The Truth, The Whole Truth and Nothing But ...

Oi! Poets! This post is for your benefit. Dedicate your next book to me, chuck a percentage of the royalties my way (cash only), place laurels on my brow, scatter rose petals where'er I walk - the usual poetic shenanigans. You'll be begging to do all this and more in an attempt to convey your deepest, most sincere gratitude.

Why? Because I've found out where you've all been going wrong.

There is simply no point in sending off poems to competitions, sealing the envelopes with a hopeful kiss, and waiting for your genius to be discovered. Or submitting poems to magazines, pestering editors with manuscripts, trawling round the literary festivals or (shudder) networking.

Only a dunderhead plays that game.

The real Poetic Genius invents competitions and poetic crowns, then awards them to himself. He claims to have appeared on the same platform as the Big Name Poets. (He was moving the furniture but that's by the by). He says he has been given the keys to New York and the padlock to Birkenhead. He has taught poetry to the brightest of young minds.

And it's all true ... because he says so.

With this in mind, I should like to draw your attention to my ALL NEW! Poetic CV.

(CLEARS THROAT)

Moptop is a well-regarded poet who has gigged extensively throughout the known universe.

And Wirral.

She was poet-in-residence at the Sydney Opera House where she became a personal favourite of Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. She has been given the Freedom of Bootle, Walton Vale Shopping Centre, several engraved pens and umpteen blessings by The Pope. She is well known down The Docks.

Seamus Heaney is a meany unless Moptop opens for him.

Carol Ann Duffy gets huffy when Moptop's name is mentioned.
(Moptop turned down the job of Poet Laureate).

Kanye West and Eminemineminem have both said (separately), "She taught me how to rhyme, bro, ya dig?"

Roger McGough and Brian Patten say (in well-practised unison), "There's only one Liverpool poet: Moptop. We've been living a lie all these years."

Moptop has taught poetry at all of the Oxford and Cambridge Universities, and was visiting Prof. of Poe. at Harvard, Yale and Cal Tech in 2006, 2007 and 2008 respectively. In 2010, she will be made Temptress of India - a new role created in her honour for her series of mind-altering poetic essays, Lay Me on a Poppadum and Lick Me.

Winner of the Frowst Award for Poetry in 2009, she was awarded a Caithness Glass rosebowl and a cheque for $100,000 (Canadian) in a ceremony organised by the Liverpool Couture Company and the Deadwood Poetry Society.

Her other poetic triumphs include:
1st ~ National Pottery Competition, 2001
1st ~ Carduff Academi, 2002
1st ~ S.T. Elliott Prize, 2003
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem in Britain, 2004
1st ~ Foreword Prize for Best Ever Poem of the 20th Century, 2005
1st ~ Foreword International Prize for Best Ever Poem in The Known Universe, 2006

And others far too numerous and tedious to mention.

Her most recent book, The Girl Who Tried to Shag Cumulonimbus, (Fabre & Fabre) was chosen as a Poetry Book Society Book of the Month - for sixteen months running - and is now in its 24th edition. It has sold (in hardback) 1.8 million copies, is a set text on the GCSE syllabus in Kent and is studied extensively in Albanian schools.

She has written 37 books in total, many of them published.

Moptop turned down the offer of permanent residence in Dove Cottage, Grasmere, as she (generous to a fault) wanted to give other poets a chance.

Currently Poet-in-Residence at Costa Coffee (Bold St.), Moptop is working on her next book, the climax of which will be her epic 1400 stanza poem (title as yet to be decided) on the subject of Afternoon Tea.

Lusts of the Flesh #5

Today's Lust of the Flesh was experienced yesterday. Yesterday afternoon to be exact.

Tea to the English is really a picnic indoors. ~Alice Walker

Take two bad friends, two teapots, tea-cups and saucers, loose leaf tea (Earl Grey & Scouse Breakfast), a three-tiered glass stand, finger-sandwiches (no crusts), homemade shortbread, coffee cake, orange cake, buttered fruit loaf, scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam (no honey), and little pink cubes of quivering, sugar-dusted Turkish Delight. Mix in a view over the Albert Dock, some scurrilous conversation, a waiter with a propensity to dampen trousers and there you have it - Afternoon Tea.

