Lewes's other new book store where a crusty old gent described the work as a 'classic', somewhat sarcastically I suspected.

I walked to Lewes Library thinking, 'Just how dodgy is this book by A A Gill?'

At the library, the assistant immediately said it would be the shelf. I asked her to show me but there no sign of the elusive volume.

'It must be lost,' she said, as if this were the natural fate for it.

'No, there it is,' I said, pointing it out, really rather delighted to have found it at last.

Then, strangely, I felt the need to get out a slim volume of poetry by the Poet Laureate Andrew Motion, as if I were an embarrassed teenager purchasing aspirins along with condoms.

Still, I could hardly wait to see what Adrian had made of Joe's Comedy Madhouse.

It did not take long to find.

The book fell open at the Humour chapter and even a cursory skip quickly revealed that Adrian's research had only extended to going to one comedy night in Soho, London, that had been cancelled and a second, down the road, which was mine.

I was intrigued by his gradual build-up to his inevitable demolition job on Joe's Comedy Madhouse.

Adrian seemed to hate Soho, hate the people he found there, hate the Intrepid Fox pub (scene of the cancellation), hate the Goth night which was taking place there instead, hate the nearby Crown pub, hate its Sky TV screens, hate its customers, hate its toilets, hate their smell, hate the room upstairs in which where Joe's Comedy Madhouse was being staged!

Reading it was like watching a juggernaut approaching a hedgehog at an ineffable laconic rate!

I recall the gig he described in his book but, surprisingly, do not remember A A Gill being there.

Surprisingly because I had appeared on BBC Radio Five Live with A A Gill for at least a couple of two-hour shows, and, yet, in the small and almost empty room I did not recognise him. . . and he did not recognise me.

On the contrary, he describes me in his account as a 'bearded young man', even though I was aged 43 at the time and clean shaven.

Still, I am vain enough to be flattered by this description. A A Gill will be 55 this year (if his own evidence is to be believed), so, maybe, I simply looked young to him.

The deliberately shambolic set-up of the Madhouse was not lost on him.

He wrote of the 'unmatched mix of pub chairs' (I'd always prided myself on making them look messy) and the lopsided and battered backdrop which he wrote 'looked like a prop from a junior school end-of-term play'.

My family made said item in 1997 from material purchased at Dalston Fruit 'n' Veg Market, and, when I read this to them, they were all in tears of laughter that it should be featured in a hardback book published by Orion and retailing for a penny short of 19 quid!

I was rather pleased by the next bit, that I had extracted six quid from A A Gill for coming in - if he had introduced himself I would have waived the entrance fee.

Still, no doubt it was tax deductible for him.

Adrian made the point that Joe is not my real name. Absolutely true, but then neither are Ollie or Oliver. (Best not to go there).

He said that Madhouse is "an unpromising moniker for 'cutting edge experimental comedy'. Here, Adrian has a point, although, to be embarrassingly frank, I picked Madhouse as a name for another reason - I had been a fan of Russ Abbot's Madhouse (a classic Saturday teatime comedy TV show that Adrian would doubtless have hated for its sense of puerile fun).

Then, in his book, Adrian moved onto the compere.

My resident MC and latterly co-promoter was a gentleman by the name of Phil Zimmerman (pictured), who now promotes and performs at a highly successful comedy club in Drayton, west London.

I would most certainly have introduced him as Phil Zimmerman, yet A A Gill reports my words (in the guise of 'introductory student beardy' - more age flattery) as: 'Welcome to Joe's Comedy Madhouse, and without more ado here's Sid Zimmerman - your host for the evening. A big hand please.'

Sounds plausible, apart from the 'Sid' bit. Where on earth did A A get that from?

Adrian goes on: 'Sid isn't his real name.' Well, that's true. To mine (and Zimmerman's) knowledge, he has never used the name Sid!

But Adrian adds: 'Zimmerman is.' (his name).

Untrue, unfortunately. Phil's real name is Craigie, under which, ironically, he was for many years a journalist colleague of A A Gill at The Sunday Times newspaper. Still, no matter. Why let facts get in the way of a good rant.

Adrian continues: 'It used to be Bob Dylan's name too. Maybe it was Sid's branch of the family that made Bob consider changing it to that of a drunk Welsh Soho doggerelist.'

It is nice Adrian has got the Dylan connection. Phil did indeed change his surname because of an enthusiasm for the great Bob Dylan.

However, I have to say that Adrian's snipe at the great poet Dylan Thomas is a little on the cheap side, in my humble opinion.

These inaccuracies are contained in just the first two paragraphs of two pages on Joe's Comedy Madhouse. And there a couple of hundred of pages to the book.

Goodness knows how many factual errors the entire work contains.

I have to confess I quite enjoyed Adrian's subsequent description of Phil's performance, although it was a little cruel and missing the somewhat obvious point that he is a character act, The Pigeonman.

He is not playing himself. Maybe, A A Gill really believes Al Murray really runs a pub or Dame Edna Everage is a woman. Anything's possible.

I also enjoyed his description of the subsequent acts.

I admit that I never felt I had done my job properly in booking the line-up if at least a couple of first-half acts didn't make the audience squirm with embarrassment.

It was always part of my enjoyment to make them suffer for a decent headliner later in the night.

The chapter gets a bit boring after that. After half an hour, Adrian is off and out of the pub, pondering why anyone would want to do stand-up.

There's another mention of me being young, but he concludes the experience of performing comedy at my club must be like 'dressing up as a traffic warden because you to meet people and make friends'.

This last remark was uncannily apposite. One of my Madhouse acts, Ivan Steward, often used to dress up as a traffic warden at the club and did indeed meet people and make friends as a result.

I tried to plough through the rest of the chapter and the book, but found it a highly irksome read. A style that works well for an 800-word TV critique in the Sunday Times Culture section does not in my view cut it over 80,000 words in book form.

Adrian seems to be working on the basic premise that the English character is based on anger, but he fails to substantiate the argument- Anyway, it is hard to see why he has singled out the English.

My own experience of being English, but originally of Scottish stock, is that there is not a huge gulf between the English and the Scots.

If anything, the Scots are more prone to anger than the English who (like English-sounding Scot A A Gill) prefer a good moan.

In the final analysis, however, I would say the English, the Welsh and the Scots are all gifted at having a whinge and losing their rags.

The chapter on booze was more interesting (and accurate) than much of the book. This is, at least, an area where Adrian has some real research.

He starts by saying he is an alcoholic. But like so many dried-out soaks, he is quite harsh on those who continue to drink.

What surprised me most about the book was Adrian's assertion that he was in some way part of the entertainment industry.

Honestly it had never occurred to me that A A Gill might see his work as somehow comedic in its tenor.

Yet, thinking about it, I remembered the Adrian Gill I had met in the BBC Radio 5 Live studio those year ago, a man with a monocle who said he would not review Coronation Street because of all the working class Northerners in it.

And I thought of the only A A Gill fan I had ever met, a working class Northerner (a heavy-drinking Scouser sub-editor on the Daily Star) and it seemed to me that, yes, A A Gill's role is in some small way to add the gaity of the nation, just as Boris Johnson's is.

I am not entirely convinced Adrian was even at Joe's Comedy Madhouse.

The glaring inaccuracies in his account of events (such as my alleged beard) and the fact I did not recognise him makes me think a stodge with a dodgy Biro might have been representing the great personage on that auspicious night.

But God bless A A Gill!

It had always been a dream of mine that Joe's Comedy Madhouse would be immortalised in some way - and, like a Jimmy Savile for 21st Century, Adrian has fixed it for me. Thanks, old son. You have made my day.

I shall tap up my mates at the Sunday Times for his home address and write to Adrian to thank him - and invite him as my guest to my new club, Eight Pints of Poetry, which is to launch at the Lewes Arms, Lewes, East Sussex, on the night of Friday, 15 February 2008.

The headliner is the fantastic stand-up poet Ash Dickinson (pictured) who genuinely is a young man with a beard!

If he still has a sense of humour, he can even perform a poem there.

January is an especially grim month. Partly because of the weather. Partly because I don't drink. Partly because reality bites like a crocodile.

It is very hard to forget the tough realities of life in the Garret/s when you are freezing and stone-cold sober.

Still, my diet is going well. I have lost around half a stone (seven pounds) so far without even doing any serious exercise.

This year I have not made any resolutions. The reason is that I never manage to keep them, and not for want of trying.

As I get older, the forces of chaos and society seem to conspire to hold you back.

This year I am simply going to bear in mind various things I would like to do and hope I can make them happen. I have no firm resolutions to achieve anything.

I would like to catalogue my photographs, four decades of them dating from 1970.

Otherwise I will completely forget who and what is on these thousands of black and white or colour images.

Incidentally, I took a great number of photographs over Christmas and New Year. Some will appear with this blog entry if I get them back from the processor's lab soon enough (I have not gone digital and have no plan to become so).

I am also using some pictures left over on an unpublished blog page from last year (in the name of good housekeeping).

