You know, when a chap walks down the street, strolls into the lounge bar of his local hostelry or lowers his newspaper in the club and just happens to catch the eye of another chap, it helps if the party of the first part is broadly aware of the what is going on in the bean of the party of the second. Up until the momentous events of what we shall call the last few momentous days there was a good chance that a shirt, arm band or button badge would be enough to give the game way. Even though both sides utilise the trad. colours of red, white and blue it was still possible to ascertain the allegiance of the other cove at a glance. Care could then be taken with any subsequent conversation not to cross a line, raise a hackle or prod at a sore and harmony would be maintained. However, since the momentous events of the last few momentous days, recognisable identifiers have been cast aside. What is more, it’s not as if they look appreciably different from us. However, before one becomes despondent, contemplating the burden the last few decades in Europe have imposed on this country of ours and the many more years of pain we are likely to experience, it is worth remembering that it’s only a game and that it’s nice to see a tiny country like Iceland doing so well.
It was also nice to experience such a rich and varied collection of poems as this week’s workshop. Olwyn Grimshaw was first off the spot when the whistle blew, pointing out the inconsistencies in allowing Mr Mark Carney to print his own money when a few creative hours playing idly with a decent colour laser printer can put you or me into jail. Owen Gallagher then sped off down the left wing with a concentrated piece on the modern face of the Highland Clearances. Martin Choules just avoided a high tackle with a tightly argued poem about the reluctance of young people to vote. Daphne Gloag maintained possession with two versions of a recent poem concerning the light of now. John Hurley did well to stay on side as he covered Brexit, BoJo, MiGo, NiFar, DaCam and WhatNow? Nick Barth chose to boot it up the park with a hazily-remembered road movie to Berlin. Peter Francis maintained formation with a solemn poem about a lost love. Alan Chambers perplexed the back four with his memories of JS Graham. Finally, Ariadne created a solid finish with a revision of her story about Georgia being late for school.
What with the momentous events of the last few momentous days it has been my solace and indeed happy privilege to spend time among the recent archaeological discoveries at Pitshanger Manor. Items that have, no doubt, been carefully and painstakingly revealed by the precise fall of a size nine steel toe-capped boot or careful swing of a five-kilo sledgehammer are now emerging thick and fast from the priceless clouds of Georgian dust. Once again I cannot go into too many details, however, suffice it to say that we believe we have come across another copy of the very document that must have inspired the all-too-serious Ealing Comedy, Passport to Pimlico. The document is now with a team of crack, highly-offensive combat lawyers and while I cannot reveal the name of the London Borough that we believe is no longer (and, indeed has never been) a part of the United Kingdom, it will be fascinating to see how much a pint of London Pride will cost in Euros in the Grapevine Bar here at Questor’s once the dust settles. If you have been, thank you for reading.