A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea, which is one you forget about afterwards. ~A.A. Milne

In 1944, Great Grandma Nicolson took afternoon tea in a tearoom in the Kyle of Lochalsh. Upset at having been 'overcharged' for the mean slice of Dundee cake she had consumed, she is alleged to have swept the remaining contents of the cakestand into her capacious handbag. This charge has made it into print - Memories of Raasay (Berlinn) - but, of course, every Moptop family member denies the allegation conceding only that Great Grandma Nicholson did go a bit strange and did, in her latter years, do the gardening in her nightdress.

There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea ~ Henry James.

Coffee shops are all very well, but they don't encourage lingering. Noisy, clattering places, with metal machines that hiss and spurt like geysers. No towering cake stands - plain baking at the bottom, tiny fancy cakes at the top - but engorged muffins (as painful as they sound) and rocky biscotti (ill-designed for frail British teeth).

How much more civilised the world if we stopped each afternoon for tea? Sipped and spoke? Politely shared the last meringue?

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future. ~Thich Nat Hahn

Then let us meet in the Maritime Museum! The top floor dining room, riverside. I’ll be there at three, just in time for afternoon tea.

Find yourself a cup of tea; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things. ~Saki

The All NEW Banned List!

Delight in my misfortune if you will, but after creating an ongoing Banned List on this blog, I have now been issued with my very own Banned List. It has been constructed by the Banshee and the (not so very) Small Boy.

1. If I am going to insist on listening to Kanye West's Gold Digger in the car I am not allowed to

a) sing along or 2) appear to be dancing whilst waiting at traffic lights.

2. In fact, any dancing to Kanye West's Gold Digger is BANNED unless it is

a) conducted in the kitchen with the blinds down and 2) whilst no-one else is in the house.

3. Never again am I allowed to say "Goodness, the language in this song [Gold Digger] is dreadful. We couldn't play it to Grandma, could we?"

4. Similarly, I am BANNED from saying "Kanye West's very inventive in his rhymes, isn't he?" on the basis of listening to one song [Gold Digger].

5. I am not allowed to ask who Busta or Usher is as - apparently - I have already had this question answered several times.

6. I am BANNED from reading out any Top Sentences whilst Banshee's friends are in the house. This rule was constituted this evening after I read out my current Top Sentence* whilst Banshee and friends were in the middle of eating. It was not the digestive process per se that caused the upset. It was the nature of the Top Sentence.

Do not read on if you are in the middle of eating.

*Current Top Sentence: Flies swam in the ceiling lights and the toilets spat out their usual stink of clitoris sweat and warm shit.

6a) I am BANNED from saying clitoris in public.

(I was tempted to misspell the final word in the previous sentence for comic effect, but feel this post is already verging on gratuitous).

Overheard Conversation #11

Location: Bookshop on Bold Street: the Children's Section.
Characters: Yummy Mummy and a Small Boy (aged 5-ish)