Cataloguing my pictures is going to be a huge task, but if I can start this year, that will be something.

I would like start to get together a collection of my poetry. This is another tough one. I am currently working on editing my 2007 poems. Never have I written so many incomplete pieces. There is a lot of writing involved in editing them!

Even finding them (and on manifold notebooks and scraps of paper and envelopes) and typing them out (some I could hardly read, I'd been in such an emotional state) was a hard and time-consuming process.

I would like to enter some poetry contests this year and submit poems to poetry magazines. I'd also like to learn more of them, to get away from the reading.

Most of all, I would like to write with more passion, honesty and courage.

I suppose I have made one resolution for 2008: I must get in touch with old friends.

I am terrible for falling out of touch with people. In 2007 losing two friends with whom I had fallen out of touch made me realise just how long the parting is after death.

So I want to see again a string of people I would love to see again all of whose full names are not given below, in no particular order:

John B: a sailing friend much older than me (I telephoned him and had a really good chat),

John McFarlane: a former school teacher and great influence on me in my youth. I have not heard from him since 1981. He was living in Yemen,

Linda D: A good friend from the Daily Star who I have not seen 2001. Last heard of in Dublin,

Christy C: A pal from the Sunday Telegraph with whom I fell out of touch when I left in 1997,

Monica Healion (now married and called Stone, I believe): An Irish friend now believed to be living the U.S. Have not heard from her since 1991 or so,

Tricia Stead: A mate from Hull University who lived near me in Broadstone, Poole, in Dorset. Not heard from her since about 1992,

Russell T: A school friend who I have not seen since the mid-1990s. Believed to be in South Korea. I already have a lead for contacting him,

Tim R: A Sunday Telegraph mate with whom I lost touch after 1997. Believed to be in Washington D.C. or touring the States covering the primaries,

Mike P: My madcap boss at the Daily Star. Never a close friend but I am curious about him. Believed to be in Los Angeles,

Tracey H: A friend with whom I worked on the Coventry Evening Telegraph. Have not seen since 1998 or so. Believed to be living in London,

Melanie K: Another friend from the Coventry Evening Telegraph. Have not seen since 1992 or so. Believed to be living in the Midlands,

Roger E: A friend from Coaster magazine in Bournemouth. Fell out with him in grand style over an article I wrote for the Sunday Telegraph (my fault),

Paul E: A school mate with whom I also fell out for reasons still a mystery to me. Unfinished business.

There's a baker's dozen. If and when appropriate, I shall keep you apprised of how I get on tracing them!

There are also others whose whereabouts I know but I have just fallen out of the habit of seeing.

This life of living in two Garrets in Leamington and Lewes has cost me heavily in my old friendships, and that saddens me.

It getting late now in the Leamington Garret. My flatmate Attila has gone to bed. It is cold and I am not feeling sleepy enough.

I listening to Tonight at the Arizona by The Felice Brothers, a superb CD and birthday present, which I am playing through Attila's computer and Ruth Boswell's old music centre. On the third track, Hey Hey Revolver, they are struck by lightning but keep playing!

On top of the music centre, I have lit a Vanilla and Apple scented candle. I told you I am in a strange mood.

Change is in the air but also great uncertainty. I felt very unsettled at work this week.

Moreover, poetry has gone out of the window. I have just not been able to focus on a poem for weeks.

Obviously I don't know what this year holds for me. And my lack of control scares the life out of me more this year than ever before.

I had just seen Charlie Wilson's War at the cinema. A great film. I always like watching films about my family.

It made me think how like Uncle Charlie I am. I share his love of life; if only I had his courage...

Oliver's Poetry

Merry Christmas and a Poetic New Year from Lewes and Leamington!

2007-12-21T12:15:00.004Z

This may be my shortest blog ever:

Merry Christmas and a Poetic New Year to all my friends and supporters of Oliver's Poetry!

The run-up to Xmas is an incredibly fraught time for me, so I feel I am writing this entry on stolen time.

Do please check out the Xmas edition of Oliver's Poetry which has four new poems on it.

And please enjoy this gallery of Christmas images, taken in the last week in Lewes and Leamington.

Tomorrow is my 23rd (x2) birthday, and I shall toast you all with a birthday drink (or 10!).

See you all in the New Year!

Love, Oliver xxx

Oliver's Poetry

Oliver's Poetry

The Seedy Side of Royal Leamington Spa

2007-12-16T23:30:00.004Z

For a change I thought I'd show you the real Royal Leamington Spa - the side of this quaint, Regency town in quaint old middle England that visitors don't know exists.

All the decay, tumbleweed and dereliction. The many bits of this tourist town that the council's vast income from tax, parking charges and other sources does not reach.

The flaking paint, crumbling buildings, faded glory.

My good mood continues unabated (I thoroughly enjoyed taking these pictures, although I am deliberately not publishing images of the countless mentalists, vagrants, druggies and alkies who comprise the denizens of the badlands of downtown Leamington).

I am getting into the Christmas spirit and trying to enjoy myself in moderation. Never easy for me!

The Festive Season is always wondrously fun but also hugely dangerous. This point was more than adequately illustrated at a Christmas party in a hotel near Leamington the other Friday when I got trolleyed and, for reasons unknown, started swinging from a thick, wooden beam high above the dance floor.

I was achieving tremendous height with my swings when the inevitable happened - I lost my grip and took off like an Exocet missile some eight foot above the dance floor. When I finally hit ground, it was onto my back with a sickening thud. By God, I felt that. Instant agony.

The people around thought I had broken my back and, indeed, it seemed absolutely miraculous that I got up. The next morning, I found myself wrapped in bruises: back, arms, ribs, wrist, you name it. I was a mess.

Later when I heard accounts of my trajectory and the enormous crack that my bonehouse took as it smashed into the none-too-pliable dance floor, it seemed incredible that I had not ended up in hospital (I like to put it down to the John Paul II rosary beads in my pocket bringing divine intercession, as occurred with him and the swerving bullet).

Why was I so totally out of my head? I had been all right at the same event on two previous years.

Well, I suppose my old mate Mike Knapp's funeral that day had upset me far more than I had expected or would have admitted.

Michael Geoffrey Knapp (10 May 1961 - 29 November 2007) - as writ on the service sheet - was cremated at South West Middlesex Crematorium. The chapel was packed with family, friends and old colleagues from Express Newspapers.

It was an emotional and memorable service, although I'd say not because of the 'humanist celebrant' who was, I felt, as dry as a bone. (Think, ticket collector).

Mike's old friend Dave Paul spoke very movingly, as did Mike's dad and brother. It was very hard not to be tearful.

Like me, Mike was a 1961 baby and, afterwards, at the wake overlooking The Thames at The Bell Inn in Hampton, I pondered how and why he had been taken so young.

When I first knew him in 1988, I would never have imagined he would have died before me.

I liked Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep, the poem read at the funeral (although the humanist did not, in my view, do it justice):

In those quiet moments in the still of the night
Remember to rejoice and celebrate life
Do not think of me gone and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on the grain
I am the gentle autumn's rain
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in flight
I am the soft stars that shine
You will hear my gentle voice
and remember to rejoice
Never give up your fight
and remember always
to Celebrate Life....

Seemed so apposite. I guess Mike Knapp enjoyed his life and checked out with few regrets.

I have been finding it very hard to make the time to write this journal. In the week since Mike's funeral, life has been a little bit of a social whirl.

With my flatmate Attila, I went to a surprisingly entertaining (and hilarious) gathering of video game makers at the Royal Pump Rooms in Leamington. It was nice to him to get me in and the booze was only a quid a beer.

Also in Leamington, I led a seasonal booze-up of colleagues which turned out great, as more and more youngsters arrived to party. It ran from 5.30pm in the White Horse to past 3am in Kelseys. Wisely, I knocked off at around 1.15am in the Robbins Wells (and for once gave the Big K a miss).

A great craic, and I caught up with my photographer friend Jason Tilley (see Images of India) who dropped by for a chat and ended up crashing on my sofa.

On the Friday night, I met my dear friend Brian in London, which was looking particularly Christmassy and beautiful.

We met at the Coach and Horses in Soho (now rebranded as 'Norman's Coach and Horses' with four to five quid-a-piece sandwiches - what would Jeffrey Barnard have made of it?) Otherwise, it was mercifully similar to its former state.

That night it was the annual party at my club, the Colony Room, which was celebrating its 59th birthday, so we adjourned there.

It seemed even more wild than usual. One member had brought in his hound; another was staggering around, hopelessly drunk (like me in years past).

It was very great to see the gaffer, Michael, who is the life and soul of the Col. I am looking forward to next year's bash, the 60th. I remember the 50th and it was an amazing night.

Brian and I had a nightcap at The French House which is a timeless public house, virtually unchanged since it was home from home to the exiled French in the Second World War.

Knocking back numerous half-pints of Guinness (the French House does not sell pints), the atmosphere of that place was tangible.

