It’s the weekend and I’m in my house listening to House Every Weekend by David Zowie. I don’t do this every weekend but perhaps I should because it’s a great song:
‘…I work hard
And if I don’t let myself go, let myself go, let myself go
I just might explode, I just might explode…’
So immediately after a long day at work earlier this week, I dashed to the train station and travelled to a small café for a poetry gig. The last time I was at the same venue, the place was teeming with people, mostly poets of course. Not this time, despite the fantastic headliner – funnier than your best mate and more intelligent than a nodding, murmuring intellectual on late night BBC2. My dodgy puns could not be compared to led zeppelins, as this would convey that they had some form of substance. No, they went down like economy party balloons, and my similes didn’t do much better.
Perhaps at my next poetry gig, I should just whip out a stereo and move like Jon Heder in Napoleon Dynamite. No words.