Small Boy: But why do I need a diary, Mummy?
Woman: Because it will help you remember how to write, darling.
Small Boy: But I know how to write, Mummy. We do it at school all the time.
Woman: Yes, but it's the school holidays now and Mrs Jones said you had to keep a diary because last year you forgot how to write.
Small Boy: But I don't want a diary! I want the Thomas book!
Woman: You can have the Thomas book if you choose a diary.
(BEAT)
Small Boy: What's a diary?
Woman: A book you write in.
Small Boy: Oh. (BEAT). I've got one of those.
Woman: No, Benjy, that was your sister's French book. It was really very naughty of you to write in it.( SHE HOLDS UP A RED NOTEBOOK). How about this one?
Small Boy: Don't like red. (BEAT). Hate red. Red is yucky.
Woman: Well, there's lots of colours here to choose from ...
Small Boy: Pink. I want a pink diary.
Woman: Pink?
Small Boy (FIRMLY): It's my favourite colour in the whole world.
Woman (SIGHS): How about this nice blue one?
Small Boy: Pink. That one.
(HE WALKS OVER TO THE SHELF AND SNATCHES THE PINK NOTEBOOK HIS MOTHER IS ATTEMPTING TO HIDE BEHIND OTHER NOTEBOOKS).
Small Boy: This is a lovely diary, Mummy. (BEAT). I'm going to write in it now.
Woman: Let's wait until we get home, darling.
Small Boy: But I want to write now!
Woman: Benjy, Mummy has to go to Marks & Spencer's to get Daddy's cake.
(SMALL BOY IS NOW SEATED AT A BRIGHTLY COLOURED PLASTIC TABLE AND IS OPENING THE PINK NOTEBOOK).
Small Boy: I'll wait here.
Woman: No, you have to come with me, darling.
Small Boy (WAILS): But I want to write in my diary!
Woman (WARNING): Benjy ...
Small Boy: I'll forget how to write, Mummy! (BEAT). I think I've already forgotten a little bit.
Woman (EXHALING LOUDLY): Five minutes. Five minutes and then we have to go.
(SMALL BOY REACHES FOR A POT OF CRAYONS IN THE CENTRE OF THE TABLE, DELIBERATES, THEN CHOOSES A RED CRAYON).
Small Boy: I'm going to write hello. (BEAT). How do you write hello, Mummy?
Woman: Huh.
Small Boy (FORMS THE LETTER CAREFULLY): Mmm ...?
Woman: Eh.
Small Boy: Mmm ...?
Woman (WANDERS OVER TO THE BOOKSHELVES): Luh.
Smal Boy: Mmm ...?
Woman (CALLING): Luh.
(SMALL BOY SHRIEKS AND COVERS HIS MOUTH WITH HIS HAND).
Small Boy (UPSET): I've got a swear in my diary!
Woman (CONFUSED): What?
Small Boy (WAILING AND JABBING AT THE PAPER WITH HIS FINGER): I've got a swear in my diary!
Woman (REALISING AND SMILING): No, that's not a swear word, darling. Hell isn't a swear word.
Small Boy: Oh. (BEAT): Is it just fucking by itself, then?
(WOMAN GASPS)
Small Boy (SLOWLY): Fucking Hell.
Woman: Stop that!
Small Boy (VERY SLOWLY): Fuck-ing Hell.
Woman: I said stop that!
Small Boy (QUICKLY): Fucking Hell.
Woman: Your tongue will go black and fall out of your mouth!
Small Boy (SINGSONG): Fuck-ing He-ell, Fuck-ing He-ell ...
Woman (GRABS BOY'S ARM AND YANKS HIM TO HIS FEET): Stop that this instant! You're making Mummy very cross!
Small Boy (SMILES. BEAT): Fucking Hell -
Woman: I'll tell Daddy!
Small Boy (LOUDER): Fucking Hell.
Woman: I said stop it!
Small Boy (NOW CHANTING): Fucking Hell, Fucking Hell, Fucking Hell.

(WOMAN DRAGS SMALL BOY DOWN THE STAIRS AND OUT OF THE SHOP. THE PINK DIARY IS LEFT ON THE TABLE).

Roll credits

Is it a bird? Is it a plane...?

No. It's the Incredible Sulk.

This monster takes on many incarnations. You may have one lurking across the room on the other sofa at this very moment, sighing audibly whenever your laptop keys click slightly louder than a gnat's stiff knee joint. It has probably already cranked up the volume on the TV and muttered, "Is it too much to ask to be able to hear The News?" Whatever you do, do not look over at it - and control your sniggers.

Apprentice monsters adopt the posture of a ricket-afflicted Victorian clerk; hunched shoulders, a lowered gaze. They grow their hair over their faces and communicate only in a sullen mumble - like grumpy ventriloquists. Favourite expressions include It's SO unfair! But everyone else does! It's my room anyway! You just don't understand! And so on ... (Assume all pronouncements end with an exclamation mark).