I almost could picture the wartime French haunting their old haunt.

I did my last poetry gig of the year, at PureAndGoodAndRight, now in the vaults of the Robbins Well, Leamington.

As often happens with pre-Christmas gigs, there was a poor turn-out, so I took the opportunity to workshop a couple of new poems hot off the press (I'd written one on the train from Lewes to the gig).

They were very much work in progress but listening to the reaction of the small crowd was useful.

The atmosphere was good and the headliner, Ash Dickinson, was excellent. He certainly didn't let the dearth of punters put him off, enthusiastically performing two sets. Another great night!

Now I am gearing up for Christmas. I have two more days in Leamington Spa before heading south for the season.

I am still trying to plough through the New Oxford Book of English Verse, and have just read Andrew Marvell (1621 - 1678), a poet I know and particularly like. So it is definitely looking up.

And I am very pleased that my long article about the poetry scene plus my review of a CD of William Blake poems set to music has been published on the centre pages of The Stage, the ever-interesting actors' and performers' newspaper.

Somehow I don't feel ready for Christmas. This year is not quite complete.

Indeed I do not even like to reflect on the year because I have failed in so much of what I resolved to do in 2007.

Nevertheless, my spirits are high. Even though I still ache all over - nine whole days after my spectacular Christmas party crash!

It is 11.30pm and I am checking this blog before emailing you all about it and an update of Oliver's Poetry.

A crescent, almost UFO-esque moon is to my right. A bit of magic in the night. But bitterly cold on the street.

Oliver's Poetry

Winter Wonderland

2007-11-30T23:30:00.000Z

It has been a truly amazing November - I can hardly recall being happier (but can it last?).

Well, I hope it does. After going to hell and back in Leamington over the past couple of years, I am enjoying life at long last, and looking forward to my birthday and Christmas.

On the first anniversary of my horrific fight with my former flatmate, I headlined a poetry gig in Oxford - and it was fantastic.

The club, Back Room Poets, was in a Hardy-esque public house called Far From The Madding Crowd with an intelligent, attentive audience.

It was my very first gig as a 'featured' or 'future' poet and I leapt from reading one to three poems, as I have been doing at poetry club open spots for the past year and a bit, to doing 15 poems during a set which I think ran to 25 minutes.

I performed a mixture of the serious and the flippant, alternating between the two. I believe I kept the audience with me. It was great experience for me, anyway.

It was the first time I have played a poetry club where the audience was more interested in serious poems than the silly ones. I felt most honoured to be playing there at all.

I was most impressed by the other readers. The blind guy was awesome, reading his poems from Braille sheets pinned by crawling fingers to his chest.

A skyscaper of an American rower was also interesting. And a famous horse trainer present was also a talented poet.

Funnily enough, it was the night of the big anti-fascist demonstration outside the Oxford Union.

So, the audience's numbers were swelled by behooded demonstrators with angry anti-fascist eyes. Good for them!

At the end of the night, I was amazed and hugely flattered to be handed a cheque for 20 quid as payment. I have kept it as a souvenir. Like Byron, honour would not allow me to accept payment for poetry!

The day before - in Lewes - I went to a remarkable event at the All Saints Centre - a talk and one-act play about the model and photojournalist Lee Miller.

The slide-illustrated lecture, Discovering The Art of Lee Miller was given by Mark Haworth-Booth, the photo-archivist in charge of a definitive Lee Miller exhibition, The Art of Lee Miller, currently at the V & A in London, and Tony Penrose, Lee Miller's son.

Tony also wrote and appeared as himself in the play, The Angel and the Fiend, which was illustrated by slides too.

It was a superb afternoon. The slide show and talk was excellent and revealed a fascinating divide between the two men behind the exhibition.

Mark was driven by Miller's photography, seeking a photojournalist the world had under-recognised, almost forgotten.

Tony was driven by the fractious relationship he had with the latterly alcoholic Miller, seeking the mother he never truly knew, the lost love.

Clearly the two men had almost fallen out over one image with Penrose eventually getting a photo of personal importance to him included in the exhibition.

I walked away with very mixed feelings. Miller was a remarkable photographer, although perhaps not, in my humble opinion, a truly great one.

What was more extraordinary about her was her gift to place herself where she wanted to be when she wanted to be there; her skill at re-inventing herself as a Vogue model and photographer, war photographer and reporter. I would have loved to have met her in the 1930s or 1940s.

The men raised an interesting question: Why was Lee Miller so promiscuous? Was it as a result of the abuse she had suffered as a child? Or perhaps she saw her beauty as a chip on the roulette table of life; a way of joining the bohemian or fashion set she coveted and having the careers she needed to slake her lust for adventure.

Whatever the case, I could not help but admire her, and seeing her humorous or chilling wartime images reminded me of my long conversations about photojournalism with my former college tutor Sir Tom Hopkinson, who had been Editor of Picture Post during the Second World War.

Like Tom, Lee was truly formed by that traumatic time.

And, yes, I liked the way every last aspect of Lee Miller's life was celebrated as if a surreal masterpiece.

My head has been ablaze this month. I have been enjoying my work and life in the Leamington Garret.

Enormous (and hugely expensive) curtains have been hung over the living room windows overlooking the Pump Room Gardens, making the garret a good deal warmer.

It looks so utterly different from a year ago when I was beaten up in this very room by my former flatmate (whom I had punched in another location for very good cause).

It is hard to imagine what it was like then.

His replacement, a charming Hungarian called Attila, has been a delightful companion these past 12 months: intelligent, funny, easy-going, polite, and surprisingly English in his attitude to so many things. A tremendous guy!

At the Lewes Garret, it has been a strange month. I managed to break a window after a sloomy bee got in (attempts to get it out led to a picture being trapped under a window frame, my efforts to free the picture shattered a large pane and ended up costing 200 quid!)

Ladettes have vandalised the car wing mirror (another 90 quid down the drain!).

But the Allotment is going well. It is very pleasant to get out to Earwig's Corner to do a bit of digging. It is such a beautiful spot.

Moreover, I am starting a poetry club in Lewes - Lewes Poets which will kick off at the Lewes Arms at 8.30pm on Friday, January 18, with a tremendous line-up.

I intend to stage it on the third Friday of each month right through 2008, excepting August which is Edinburgh Time!

Talking of Lewes clubs, I dropped into SalsaMagic, the salsa dancing club at the White Hart Hotel in Lewes, and was shocked to see how terribly it has declined.

Since its founder and owner, Miguel Angel Plaza, fell sick, this once-great Sunday night club has fallen into apparently terminal decline.

A couple of years ago, you would have expected more than 100 salseros at the regular Sunday night event, with four classes going at the same time, followed by a huge Merengue lesson and then a lively DJ-ed club night until 11pm.

When I turned up the other Sunday, only four punters were there at the start (plus five teachers or helpers). The night was cancelled.

Afterwards, we all went for a hot chocolate upstairs at the hotel and discussed the parlous state of SalsaMagic and what could be done. Very little, it would seem.

Miguel is said to be unwilling to reliquish the reins while seemingly and sadly not running the business himself. Only the loyalty of his friends keeps it going at all - and hardly. . .

At its peak, SalsaMagic had four club nights on the South Coast; the others being at Eastbourne, Bognor and Portsmouth.

Now only the former flagship at Lewes remains. . and for how long?

We all wish Miguel a full and speedy recovery. However, unless he allows another dance promoter to run the club for the time being, it is doomed, and, when he is well, he will not have a business to return to. A tragedy in itself.

So, I am sending out an S.O.S. - Save Our Salsa! If you loved SalsaMagic and can think of a way of saving it, please do so.

As things stand now, I reckon it is only a matter of time before the White Hart Hotel takes it out of its misery, and the magic is no more.

I have been in London quite a lot this month through business and was highly amused by a story I saw in a free London newspaper about the Croatian national football squad being egged on against England by the mispronunciation of their national anthem by a British opera singer (booked for the gig).

Tony Henry belted out 'Mila kura si planina' instead of 'Mila kuda si planina', so that 'You know my dear how we love your mountains' became 'My dear, my penis is a mountain'!

Of course, the players cracked up with mirth and relaxed. . . and the rest is history. Now Tony Henry is being adopted as the national Croatian mascot for Euro 08!

A big fuss was made about England's failure to qualify and Steve McClaren's failure as coach.

Speaking as someone who only supports the national side and almost never watches club football, even I can say that from before his appointment McClaren clearly lacked the leadership qualities to make a success of the England job.

It is a disgrace that he was appointed in the first place and has trousered two-and-a-half million squid for his predictable failure (can I have a go at coaching these overpaid Premiership poodles?)

Still, the solution to this quandary is obvious. We should all support Croatia in Euro 08.

They are spirited underdogs and likely to fail, so ideal for England fans. I am leading the way by ordering my Croatian strip and 10 trillion cans of cooking lager, to prop up Mr Bean's (I mean, Brown's) fast-failing Government and economy!

