A literally literary evening

To the Button Factory on Monday night for a poetry reading. That’s right - a poetry reading. Felix Dennis, publishing millionaire, raconteur, establishment riler, the first person to use the rudest word in the English language on tv, reformed(ish) hell-raiser and, in recent years, critically lauded poet was in town for a date on his ‘Did I Mention the Free Food and Wine’ tour.

I’ve never been too sure about poetry. I’ve got some of Roger McGough’s books at home. He’s good. And Paul Durcan too, although that’s a little harder to get my head around. And I’ve always enjoyed Ian McMillan whenever he’s guested on Mark Radcliffe’s radio show. I even bought one of his books (Ideas Have Legs) once but that was because of the pictures as much as the words. I suppose the idea of a poetry reading has always conjured up images of men in tweed jackets, stroking their beards and nodding in agreement with whatever pearl of wisdom was being rhymed out in front of them. Exactly my kind of scene, in other words!

Felix Dennis first came to my attention in one of the first issues of The Word magazine. Possibly the very first actually. Anyway, he was interviewed for one of their ‘Word to the Wise’ features and I thought he sounded like a great old punter. Opinionated, boozy, outrageous and not afraid to show off a more sensitive or introspective side to his character. Not afraid of ridicule either which, I think, is one of the better personality traits to have.. I remember visiting his website and reading some of his poetry at the time and liking them. They were a bit salty and lusty and used big words and swear words. Racy stuff. Never bought any of his books though.

So on Monday night he was in town for his gig in the spruced up Button Factory. Here’s how his poetry readings go: you get inside and there’s loads of fine French wines laid out for your pleasure. Large glasses filled not quite to the brim - but close enough.. Waiter types roam around the place with tasty canapes. The usual stuff - things on cocktails sticks, little salmon nibbly things. Lovely stuff. So for an hour or so we stood around eating and drinking and stroking our beards waiting for the show to begin. And then we took our seats. And then, after a ridiculous, over the top intro from one of Felix' little runners, it began.

What was it like? Well, good - I think. What makes poetry good or bad? Several glasses of red wine make everything good so that helps, I suppose. What else though? Are we supposed to appreciate the meter (metre?) of the poems? He talked a lot about free verse and structured verse but I don’t know what all that means. Are we supposed to appreciate the ones that rhyme more than the others? Or is poetry that rhymes inferior to the other kind? I’ve got no idea. In the end it came down to just liking the subjects he was reading about, I suppose. So I really liked the ones about his family, himself, his relationships etc, and the ones about business, politicans and war I didn’t enjoy as much. I laughed at the funny ones and pondered the reflective ones and the rest of the time I just let it wash over me.

I loved the performance though. For some poems he stood at a lectern and, as he read, plasma screens displayed images and movies with the words of the poem at the top. Actually the words were usually displayed a line after he spoke it. So you couldn’t read along I suppose. Anyway when he wasn’t standing at the lectern, he came out and read the poems as he walked along the stage. I guess he was a bit more physical and theatrical for these ones. A short hairy bear of a man with a large belly and a bright yellow waistcoat. I don’t really know what the motivation for the different presentation styles was but I suppose it broke things up a bit.

If I was to criticise the event though I’d say that the interval knocked a bit of momentum out of the occasion (that’s if you can have momentum at a poetry reading). By the time the second half began, it’s probably true to say that some of the audience had had a little too much free wine. Quite often, as Felix would begin to introduce a poem, various audience members started to heckle him. Seriously, who heckles at a poetry reading? Maybe it happens all the time. This was my first one though and I was a little shocked to think that people could behave that way. Ok - so he was talking about legalising drugs and other ‘shocking’ things like that but still.. I mean the event was ticketed - you couldn’t just walk in off the street so presumably most people there knew what he was like. Either way, all of the shouting was a little cringey. His response to most heckles was to ignore them. It worked most of the time apart from one chap in the front row who seemed to bear some kind of grudge. In the end he got up and walked out shouting about something or other being disgraceful. Perhaps he didn’t get enough of the canapes.

In the end I’d almost say that he almost outstayed his welcome. Harsh perhaps, given his hospitality, but I guess there’s such a thing as too much poetry. Although he finished his encore (an encore at a poetry reading!) with a nice little poem about how, despite what a lot of newspapers and tv shows tell us, everything will be better again. Easy for him to say I suppose but a nice sentiment to end on. And then he jumped in his Bentley which drove him to his helicopter which flew him back to his mansion in Warwickshire. I daresay he was in bed before we got to the pub. But that's ok - if I was a millionaire with a fondness for publishing my own poetry, I'd like to think I'd be doing the same sort of thing. Spend a bit of money to get an audience in and then make them listen to your work.

I bought his latest book, Homeless in my Heart for 15 quid. All the proceeds go to his charity and I thought it was a decent night’s entertainment for 15 bob. And it's a good book - I've looked at it a bit since Monday and am enjoying it very much.

Here's my current favourite Felix Dennis poem. I pinched it from his site and I'm posting it here because, as he said the other night, there's nothing he can do to stop me. And because it's great.

Snakeskin Boots

I remember the hill and the sun in her hair,
I remember the moss on a tombstone seat,
With the grass as tall as a mad march hare.
I remember she kicked the shoes off her feet.

I remember her calling me 'daft as a brush',
And the taste of the orange she helped to peel.
I remember she mocked my feeble moustache
And my snakeskin boots with their Cuban heel.

I remember the lids of her eyes as we kissed,
I remember the shock of a gentle slap
As she hissed 'Not here!' and circled my wrist
When I fumbled the catch of her brassiere strap.

I remember it rained as we raced for a fuck
To my room. I remember we tore off our clothes -
Except for my boot where the zip had stuck!
And her poached-egg breasts, I remember those.

I remember we tumbled both half insane
On the bed, and the arch of her back as I came.
I remember we did it again and again,
And we screamed...
...but I cannot remember her name.