Robert Rankin - Web Site Story

It finally worked its way down to a hard core of dedicated poets. They self-published a monthly magazine, The Shorter Brentford Book of Verse, early copies of which are now believed to be collector's items. And the event remained. Wednesday night at Waterman's was the Brentford Poets night.

And as tonight was Wednesday, this was what it was.

Kelly saw Derek waving to her from the bar. She threaded her way between the poets and the appreciators of poets and those who had come along just to see what was going on and those groups of pimply young men who always turn up to such events, because a mate of theirs told them that poetesses were easy lays and they'd actually been daft enough to believe him.

'I got you a glass of red wine in,' said Derek. 'I hope that's OK.'

'It's OK,' said Kelly. 'Thanks. It's pretty crowded in here. Do you always come to listen?'

'Listen?' said Derek. 'I come to perform. That's a stunning frock by the way. What kind of fabric is that?'

'It's a polyvinylsynthacottonlatexsuedosilk mix.'

'Nice,' said Derek. 'And I love those shoes too. They make you seem…'

'Taller,' said Kelly. 'They're the latest Doveston holistic footwear. Triple-heeled with chromium love-turrets and inlaid frog-mullions. Each rivet hand-driven in by a vestal virgin at the temple of Runeology.'

'You're having a laugh,' said Derek.

'Derek,' said Kelly. 'Fashion is no laughing matter.'

'No,' said Derek. 'I mean, no, but you are, perhaps, and I mean no offence by this, slighdy overdressed for the occasion.'

It is another fact well known to those who know it well, that poets are very seldom fashion-conscious.

When talking of poets' attire the words scruffy, wretched and downright foul are oft-times brought into usage.

Only very few poets have ever cut a dash, as they say, clothes-wise. Amongst these must rank Sir Johnny Betjeman, stripey-blazered and all-round eccentric wearer of the old straw hat. And John Cooper Clarke, [8]whose dress code, although natty, sadly owed an homage to a chap called Bob Dylan.

Kelly gave those round and about a cursory glancing-over. 'Well,' she said. 'They are a scruffy, wretched and downright foul-looking bunch. But I didn't have time to change. I've been up west.'

'Chiswick?' said Derek, mightily impressed.

'The West End,' said Kelly. The head office of Mute Corp.'

'You didn't actually get to see old man Mute?'

'No,' said Kelly. 'Sadly not. Apparently he lives upon a luxury yacht, the location of which is only known to a select elite. I don't think an interview with him is on the cards. But I do have a bit of news for you and I don't know how you'll take it.'

'Go on,' said Derek.

'I'm leaving Brentford,' said Kelly. 'Tomorrow.'

'What?' said Derek. 'Already? But you've only been here a couple of days.'

Kelly sipped at her red wine. 'I've been offered a job at Mute Corp. I took the liberty of taking my CV up with me when I went. A very nice man called Mr Pokey, who wore a beautiful orange suit and who couldn't take his eyes off my breasts, offered me a job.'

'Oh,' said Derek and a sadness came out all over his face. 'I suppose he would. I suppose any man would.'

'Don't be downcast,' said Kelly, finishing her •wine. 'I only wanted to get inside the organization. We'll still be working together on the investigation.'

'Ah yes,' said Derek. 'The investigation. I've been thinking about that.'

'Thinking what ?' said Kelly.

'Well, it's just that with Mr Shields banged up in the hospital, he seems to be in a bit of a coma by the way. The doctor said something about repeated blows to the head. With him in hospital, I have been put in charge of running the Mercury and head office has sent me all these memos about co-operating with the representatives of Mute Corp over the Suburbia World Plc business.'

'What?' said Kelly, startling several poets, a lover of poetry and a pimply young man who'd been taking a lively interest in her breasts. 'You Judas!'

'I'm not,' said Derek, crossing his heart. 'I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I don't want to see the borough turned into a theme park, but what can I do?'

'You could refuse,' said Kelly.

'They'll sack me,' said Derek.

'Then you can do the decent thing.'

'Resign? No way.'

'Not resign. Do what you told me the people of Brentford do, practise inertia. Appear to co-operate, but don't actually do anything.'

'Just do what I always do.'

'You're very good at doing it.'

'Fair enough,' said Derek. 'Another glass of wine?'

'It's my round, I think.'

'Oh yes, it is.'

'But don't let that put you off". Buy me another glass of wine.'

'Oh, all right,' said Derek. 'Any crisps?'

'Do they serve bar snacks?'

Derek chewed upon his lip. 'There is a menu,' he said sadly. 'I think they do the surf and turf.'

'That will be fine then, I'll have one of those.'

Derek sighed. 'Well,' he said. 'As it is your last night here.'

Kelly smiled.

Derek hailed the barman. 'Barman, barman,' he hailed.

'He won't listen,' said an ancient sitting at the bar. 'If you want to get his attention, you should speak in Runese.'

Derek glowered towards the ancient. Then he said, 'How did you get on with the over-eighties backwards walk from Kew to Richmond?'

'I came first,' said Old Pete (for who could it have been but him). 'Bit of healthy competition this year. I had to nudge at least three wheelchair cases into the Thames. Three's a record, I think, it was only two last year. And that nun, but she was cheating, riding a BMX.'

'Barman,' hailed Derek. 'Barman, please.'

Old Pete didn't read any poems that night. He wasn't much of a poet, Old Pete, even in the holy cause of the well-won-fine-free-pint. He knew his limitations. And anyway, he was busy tucking into the free champagne that the Arts Centre was dishing out to him to celebrate his win in the over-eighties backwards walk.

Old Pete's chum, Old Vic, was a poet though. And a mighty one to boot. Old Vic had been a prisoner of war. In a war that few remembered now, but they still made movies about. Mostly inaccurate ones where they got the hairstyles wrong, but as that is Hollywood tradition, it's neither here nor there.

Old Vic was first up upon the rostrum to recite his latest poem. Old Vic always received a standing ovation, even from those who remained sitting down, for, after all, he had been a prisoner of war. Hands clapped aplenty, fingers were stuck into mouths and whistles were blown out between them. Certain hats were cast into the air, but these were those of visiting poets who came from strange lands to the South where poets always wore hats.

'Thank you,' said Old Vic, waggling his wrinkled hands about to staunch the outpourings of welcome. 'I've had to have a bit of a think this week about what I was going to write about. I thought I might do a poem about bream. Lovely fish the bream, very silvery. Quite unlike the perch, which is fatter and has green and reddy bits. Or indeed the dab, not unlike the bream, some might say, but a slimmer slippery fellow and one liable to make his escape through your keep-net if you only have thirteen-gauge netting, rather than a ten-gauge.'

There was some laughter over this from a group of local anglers. Imagine anyone being daft enough to put a dab in a keep-net with thirteen-gauge netting. That was a good'n.

'Bravo, Old Vic,' called anglers, raising their glasses and making rod-casting motions with them.

'Careful,' said a pimply young man. 'You're spilling your beer on me.'

'Ssh,' went the anglers. 'Listen to Old Vic. He was a prisoner of war.'

'Cheers lads,' said Old Vic, tipping the anglers the wink. 'But I decided not to write a poem about bream this week.'