At least their mascot is British! (and can sing).

My efforts to read the New Oxford Book of Verse continue apace. I am now on Poem 298 having read through much of the 16th centry since I last blogged about it.

I enjoyed John Donne, Ben Jonson and Robert Herrick among others, but was not so keen on Sir William Davenant, Sir Richard Fanshawe et cetera. Just 650 pages of poetry to go!

I am starting to revise my own humble collection of poetry of 2007 - about 38 or so. I would like to go through them all by year's end, as well as writing at least two or three new ones.

November was a good month for me. As I have previously written, I enjoyed bonfire in Lewes (and some more pictures from that magnificent occasion are sprinkled through this entry).

And in Leamington Spa, I find myself drawn onto the streets - which can be boring or buzzing.

The other Sunday I went to buy some milk and ended up at a student arts magazine gig at the Jug and Jester.

A tremendous band called the Rrrs were playing, with an utterly outrageous girl lead singer called Sharliza R.

I have also been enjoying the Wednesday nights at Kelly's in Leamington (when the bands turn up) - some images from which adorn this journal entry.

My mate Shanade, who has been poorly, put up a particularly spirited performance a few weeks back.

* I am in the Lewes Garret and, suddenly, life does not seems so wonderful.

It is raining cats and dogs outside and rather chilly up here in the rafters. I heard today that my old friend Mike Knapp is dead. My dear friend McJannet called with the terrible news.

I did my first Fleet Street shifts. on the pop desk of the Daily Star, with Mike. He was a tremendously kind and generous man, and a far more talented reporter than I.

I recall him giving me a picture exclusive story he had found to help me through a lean patch, and also fondly remember the lunchtime drinks we would have in the Punch pub on Fleet Street.

When I first knew him in 1988, he was a workabholic, doing a day-shift at the Daily Star followed by a night shift at The Sun.

His girlfriend (and future and then ex-wife Rebecca Hardy, who later rose to be Editor of The Scotsman, would chauffeur him between London and his home in Brighton.

I was never a really close friend but would always have a good chat with Mike when I saw him about.

Once I was drinking with him in the Express Newspapers bar and was astonished to discover, through a convoluted conversaton, that his parents were living in the exact same bungalow in Cumnor, Oxford, that I had grown up in - 15 Hurst Lane - having bought it from the people my parents had sold it to!

I last spoke to Mike about 18 months ago when he called me on a Saturday afternoon from the newsdesk of the Sunday Express.

He was handling a Catholic story and hoped I was still spin-doctoring for the Catholic Church and hoped I could give him a quick comment.

When I explained I had moved on and was currently sunning myself on the sunfront in his town of Brighton, enjoying a beer, we had a lovely chat. He said he wished he was there instead of stuck in a newspaper office.

We promised we would meet for a drink soon, but, of course, we never did.

I guess the smoking and the booze did for him in the end, but, all the same, mid-40s is far too young to go.

So, tonight I raise a glass to Mike Knapp - a fine fellow, sadly departed.

Oliver's Poetry

Happy Mondays

2007-11-16T08:00:00.004Z

I have had the most amazing three consecutive Monday poetry gigs - all fantastic but almost totally different in their nature.

Three Mondays ago, I played the Reckless Moment comedy club, in the vaults bar at the Robbins Well, Leamington Spa. As I have written before, the Reckless is one of my favourite comedy clubs ever.

It is brilliantly run by two post-graduate film students, my dear friends Tom Hughes (pictured above with an act at the Fringe this Summer) and Pete 'The Meat' Falconer, and has a great atmosphere and beautiful audience. Which is just as well as performing poetry in a comedy club can go down like a string quartet at a heavy metal gig.

I was as nervous as hell, even though I had spent weeks writing material and poems for the gig. I was also surprised to find myself headlining the first half the show, going after proper (and brilliant) comedians such as my old mate Gary Delaney.

In the event I reckon my act went fairly well. Some of my comedy material got laughs (and some bombed), I kept going, despite nerves, and the poems were generally well received.

I kicked off my set with Probably Not, followed by some baldy material about Byron's love life, Loving You and a new (and I guess un-reuseable) poem about Byron's alleged sexual perferences!

I also did Cook and Drive and my comic poemFat Ambulance, to which the audience joined in admirably.

My new slam poem shocked them a bit, I think, but my gentle send-up of Pete the Meat (pictured in the guise of Prince) - complete with consumption of a Class 1 English carrot - went down well. Overall, I felt it had been a good night and I really enjoyed the rest of the show and the remainder of the evening. And the fabulous comany!

The following Monday, I stayed in Lewes and performed an updated version of my bonfire poem, Advance Southover.

It went very well. I launched into the poem at the Southover War Memorial, after the minute's silence and revalie, at, I reckon, just the right moment. I felt confident, vital - bolstered by a stiff brandy or two. Afterwards, the mainstays of the gloriously reformed Southover Bonfire Society, of which I am sort of Poet Laureate, seemed pleased.

Bonfire in Lewes seemed especially good this year. It was the first year that the Southover Bonfire Society had a firesite. We didn't march but helped out marshalling at the site.

The Grand Parade was also very good and, when we eventually went to see the fireworks, they were awesome. (Images of the night are scattered through this blog).

A quintessential sea of hue and cry. A skyscape of colour. It was not a long display, but it was amazingly memorable. The images do not do it justice. Afterwards, people around us were saying it was the best fireworks display they had ever seen. I would not disagree.

The third consecutive Monday, this last Monday, I was in Oxford for a gig at the Gardeners' pub in Jericho, Hear The Word, a Christian-powered, unplugged, spoken word club celebrating its sixth birthday.

It was another extraordinary night. Cold out, but with great warmth in the long, narrow backroom of the pub.

I was highly flattered to find posters, complete with four little Byrons, being circulated to promote my next gig in Oxford, at the superb Back Room Poets, at Far From the Madding Crowd, on another Monday - 26 November.

The Hear The Word gig seemed very 'Oxford', a catholic mixture of story-telling, folk music, and poetry of many forms. I enjoyed all the acts and the featured poet was particularly special.

It seemed a tad strange standing in the little room with people on every side but I tried my best to turn around to see everyone.

For the first time ever, I performed, Last Day, my first poem which got me started in poetry. I also did another Catholic poem Lose Hill and Botley Cemetery Tennis Club, which is not quite right yet, but went all right.

I really liked Hear The Word. It has a surreal quality about it - such as a Mohican (young female) chef walking into on the poetry to deliver a basket of chips which were duly passed round; its Christian community quality with a large dollop of tolerance and a hectoring Marxist thrown in for good measure.

The evening was absolutely wonderful. I felt so happy afterwards, driving back from the Leckford Road to the Leamington Garret, into the broad, red, ribbed sky with the love-jazz on the wireless.

Mondays are meant to be blue, but these three Mondays on the trot have, for me, been a veritable oasis of happiness.

Oliver's Poetry

Resting in Lewes

2007-10-28T16:30:00.005Z

For once I am writing from the Lewes Garret (with images recently taken of Lewes rather than Leamington).

Although the Oliver's Poetry Garret blog was always intended to be split equally between Leamington and Lewes, the majority of the entries have ended up being written in Leamington.

This entry is entitled Resting in Lewes, but in reality the only rest has been from the day-job. On all other fronts it has been full systems go on that seemingly impossible dream of sorting out my life.

I have been feeling upbeat during the last few weeks, and set about this week off with a determination to get things done.

Of course it is never that simple. I am writing my set for my performance at the Reckless Moment comedy club, Leamington, on Monday - and struggling. But I have edited two new poems for the Poetry Society's National Poetry Contest and sent them off.

And on a more practical note, most of my time this week has been spent trying to get rid of our storage unit in Brighton which has been costing a small fortune. We acquired it last year to offload some of the tat we have built up over the years. But the monthly rent is more expensive than the value of its contents!

People become obsessed with their possessions when in fact they are often a burden that weighs you down more and more as you go through life.

Emptying the lock-up, however, is proving difficult, as is trying to auction the contents on eBay, mainly at £0.01 (1p) an item. As I was grappling with the photography, armed with only the computer's built-in camera, I began to wonder why I was even bothering. (It's a long story).

Now after two days of effort, I have 31 items up for sale on eBay. Between them they have so far attracted bids totalling 2p - and a question from a Coca Cola bottle collector in Switzerland.

Half the bids have gone on a Boris Johnson book which I tried to put on for nothing and billed as ideal as a Christmas present for an unpopular relative!

I have made a massive effort of late to enjoy life more, and not to let the minutiae of living in two places drag me down.

For instance, last week in Leamington I went out three nights in a row - seeing my old mate Andrew O'Neill at the Reckless Moment; quaffing a gallon of ale with a new Pole in town; and checking out Barnstormers Comedy, at the Spa Centre.

The latter event, which I have reviewed for Oliver's Poetry's sister site StandupCom Magazine is extraordinary in that it is the only connection between Lewes and Leamington I have ever found (apart from myself, of course).

