A dubious quip for Scroobius Pip (or how it feels to fail your peers)

Wednesday, June 17th, 2009

In my last blog, the one about the seemingly* disastrous interview, I alluded to the fact that I’d once bombed at a festival. If you’re reading this blog there’s a fair chance that you’re an aspiring poet. Your unjaded mind may, as I write, be conjuring fanciful vagaries of exchanging gentle anecdotes with Seamus Heaney over a glass of complimentary Beaujolais in a velvet lined marquee at Hay on Wye.

Don’t get me wrong, that type of scenario is occasionally a reality, but for me it’s a rare exception. You’re far more likely to find me arse deep in cow eggs, picking the flies out of contraband no frills voddy as John Berkavitch tries to convince me he’s been inhabited by the spirit of a Zebra. Not that I’m complaining, the latter option suits me fine.

In the interview I had last week someone asked me the following question:

“So Byron, What has been your worst festival experience?”

Performing poetry at a festival is a bit like playing badger hole roulette, one wrong set and your scarred for life (oh dear). When it comes to fezzie gigs I have a flooding cesspit of uncomfortable anecdotes to draw from. I could have told them about the time that eminent geneticist Sir Robert Winston jocularly threw a cup at my head for suggesting to the audience that his moustache made him look like a renegade member of the village people (their current line up is lacking an academic); or the time some ketamine spangled space cadet wobbled up to the stage and jettisoned a gastro-geyser all over my feet, or the time I threw up on my own feet seconds before my slot. Shame prevents me from further disclosures.

In reality those events pale into affectionate insignificance when compared to the wincing discomfort I feel when I recall the time I lost the plot at Latitude festival.

It was a Saturday night. The poetry tent was a humming jungle of tangled limbs and bibulous banter. Earlier that day Scroobius Pip and Dan le Sac had bounced a grateful swarm on one of the main stages. As his set drew to a close Scroob announced to the masses that they should come and check him out in the poetry tent at eleven thirty, and judging by the swelling crowds many had complied. It later transpired that he wasn’t on at eleven thirty, unfortunately for everyone present, I was.

I was relatively new to the game and this was by far my biggest gig yet. David J, Polarbear, and Scroob had all done storming sets in the hour leading up to mine. Everywhere I looked I was confronted with the faces of my calm, confident and better established peers, even Johnny Clarke had put in an appearance. There were other well known bods mulling about too. Kate Nash was stood in the wings and someone told me that Phil Jupitus and Richard Curtis were sat in the audience. It was all a bit much for me; I’m just some chancer off a back water council estate. Surrounded by all those self-assured, educated, successful people I started to feel way out of my depth.

The thing about the fear is that it knows you inside out. If it gets a proper grasp of you, it’s almost impossible to wriggle free. Every motivational ray of hope I tried to muster was kicked squarely in the rationals by the insider knowledge of my belligerently aggressive neurosis.

By the time I was being announced, I was a dribbling wreck, dizzy on unhinged adrenalin. The cacophonous tumult of back stage was making me feel even more twitchy and as I scaled the steps to the stage my brain already knew that my mouth was no longer an ally.

My tongue adopted the texture of parched polystyrene. I felt like I’d just snorted the Gobi desert. The retina melting spotlight forced tides of shaming sweat into public view. I’d had a set planned, but all of a sudden it seamed about as compelling as a tax man’s guff. I sluggishly squeaked through my links with all the charisma and timing of freshly stepped in pigeon puke.

It was about half way in to my third poem that I finally choked. Time seemed to slow to a stagger as I loitered in the excruciating gaze of underwhelmed spectators. I mannaged to compose myself for another couplet or two before my brain crashed yet again; inflicting another roaring silence on the increasingly fatigued punters. I managed to muster some quip about the nineties being cruel to us all, then skulked off stage so prematurely that the compare was still half way through his ablutions in a distant portaloo.

I thought I was just about as crestfallen as a person could be as I sloped away. Then David J tossed me an incredulous headshake and a compassionate “what the hell just happened” look. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

If you think I’m being whiny about it now, just imagine how intolerable I was on the night. It wasn’t just me that I felt I’d let down, but those who’d put their faith in me. None more so than Luke Wright. He’d taken a real risk in booking a newbie like me and even after witnessing my mammoth fuck up, offered me far more sympathy and support than I deserved.

In fact everyone was double lovely. I was genuinely ready to quit performing poetry for good; but then Luke and Sally (Luke’s wife) gave me a soul salving pep talk.

Polarbear then ushered me away for a quiet and much needed “shit happens” pint; but if you’re ever having a bad day, Andy Craven Griffiths is the man to have around. He gave me a speech that could easily rival that of Micky Goldmill counseling an eleventh round, slapped daft Rocky Balboa.

Without the kindness of those people I would have never stepped on stage again, so if you balk at the sight of my name in your festival program, you know who to blame. EYE OF THE TIGER ANDY!

I’ve had some ace gigs at Latitude since then. Last years Friday night slot was one of the most enjoyable sets I’ve ever done. Again, I need to thank Luke for having me back after such a wobbly start, it’s very much appreciated, I owe you big time bruvva.

I still shudder at the memory though. That night it felt as though Scroobius Pip had introduced a generation to the wonder of spoken word, and I’d single handedly destroyed his good work. I don’t even know if he was present to witness the full car crash horror of it. I’ve been in the same room as him on a couple of occasions since, skulking in the shadows, to this day I still can’t look him in the eye. Sorry Scroob *cringes*.

My Place Or Yours

A dubious quip for Scroobius Pip (or how it feels to fail your peers)

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