An aperitif for the ghost

Well then. Last Friday, I took myself off to Norwich in a Skoda, armed with a bottle of whisky, a battered chair, a trilby hat and a couple of pint glasses, ready to perform a twenty minute extract from 'A Pint For The Ghost' at the Norfolk and Norwich Arts Festival.

Ten hours later, powered by nerves and Nescafe (erm, other brands are available...) I was standing on the stage in front of hundreds of people, wearing a giant bandage and listening to a recording of one of my poems being played over sinister music written by Janie Armour. It had been a tiring day of rehearsals, but Patrick (my director) and James (the director working with all the Escalator winners) were always on hand to make sure things ran smoothly. Thanks to them and to Ed, Ben, Danny and everyone else who calmed my nerves and helped me survive the day!

My favourite episode was when I was walking down the corridor of Norwich Arts Centre with a bottle of whisky which I had filled with apple juice for the performance. Realising I'd been a bit over-zealous with said apple juice, I took a long swig from the bottle to stop it spilling out. A woman, hurrying to the cafe, stopped to look at me with horror and disapproval.

And what was the verdict on the show? Apart from a technical hitch with the microphone, it went pretty well, though you'll have to come to the Hotbed festival on Saturday June 27th to see for yourself! My dad's a man of few words, and I imagine if he had been there he would have nodded, said "it were allrate" and then gone to fetch me a beer from the bar.

That puts me in mind of the time I was running a fell race at Chatsworth, Derbyshire. Jogging round the course, I passed an old farmer leaning on a fence. Knowing that he lived nearby, I stopped to ask him what the course was like. He turned to look me slowly in the eye:

"There's some cow shit, some dog shit and a rate big hill."

All of which brings me to this poem from the show:

A pint for the true shepherds

Now the chance has gone, I wish
I’d bought that man a pint:
the farmer who sat silent next to me
through Midnight Mass, and raised
his eyebrows as the well-fed vicar
revelled in the story of the gentle shepherds
(friends, how like The Lord’s own servants
are the men round here who still
keep animals today). And as the organist
received the nod to play, the man
who hadn’t spoken took his cue at last,
rose to his feet, said: Reverend,
tha knows nowt about sheep.