Barnstormers used to be Lewes's comedy club, but now its compere Kevin Precious has taken it on the road, with a monthly residency at the Spa Centre in Leamington.

A very fine night it proved too, with former Joe's Comedy Madhouse acts Steve Day, Gary Delaney and Kevin Precious putting on a superb show.

And the week before I performed at the special Warwick Words edition of PureAndGoodAndRight, at the Zetland Arms, Warwick.

My attempt at a slam poet rather bombed I'm afraid when I opened the evening, but I returned later with I Fought The Law (And I Won) which went a little better.

Overall it was a fine evening, wtih some strong poetry from Laura King (pictured above), Scrubberjack (Jackie Smallridge) and the usual enormous range of performers.

Chores of various kinds have kept be hectically busy this week. When you spend your time working and travelling between two medium-sized towns, you don't get round to doing the routine things: going to the dentist, cutting a spare key for the car, pruning the trees in the garden, digging the allotment et cetera.

Our allotment is at a place which glories in the name Earwig Corner. A pleasant spot in a pie-slice betwixt two roads. On Sunday we had a lunch party there which worked out brilliantly. The weather was amazing; the Sussex countryside stunningly beautiful. We cooked a couple of organic chickens and vegetables and transported them up there with the required furniture.

I made a fire and warmed up some mussels on it for a starter. Then, with our guests, we ate and drank wine in the warmth of the October sun, before walking over the neighbouring Malling Down. A wondrous afternoon.

The day before we watched the rugby. Of course it was disappointing that England lost to South Africa, although I felt we did extremely well to be second in the tournament.

My personal theory - unsubstantiated in fact, of course - is that they lost in the final because Gordon 'Mr Bean' Brown was in the crowd. The sight of his dour Scots mug nominally egging on a team he would love to have seen beaten by Scotland would be enough to anyone off. Just a hunch. . .

I have read quite a lot of late which has been good. I read two of my elder daughter's 'A' Level texts, the Irish novels Butcher Boy by Patrick McCabe and Reading In The Dark by Seamus Deane. Two of the most depressing books I have ever read.

Butcher Boy is at least compelling, albeit gruesome, reading. The latter I found painfully hard to complete, with its infinitely depressing take on guilt and betrayal and Irish family life before and during The Troubles.

Why do they inflict this material on teenagers? Even at my age I find it hard to cope with, although there is good writing in both books.

I have also embarked on reading the New Oxford Book of English Verse. Currently, I am on page 159 of the 945 pages, and, coincidentally, on poem 159 of the 884 poems contained within.

It is in chronological order. I have thoroughly enjoyed the 14th, 15th and 16th centuries and part of the 17th century and poets including William Langland, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Dunbar, John Skelton, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Edward Dyer, Sir Philip Sidney, Johy Lyly, George Peele, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Michael Drayton and Samuel Daniel.

The poet I have found toughest to read so far is Edmund Spenser, and the one I have enjoyed most is, predictably, William Shakespeare.

Now I am reading Thomas Campion (1567 - 1620) - poems such as Laura.

It is Sunday afternoon now. My time resting in Lewes is almost at an end. In an hour or two, I shall have to drive through the atrocious weather back to Leamington Spa.

I have been musing about retraining as a doctor to cash in on the National Health Service gravy train that now pays General Practitioners an average of £120,000 a year (including pension). If I had not been so screwed up at school and blown my 'A' Levels, I would probably have gone to medical school and been rolling in it by now. You hear stories of GPs driving Ferraris. However, the thought of retraining for five years is not appealing. I am afraid writing and performing in relative penury is my inescapable destiny.

On a brighter note, we went to the opera at Glyndebourne yesterday to see Macbeth, which was very good. And this week off has given me the chance to catch up with some old friends. I went for a drink at the John Harvey Tavern in Lewes with Dom Ramos, an artist and writer friend recently returned from Scotland.

Later in the week, I caught up with the comedian (who was famously Tinky Winky in the Telly Tubbies) Dave Thompson, an old friend of the family whom I had not seen for six or seven years.

He showed us the delights of Shoreham, a very interesting seaside town near Brighton.

The highlight of a good week off has been the Lewes Live Lit festival - an amazing series of events for a small town to stage.

On Friday night I went to the Lewes Live Lit Cabaret - a great event with excellent acts and Harvey's ale flowing freely.

All the turns were good. I enjoyed guitarist and singer Peter Blegvad, and the enormous eccentric Jane Bom-Bane, performing with her funky harmonium and mechanical hats (it is pretty bizarre) and accompanied by the superb multi-instrumentalist Nick Pynn; and also the raunchy dancer and chanteuse Pam Hewitt. Very sexy.

But the highlight of the evening for me were the West Indian poets. Jean 'Binta' Breeze was a self-proclaimed 'song and dance woman' who truly sang her poetry, and John Agard was excellent - his poetic voice is erudite, rhythmic and subtly humourous. I particularly like the poem Sloth.

Two nights before, we went to see Adrian Mitchell perform upstairs at the Royal Oak in Lewes. It was the veteran poet's 75th birthday and he read poetry about old friends, young relatives (some of his grandchildren were in the audience) and death, with a sidekick at Blair and Brown over Iraq.

I was struck by what a magnificent performance poet he is - fluent, emotional, naturally funny.

Modern performance (and published) poets could learn so much from him.

Afterwards, we got him to sign one of his books and I said hello and that I had started to perform poetry.

The great man grinned at me and said: 'Keep on keeping on!'

Oliver's Poetry

Autumn in Leamington Spa

2007-10-02T18:14:00.004Z

Autumn is here, winter beckons.

I cannot say September was a great month. I returned from the summer break full of beans, determined to get things done. But it is never as easy as that. I look back over last month and realise that, for all my efforts, I did not make a whole lot of progress.

Not that it was without its compensations. For instance I was walking down the street on one typically tedious Leamington night and was amazed to stumble upon my old Joe's Comedy Madhouse chum Jimbo. Jim told me that he was taking part in a talent contest down the road at the Royal Spa Centre, the town's large theatre.

What ensued was a hilarious evening. Jimbo was to perform in a cavernous and almost empty hall, in a competition funded by Warwick District Council, the people behind the zone parking outrage mentioned in my previous blog.

Most of the acts on the bill were singers with 'tuning issues' - as they used to say on the Joseph show on TV - so bad that even I could detect when they weren't hitting the right notes.

After four of these performances, there was an interval and Jimbo, a madcap legend on the London comedy circuit, reappeared in the bar. He said he was on second after the break, and I remarked, 'You must stand a good chance here, Jim, all those singers couldn't hold their pitch!'

Jimbo, a veteran of many a provincial talent contest, shook his head. He was not so sure. And so it proved. His wacky brand of humour went down like a lead balloon. The hall's accoustics did not help. It was quite hard to hear the gags, with his trademark vocal hiccups. Up in the circle, I laughed like the idiot I am but was in the minority. Only a group of teenagers joined me. The judges sat po-faced.

Jimbo was followed by a brother and sister music double act who were good. And the evening was rounded off by a precocious schoolgirl singing an awful composition of her own. She was from Leamington Spa.

I realised the three judges included the council official responsible for the parking debacle. His talent spotting was no better. The Leamington school kid came in first, and Jimbo was not even placed.

Still, it was great to see the old stick. He is an extraordinary act and a lovely fellow.

In September I did wonder at times if I was losing my marbles. I began to find living away from home increasingly unacceptable. And even though life is not that bad, I felt depressed and unhappy for a substantial amount of the time.

The best thing was seeing old friends. I went on a day-job course in London one Friday and met my dear friends Dominic Baster and John McJannet as well as dropping into my club, The Colony Room. I felt so at home, so happy, for a few glorious hours.

I caught up with another old friend after a conference in Bath and saw another friend in Kilburn, north London, although the circumstances behind that do not show me in a great light.

For the second time, I had set off on the train from Lewes on a Sunday night with my Beloved's car keys in my pocket. I was at London Victoria when I realised my error and immediately set off south again on the Brighton train. I arranged to meet my Beloved at Haywards Heath Station where within three minutes I gave her the keys and we swapped trains and were off again. But by the time I got to London Marylebone, the last Leamington train had gone (Chilton Railways is shite, in my view).

So, I phoned my old friend Chris, in Kilburn, and kipped at his place for the night. It was lovely seeing him, but, in the morning, after I had left my last banknote for him to have a drink on me, I was screwed over upon my return to Marylebone. The granite-faced young blonde at the barrier would not accept my story and insisted I pay for the Tube transfer again. I emptied my pockets and found about 80p, mainly in coppers. So, blondie introduced me to the skinhead skullface behind the counter who said I would have to pay the four quid by bankers' card.

I handed over my cheque card but he came back and said the bank was refusing it. He proceeded to ask me all sorts of personal questions which he claimed would help him verify the card and debit the four pounds.