Younger Incredible Sulks have yet to perfect the pervading, angst-inducing silence that indicates their displeasure, preferring to rely on a steady percussive beat of slammed doors, broken dishes, and Radio 1 turned to maximum volume.

Advanced Incredible Sulks work on the premise that silence throbs.

Perhaps Incredible Sulk rampages round your house when its team has lost to Manchester United? Does it lie moaning on the bed? A mantra that sounds something like "There is no way that was a penalty/foul/offside*." (*Delete as appropriate).

Maybe your Incredible Sulk emanates overtly hostile gamma rays? Perhaps it takes to its bed for whole weekends? The bedroom door firmly shut, the occasional - but very significant - heavy creak of floorboards and the flushing of a toilet the only physical manifestations of this malign presence.

Incredible Sulks are delighted when you get that job you wanted so badly or if you are excited about something. They are especially fond of birthdays, Mother's Day and Christmas. These important dates are marked in red on the calendar as superb sulking opportunities.

Take Incredible Sulks to the theatre, ballet and cinema. This is something they adore. An expensive restaurant will do just as well - though, if you wish your monster to display their full sulking capabilities, ensure that the waiters are attentive and the room candle-lit.

The Incredible Sulk will transform into a large lump of granite; glowering and darkest grey. Above its head hovers a radioactive cloud of extreme displeasure. There are speech bubbles, with dots to signify thoughts: I am not enjoying this, I don't want to be here, I especially don't want to be here with you.

Hold your breath and count to ten. This cloud is poisonous if inhaled.

The Saddest Story in the World

Last year, I was working as Poetry Waitress ("So, ladies, what can I get you? Tea? Coffee? And would you like a sonnet with that?") when an elderly lady told me the most tragic story I have ever heard.

I have just re-read The Aeneid and even Chapter 4, where Dido (a name ripe for graffiti) throws herself onto the funeral pyre is nowhere near as sad as The Tale of Brownie.

Brownie was the only hen hatched from seven eggs in an airing cupboard in a small terraced house in Prescot in 1948. Her brothers were destined for pies, stews and rissoles, but Brownie was spoiled. She was cuddled, petted, never fed egg sandwiches - What? Encourage cannibalism? - and nested in a tea-chest by the kitchen range at night.

When the children came home from school, the first thing they asked for was Brownie. They kissed her before they went to bed. At weekends, they followed her up and down the alley as she pecked in the gutter for scraps.

Over time, Brownie developed a nervous complaint that caused her feathers to moult. The children were distraught. Brownie shivered with cold.

The children's mother knitted Brownie a pullover out of green wool. (She was a woman unbound by stereotype or cliché). Brownie regained her joie de vivre.

For a day.

The next morning, the children ran into the kitchen to greet their pet and found her hanging by the neck, swinging from the mantlepiece, strangled by her new pullover.

Now, can you think of a single story that is sadder than that?

Being Bad

Why does being bad feel so good?

At school being bad at hockey was liberating. (I once let in a goal because I was chatting to a defender about how much I hated the games teacher, but the goal was disallowed because it "had been hit from too far away" - ie. the opposite goal post). Being bad at maths meant I could torment the maths teacher. ("I'm sorry, Sir, but I just don't believe in negative numbers.")

Being bad at filing awarded me great satisfaction in a Commercial Estate Agents. I doubt whether they ever found the details for 76, Hillcrest Rise. Ha!

Occasionally - children, please note the occasionally - going to bed without brushing my teeth feels O! so rebellious.

Bad language - swearing. What can possibly be bad about swearing when it's so bloody satisfying?

Misusing apostrophes deliberately - to annoy the pedantic old crows amongst your friends - blissful.

Creating fake personas on social networking and blogging sites - not that I'd ever do anything quite as bad as that, you understand - must be too, too delicious ...

I realise that I am only scraping the surface of Badness. I must try harder; affairs, bank heists, forgeries of Great Works of Art, graffiti (witty, of course), fiddling my expenses.

But of course, the ideal career beckons ...