I’ve polished off a good half of a nice bottle of plonk and I’ve got Elbow playing at Glastonbury live in my kitchen and I re-read my Latitude poem (the one that Mr Garvey read on his Radio 6 show a couple of years ago and which seems to have been my 15 minutes) and it really makes me smile…so I thought I’d re-send it into the ether….
Festival
It’s wet in here.
It’s coming in through the zip
and your knee’s in my back
and that hard bass thud won’t stop
and I can feel the start of a need for a pee
but I’m not going out in this
because I can’t get my wellies off without a pull from someone.
Don’t think about it.
She was good though wasn’t she
what’s her name again…
the one with the poems about women
about childbirth and the real purpose of breasts
(I can’t say ‘tits’ even in my head but she could)….
…remember that shelf of porn in the newsagent
labelled ‘Women’s Interest’….
and that girl with the guitar who made me dance,
the one with a voice like flying who took me away for a while
and let me swing through the trees.
God, please don’t snore.
We’re in a tent.
It’s starting,
those deep breaths that go far back into your head.
If I tip the pillow forward a bit it might stop…
Remember that man wearing his mum’s fur coat
and skinny stick legs laced into boots
do you think it’s because of Grayson Perry because it wasn’t just him
there were lots of them
neatly pre-war coiffed
bearded
and remember the sandy haired chap
who’d trimmed his yellow beard to a point
and that girl with the green sequinned nipple tassels
in the queue for the loo.
She looked cold.
I’m glad we got the extra thick self inflating mattress.
makemeafrock 