I have to confess I am rather susceptible to Rail Rage and, on this occasion, totally lost my sense humour. I pulled out an unused (but out of date) Lewes to Leamington ticket with Tube transfer and asked shouting: 'I have paid once on this one, once on this one (waving the other ticket), and now you want me to pay a third f@@@ing time!' and so on and so forth in the same abusive vein. I am not proud of it.

The skinhead behind the counter started to get lairy and said he was calling the cops, while the ice maiden said the rules were the rules, she didn't make the rules. 'Look,' I said, 'I set off at 7pm last night - I am only trying to get to work.'
I walked through the barrier with them still shouting at me (and me returning fire).

On the long, abject journey to Leamington, I tried to calm myself down. I was shaking with rage. When the Brummie conductor came round, I told her the full story and she let me off, with a: 'We are coming into the station and I can't be arsed with this.' Then I walked a mile to the Leamington Garret and cycled six miles to the day-job and collapsed at my desk. It had taken 15 hours to get there - a distance of some 150 miles.

I wonder why my life is such a fuck-up. I want to be a writer, a poet. Yet I spend most of my time travelling between Lewes and Leamington or buried under a mountain of bureaucracy. In the evenings I stare at the flats across the Pump Room Gardens or wonder if the trees that stand guard afore our block are really elms.

Poetry-wise, I have only written one poem in the last month, What Is The Word?, and don't seem capable of memorising it.

I am drinking too much, have terrible nightmares, and have missed two poetry gigs this week through simply having no transport. I have made virtually no progress on my set for the Reckless Moment comedy club at the end of this month, and even less on my Edinburgh show. I just cannot get a handle.

I suppose the highlight of the month in terms of poetry was appearing on the local radio station again to read some poems. I enjoyed that, although it seemed slightly weird slipping in poems between speedway reports.

At the beginning of September, the weather was pretty good (as you see from the images on this blog that I took one night) and I seemed so full of hope. The fairground was in full whirl beneath my bedroom window. It was rather noisy and weird as a sight (as you can imagine seeing this image from your bed).

I really hoped, and expected, the autumn would be bring change for me.

Now I am flush with doubt and wonder how sustainable this lifestyle is.

It is dark and cooler now. I have opened the windows to air the garret. At least the threat of wasp attack has receded. (They have died of their own accord). I am on to my second beer and staring again at the brightly lit windows of the flats opposite as I type this, matchstick figures moving around within the pigeonholes.

I should read this through, but I can't be bothered. I am going to scatter the images randomly between the paragraphs and publish (although, of course, I may spruce it up at a later date).

Ricky Lee Jones is on the mono (the stereo does not work) and I need to pack to return to Lewes tomorrow night.

I feel like going out tonight and getting trolleyed, but then again there's work tomorrow, and endless admin. and the all that.

Life isn't so bad. If only I could be happier.

Oliver's Poetry

Back To Reality

2007-09-01T11:00:00.004Z

Returning to Leamington Spa after three weeks of holiday was a hell of a shock to the system.

It had been wonderful being in the Lake District for a week and then at the Edinburgh Fringe for another seven days. My third week on holiday I spent at home in the Lewes Garret, which was relaxing in its own way, although everything around me seemed to be breaking (the car, the internet router, my watch et cetera).

I drove back up the M23, M25 and M40 in a car with a broken head gasket, wondering when it (the car) would conk out (it didn't), feeling depression descending upon me. My first week back has been tough.

The district council has introduced pay meter parking on my street, without even telling the residents. You have to pay for any parking you do between 8am and 8pm, seven days a week. Another money-spinning public rip-off! Even my efforts to get a parking permit failed. Apparently, Warwickshire County Council has listed my street as a business zone so you are not allowed to be a resident there, even though they are more than happy to take council tax off you!

Moreover, I spent a lot of time on holiday writing poems for a poetry competition, but after all my effort, I fear I have pushed my entry into a redundant post box so it may never even get to the judges. How stupid is that!

And... wasps keep swarming into the Leamington Garret (and my room has the smell of fungus about it). Welcome back to Leamington!

Naturally, the day-job is a mass of work and problems, which I had almost forgotten about. I am not feeling great.

I suppose holidays do that to you: lift you up and drop you down again.

On a positive note, I have given up eating cheese to try to reduce the number of horrible nightmares I have. It seems to be working. I still have dreams but they are not as vicious.

We stayed in a place called Loweswater in the Lake District. It truly was an amazing spot. One day we climbed the great fell Hay Stacks which was an extraordinary experience. We got quite lost; it was amazingly open and spacious at the top of that mountain. Like a mini-Lakeland in itself.

The whole holiday was really good and the holiday house out of this world.

In Edinburgh, it was my 11th year at the Fringe Festival writing for The Stage newspaper, and my 10th reviewing comedy shows (the first year I had covered the hateful Television Festival). I enjoyed this year - but didn't have anywhere near as many really late, drunken nights as I used to enjoy!

One extraordinary thing was that I bumped into a former colleague from the Hull Daily Mail whom I had not seen for 21 years. The following day I chanced upon him again in the street and he introduced me to his father, a very famous novelist.

From a comedy perspective, so many of the people I have known since I was doing open spots with them in 1995, are now showing their age (as I suppose I must be). That seemed strange.

I saw some great shows. Brendon Burns was superb (I was pleased to see that my prediction in my review in The Stage that he would win the If.comeddies Award proved correct), as were Jerry Sadowitz and Phil Nichol. I enjoyed Tim Key's Slut In The Hut show and the Poetry Party on the Meadows, organised and ably compered by Luke Wright.

I went away determined to write my own Edinburgh Fringe show, on which I have actually started work. I mustn't let it drop. I have already done quite a bit of work on the ideas. Turning them into a script, however, is another matter entirely.

Another good thing about Edinburgh was hanging out with Tom Hughes, promoter and compere of The Reckless Moment comedy club in Leamington Spa. It was also pleasing to see one of their regular acts, Ivan Brackenbury's Hospital Radio, get short-listed for the if.commedies at Edinburgh, even though I could see it had been a tough one to make work as a full-length show.

Now I am back, I also want to do more journalism again. It was the way I made my living for 17 years and writing those reviews for The Stage has given me the appetite again.

The nights are already drawing in. It is eight o'clock in the evening and it is almost dark outside. And as I write overlooking a burgeoning fairground in the Pump Room Gardens below me, it is still August!

How many more years have I still to serve here in Leamington? It seems remarkably hard for me to get away - I wonder if I ever shall!

While I was on holiday, the usual round of sad demises occurred. The Cockney comic Mike Reid died. I always found him a very open and helpful interviewee when he was in EastEnders. In the late 80s, I was backstage once at the London Palladium and watched from the wings as he did his act. He was a remarkable performer - brilliantly quick with great timing. Years on, I was interviewing him and we got into a discussion about stand-up comedy. I asked him how much of his material he wrote himself. He replied: 'None at all - I'm not that clever.'

Lord Bill Deedes also died. He was a lovely man. When I was working for the Sunday Telegraph, I remember drinking with him at the bar at Davies wine bar / pub. He bought pitchers of beer and was pouring pints for all (he must have been about 85 then). We had a very lively and entertaining conversation about the state of British television. Funnily enough, I noticed this week that British TV was the subject of Bill's last column in the Daily Telegraph - the column he did not quite complete and was published posthumously.

Bill always looked forward - never back, something I could learn from him.

Saddest of all for me was an e-missive I received from my brother Nic while in Edinburgh. It was entitled: 'John Constantino - sad news'. Of course I knew instantly my old school friend was dead and waited resignedly as the creaking computer struggled to open the file.

What can I say about John? He was incredibly kind, gentle, intelligent, a brilliant linguist and a polymath. I have no idea why I lost touch with him. He was my closest friend in the fifth form at Poole Grammar School. I would hang out with him and a boy called Russell Tandy. We made a strange trio. John's family moved away to Dorking and then Marlow, I think, where his father managed posh hotels. I visited him there and kept in touch into the time I started working on the Hull Daily Mail. He came to my Last Night at Park Squat party, when I evicted myself from my squat on Little Park Street, near Hull city centre (the image of John is from that occasion).

He visited me once again but after that, for no apparent reason, we lost touch and never saw each other again. I thought last month I would love to see John Constantino.

I have no contact details for his family, although my brother had heard from a mutual friend that John had married and had a daughter. Other than that, I know little.

The experience caused me to go onto the Friends Reunited website where I tend to divide the boys listed from Poole Grammar School into those who bullied or mistreated me and those who didn't.

John Constantino had no listing at all, but Russell Tandy was there, having thrown years of unemployment in London to teach at a cyberspace universe in South Korea. Good for him! I even splashed out the seven pounds fifty to congratulate him, although his email address no longer seems valid. No reply came from Russell Tandy.

In a way I was glad, I couldn't face telling him about John's death.

Subsequently, I heard that John had been involved in a choral society in Swindon and emailed it through its website. Yesterday, a friend of John's from the society telephoned me.

It was fascinating talking to her about John, like posthumously catching on an old friend, half of whose life you had missed. John had married and has a 14-year-old daughter. He worked in IT and enjoyed surfing. He had become a Roman Catholic (as I am), and his mother and brother had moved back to Portugal (his dad, a wonderful man, had died seven years before).

Hearing it all made me all the sadder that I had lost touch with John Constantino. Suddenly a memory came back of when, on my 16th birthday, we had gone to a party in Canford Heath, near Poole, which had been invaded by a large group of mods.

John had been kicked in the head by one of them, and, greatly outnumbered, we decided to beat a retreat. As we left the house, I kicked the first in a long line of parked scooters. They went down like dominoes, their manifold mirrors smashing.

With mods in hot pursuit, we ran for our lives through the labyrinthal underpasses of the Canford Heath estate, laughing like idiots.

Dear John, even though I hadn't seen him for at least 20 years, I shall still miss him greatly.

Breaking Point / New Job

2007-07-24T21:58:00.004Z

This will be my last night in the Leamington Garret for almost four weeks.

I am exhausted, running on empty, having not had a break since February. I cannot wait to take a break from the endless routine of slogging up and down the superslab between here in Leamington and Lewes, East Sussex.

I am so, so sick of those motorways, the endless delays, the lousy weather, the whole shooting match.

That said, I have not been especially unhappy this past month. I am almost resigned to my plight. I like Leamington in the summer, although what a summer! The bloody British weather had better improve for the next three weeks or so!

It is 11.22pm and Dylan is on the music centre. I was going to stay in tonight to pack and write this valedictory missive. Instead I went out with my flatmate Attila for a couple of pints of Guinness at the St Patrick's Club, beside the Leam. A fine evening!

So, I shall be keeping this blog (and flashback) short. I need to be in the land of nod by midnight for a 6.45am start tomorrow.

Poetrywise I have been fairly quiet this month. I did a gig at PureAndGoodAndRight in Leamington. Elvis McGonagall was headlining. He was excellent and a decent bloke to boot. Laura King, supporting, was equally good. There were a million other poets on - another fascinating poetry marathon. The variety of styles at Sean Kelly's club is remarkable.

The other great event of the month was the 7/7/7 Cotesbach 400 celebration at Cotesbach, Leicestershire, mainly on the country estate attached to Cotesbach Hall.

It was a hectic day for me because I also had to drive to Oxford and back for my dear mater's 70th birthday lunch (and got stuck in enormous traffic jams). Both events went well.

In Cotesbach, where I have lived twice, it was really strange to see more than 1,000 people wondering about the estate - for an event to mark the land riots in Cotesbach four centuries previously. The live music went on late into the night.

Sophy and Tom Newton and all the others involved in getting together this event did an incredible job. And the weather, for once, smiled, as you can see from the very grainy sunset photograph above.

Not so for most of the rest of the month. Over the weekend the park beneath the front of the Leamington Garret was a lake. I was in Lewes but, fortunately, Attila took these photographs.

Looking at these images of Jephson Gardens and the Pump Room Gardens, I wish I'd been here. Apparently, the Leam bursting its bank proved a hit with the tourists.

The chap at the Irish club, however, said it was nothing compared with an occasion in the 1990s when the bandstand in the Pump Room Gardens (which I am looking at as I write this) almost completely vanished under water in the biggest flood in living memory.

All the same, I cannot wait to get away. From Friday, I am free for more than three weeks.

I am planning to go to the Edinburgh Fringe for a week and hope to get on some minor bills reciting my doggerel.

Otherwise, I just want to chill and do nothing. Nothing at all.

New Job (Flashback to Tuesday, 4 January 2005)

First day of my new job. This is the weirdest feeling. I am working in a field in Warwickshire after being in jobs or work in London since 1988.

Everyone is making an effort to be friendly, but it is cold here and I can feel the change of culture hitting me like an iceberg.

Last month I was working for bishops. Can my life get any odder?

* I have decided that this is going to be my last "flashback". I have enjoyed doing them, but, going back into 2004, the events that happened to me were too painful for me to wish to recall.

It is best to look forward...

Oliver's Poetry

Monsoon Season / St. Valentine's Night

2007-07-03T16:43:00.004Z

June was a cruel month. The rain fell relentlessly washing away so many hopes and dreams.

It poured through the sills of the living room in the Leamington Garret, after a freak downfall which overwhelmed the guttering, scoring a direct hit on my vinyl LPs, CDs and tapes. I discovered what had happened when I tried to switch on Ruthie's old music centre - and got a large electric shock. Two hundred and forty volts running from the casing, which had shorted to live, through me to earth. Never had the sticker on the centre - the Power in Music - seemed so apposite.

Nearly all my music was soaked through. Last week was hellish with the Garret stinking of damp, with every LP cover and sleeve and CD or tape notes spread out on the floor to dry. It is amazing how much space LPs and CDs take up when fully unwrapped. There was not a spare square inch in our living room.

It has been a tough time for other reasons. The day-job has been hard. I haven't taken a break since February and the daily grind has been getting me down. As has the weekly commute, made more tortuous by the incessant rains and my ailing constitution. I feel jaded. I have not even taken any photographs this month, as you will see from the dearth of them on this particular blog.

On the night that the Leamington Garret was flooded, however, I did venture to Coventry, which was virtually submerged, to make my poetry debut on the local radio station, BBC Coventry and Warwickshire Radio. I was on for about half an hour, with the station's "Poet Laureate" Jo Roberts - a most amiable lady - and the presenter Alan. Jo read a topical poem and then I read three of mine, Women, Cook And Drive, and Lose Hill.

Between poems we chatted about the state of modern poetry and, to a lesser degree, comedy. I was pleasantly surprised by how interested the presenter was. It was a really good conversation.

But it was soon back to reality. My head has been in all sorts of places in June and, after making a big effort to put a good selection of First Anniversary poems on the Oliver's Poetry site, I found it hard to get down to writing or revising my poems. Although I have plenty of ideas for new poems, I haven't started writing any of them.

I did, however, make an effort to learn some of the old ones, through tape-recording them and playing them repeatedly on my long commutes. Partly for this reason, I had a great gig at the Word in Leicester, where I performed Probably Not, I Fought The Law And I Won, and Chav.

It has not been a very creative time, though, partly because I feel burnt out by my continual efforts to find a day-job closer to home. After applying to the local council - the most difficult and time-consuming form I have ever completed; it took a week of my evenings to do - and not even getting an interview or a call back when I phoned them, I almost lost the will to live! I fear I shall be stuck in Leamington forever.

Still, it has not been all bad. My younger daughter was 11 and she had a wonderful birthday, despite torrential rain in the woods which my Beloved had booked for the party. It is amazing how well children endure wet and cold - I was soaked to the skin and frozen solid.

And Tony Blair has gone. He is a remarkable character but I do not think he was a good Prime Minister. I was trying to think what is Blair's true legacy. Did he make Britain more peaceful? (because of Northern Ireland), or more bellicose? (Iraq), or nicer? (as Matthew Parris has suggested). No. His legacy is making Britain much more bureaucratic.

Over his 10 years at Number 10, almost every part of British society has been pervaded by a Civil Service culture, where form-filling, grant-applying, process of every ilk, and generally gratuitous pen-pushing has usurped real work. Where once Britain was a nation of shopkeepers, now we are a nation of bureaucrats. This is Tony Blair's true legacy.

I quite like Gordon Brown. I have fond memories of the occasion in the 1998 when he phoned me up for a chat about Scottish football (I was writing an article for a supplement in The Times). He was good humoured and witty, even it must have been absolutely obvious to him that my only knowledge of Scottish soccer was coming out of a two quid book I had purchased at the corner shop. He certainly did not embarrass me by pointing out my ignorance. But whether he cuts the red tape that is strangling British life is doubtful. All the same I wish him well.

The smoking ban had also come in. A few years ago I would have thought this a bad thing. Now I am enthusiastic about it. Life in the Leamington Garret has been more pleasant since it went smoke-free late last year, and if the ban stops commuters lighting up as soon as they jump off trains, that would be bliss. Although I have a soft spot for the image of smoking - see Smoke - and when in drink have been known to partake of the odd draw or two myself, I won't miss the stench of smoke on my clothes after a night at t' pub.

Things can only get better. Who said that?

St. Valentine's Night (Flashback to Monday, 14 February 2005)

I am sitting in the Pi House in Cotesbach eating my St. Valentine's feast, pre-prepared by my Beloved. Only Claret for company. And my notebook.

I am writing a poem that I think I will call Ownsome Valentine.

Oliver's Poetry

First Birthday of Oliver's Poetry / The Pi House

2007-06-01T23:30:00.000Z

Tomorrow is the first birthday of the Oliver's Poetry website - and what a strange 12 months it's been!

Looking back, it is hard for me to get my head around some of the things that have happened. Also, at times, I have to confess it's not easy for me to see why I created a poetry website, with this bolted-on Blog, Oliver's Poetry Garret, and a MySpace Edition of Oliver's Poetry.

In truth my poetry project started back in December 2004 when, under not entirely happy circumstances, I was leaving a job in London. I won't go into the details of what happened then, apart from to say that for the first time in my life I turned to poetry. During my last week in that job, my Beloved took me to a poetry night in a bar in Brighton. The following day I wrote a poem about my situation at work and my feeling about the previous two-and-half-years working there. From that point I have not stopped writing poetry.

In the meantime, I had moved to a new day-job out in the countryside, and was initially living during the week in a converted woodshed in Cotesbach, Leicestershire (see flashback below). Eventually, I moved to Warwick and then Leamington and struck on the idea of launching a poetry website.

The site took three to four months to build. I wanted every poem to be illustrated with a photograph. So, all the images had to be taken. To brighten it up, I also decided to start to blog, also with images. This created yet more work!

The blog I instantly found addictive. I have a highly compulsive personality. Long before the site was even launched, I was 'blogging' every day on a computer I had installed in my bedroom in Leamington. The idea dawned on me of the blog moving forward and backward in time simultaneously. With regular blogs and flashbacks to my past (called backblogs). It all coincided with horrendous things happening in my personal life in Leamington, making the blogging all the more compulsive.

And, of course, there was the poetry. I had to write enough poems to put on the site and also to encourage other poets to submit their best work.

It was all most exciting for me. The problem was I soon found myself spending more time blogging, taking images for the site and doing technical stuff, like HTML, than actually writing poetry! This is an issue I have never truly resolved.

However, an anniversary is always a good opportunity to reflect. And for this first one, I decided to return the focus to the poetry - and have re-read and revised all of my poems.

I was amazed to find that I had written 110 poems, although in a way this alarmed me. A poet needs only write a few great poems in a lifetime, and this high production of mediocrity in the first 30 months - while working full-time and doing numerous other tasks - struck me as excessive.

Forty-nine of my poems I have published on the Oliver's Poetry site, as well around around 35 contributed poems, largely from new poets, although with exceptions such as established poets George Szirtes and Jane Holland, and also superb performance poets such as Birmingham's current poet laureate Giovanni Esposito (Spoz) and his predecessor Richard Grant (Dreadlockalien).

I have also written 48 blogs and, therefore, 48 flashbacks or backblogs and taken many of the images on the Oliver's Poetry site and Oliver's Poetry Garret. (I have picked out some of my favourite photographs from the first year to illustrate this anniversary blog).

The blogs and flashbacks started out on the same day of course - 2 June 2006 - but are now some 20 months apart. Writing the backblogs or flashbacks has become more difficult because now I am relying on memory or what few notes I have of my mis-spent history.

The past year has been an interesting ride for Oliver's Poetry which to a large degree reflects my personal journey.

The three parts of the site - Oliver's Poetry, the blog and the MySpace edition - are inseparable.

There is a clear link between the poetry and the blogs through what has happened to me during those 12 months.

High points such as my reading of a poem at the War Memorial for Southover Bonfire Society on Bonfire Night in Lewes are featured in both poetic and blog form.

The same is true of the low points, such as the severe domestic problems I had in Leamington late last year, and the wanton destruction of my motor car. (I have been through the mill!)

What happens to me in life is my main inspiration for all the poetic writing I have done for this site and elsewhere.

And just embarking on this project has changed my life. If it were not for Oliver's Poetry, I would probably not have started performing live poetry, through a chance meeting with the Leamington performance poet Sean Kelly (see below). If it were not for the site, I would also not have begun to build up a network of contacts in the poetry world, making me feel less cut off from the marvellous field of endeavour in which I am now grazing!

And it has been through promoting the site with a MySpace edition that I have come to realise the link between the live comedy world, in which I was active for more than a decade performing and running a comedy club, and the burgeoning performance poetry scene.

Indeed I even ended up reading some of my poems at Leamington's uniquely brilliant comedy club, The Reckless Moment, in one of the gigs I have enjoyed most this year.

While on the subject of MySpace, when I first looked at this extraordinarily successful networking site, I was impressed by its potential for a performer but also startled by the way in which many users accumulated so-called 'friends' from the scantily dressed and overly forward!

Therefore, I have limited the Oliver's Poetry MySpace to 100 friends - my own personal One Hundred Club - most of whom I already know or have met or at least can say we clearly have poetry in common.

So, now, if you become a new friend of Oliver's Poetry MySpace edition, it means someone exits my domain. Harsh maybe, but at least this will keep it real and meaningful.

Sitting here in the Leamington Garret, overlooking the Pump Room Gardens, as the sun sets, I can see what a strange year it has been. In Leamington and Lewes, so many memorable things have happened.

The remarkable boycott of one of my favourite pubs, the Lewes Arms, in Lewes, by its customers - because the brewery removed their favourite ale - was subject of one of my blogs. After running the famous public house virtually without a clientele for several months, Greene King realised they were never going to win and caved in.

Also in Lewes, being approached at random by a woman who asked me to be Father Christmas at a school fair was another strange occurrence.

Up in the Midlands, the death of my old friend Sam Towers, in Cotesbach, Leicestershire, was profoundly sad. After the funeral I wrote a poem and blog and thought nothing more of it.

I was surprised to find Sam's relatives from around the world visiting the site to read them, and, touchingly, emailing to thank me. I even received a missive from a youngster also called Sam Towers who said he was unrelated to the Sam Towers I had written about but 'was proud to share this gentleman's name'.

Also in Cotesbach, the estate dog Bruno died. He had been a great friend during the years I lived there (from 1999-2002 and 2005). Whenever I visit, it seems sadly strange not to have his great hairy, loving bulk jumping up at me, trying to lick my face!

All in all, the last 12 months have been rich in events and experience. I have greatly enjoyed my poetry slots at the tremendous PureandGoodandRight club in Leamington, and my other performances at Six of the Best in Birmingham, Word in Leicester and on the Warwick Words pub tour.

Yet what I am struggling to get my head around is what I really want to do with poetry. Reviewing comedy shows up at the Edinburgh Fringe last summer, I gave it a lot of thought. I saw the buzz around the Pleasance Courtyard of an evening and thought that I wanted to be part of it, but as a poet.

When I see my friends and mates branching out creatively - as comedians, musicians, poets, artists or whatever - I wonder what I am doing artistically.

Even when I get hooked into an art form, I feel myself hopelessly waylayed into a geeky backwater such as web design, digital photography or blogging!

I often wonder why it is I have written 110 poems in 30 poems but only committed three or four of them to memory.

Or why I am currently terrified of standing in front of an audience without a piece of paper in my hand.

This is not to say that creating the Oliver's Poetry website has not been a worthy pursuit in itself.

I am genuinely pleased to have published some really interesting work by new - and not so new - poets. Spoz and Dreadlockalien - two Birmingham poet laureates - have brightened up the site with their fine pieces. I have also really enjoyed the contributions by people I have met out while out at the Reckless Moment or in the park such as Kat Montgomery or Sarah Brown. Or those who like Zainab Bakari simply emailed me out of the blue.

I particularly rate my cousin Laura Taylor's poems for their directness and honesty. Overall, even if the contributed poetry section has not been inundated, it has been well worth while.

Is running a poetry website really my cup of tea? Well, yes and no. It has been great and will continue. However, I do not want to spend anywhere the amount of time on it that I have this year.

Launching the Oliver's Poetry site was phase two of my poetry project. Now I need to let it go and allow it to grown organically.

Of course I will still be putting up excellent new poems when they come in and writing for it myself, but I can no longer live and breath this site.

Sure, it has been visited by tens of thousands of people from scores of countries around the world - including Iraq, China and Iran - but it is turning me into a poetry techno-nerd! My poems are never finished because I am constantly revising them online.

And I never get to learn them, perform them as I'd like or have them published in printed poetry magazines because my entire focus has been on Oliver's Poetry.

This coming 12 months I shall trade keyboard, computer and web server for notepad, microphone and printed page!

The Pi House (Flashback to Saturday, 15 October 2005)

This is my last night in the Pi House - so-called because one of its windows is hewn in the shape of a Greek letter Pi - after almost 10 months. I am sad to be leaving but, with winter round the corner, it is definitely the right time to go.

I have loved living in this converted woodshed from Spring onwards (despite its lack of bathing or showering amenities). It is a remarkable, ingenious building, with the shelter afforded by the indoors but the feel of the Great Outdoors.

In the winter, however, it is too tough for me. I have never known such cold as I experienced in this sweet little abode in January, February and March this year! I recall awaking one morning thinking I had been frost-bitten, the ice forming on the inside of the windows.

My Beloved is up here to help me move and tonight we are going to the Sickle & Stick for a valedictory drink (or eight) and traditional game of Staghorn. I know I shall miss my friends here as I prepare to move to Warwick and who knows what.

I am rather proud to have lived in the Pi House.

Oliver's Poetry