Ellie arrived a little after eight. She was impressed by the look of the Waterman’s Arts Centre. It looked modern.
This wasn’t because it was modern, it had been constructed sometime back in the early 1980s. It was just that it looked modern. Because the current vogue in twenty-first century architecture was for an homage to the early 1980s. It’s a good word, ‘homage’, and for those who don’t know its meaning and can’t be bothered to look it up, it means rip-off!
The plain folk of Brentford, who never took to change, had not taken at all to the building of the Waterman’s Arts Centre. It had been built by out-borough contractors with out-borough money upon the site of the old gasworks, prime riverside land. And the plain folk of the borough considered this ‘a bit of a liberty’. There had been some peaceful protestation against the development. And this in turn had led to the forces of law and order employing small measure of response. Water cannon, CS gas, the reading of the Riot Act, rubber bullets, baton charges, helicopter gunships and finally the passing of a special Act of Parliament, which sanctioned the use of the nuclear deterrent, if the peaceful protestors of Brentford did not stop blowing things up and burning things down and return at once to their houses and stop being such a bloody nuisance.
On this occasion, it seemed to the rest of the world that the plain people of Brentford would definitely lose their struggle against the forces of change. Although it had to be said that they weren’t going down without a fight. In fact, so great was the amount of night-time sabotage mounted against the Arts Centre during its construction, that the contractors were forced to erect fifteen-foot-high electrified perimeter fences, topped with razor wire and watched over by guards in raised sentry posts equipped with searchlights and General Electric Miniguns. The building work was delayed again and again, the costs overran, the council (held for a while at gunpoint in the famous Siege of Sydney Green Street, when it was discovered by the plucky Brentonians that council members had not only backed the scheme but put in money from the local coffers) pulled out their financial support, the building conglomerate backing the scheme went bust and everyone involved in the project who hadn’t either committed suicide, been fire-bombed, or threatened with hideous death, gave the whole thing up and abandoned the scheme. Leaving the half-built Arts Centre for the people of Brentford to do with as they wilt.
A meeting of the Brentonians had been held in the town hall (in Sydney Green Street) to decide the fate of the half-constructed Arts Centre. Many suggestions were put forward as to how it should best be demolished, but then a voice of extraordinary reason spoke up from the back of the hall. It came from Professor Slocombe, a venerable ancient, considered by many to be Brentford’s patriarch.
‘Why destroy what you have been given?’ asked the professor. ‘It is yours now. Why not make of it something that reflects the greatness of the borough? The borough that you all love so dearly. Raise a temple wherein to offer praise to the artisans of Brentford. Has Brentford not given the world some of its finest artists, its most gifted musicians, its wordsmiths and scholars, its craftsmen, its poets, river-dance-men and its makers of macramé plant-pot holders and personalized lavender bags?’
There was then a bit of a pause.
Then, ‘No,’ said a small voice near to the front. ‘None at all that I know of.’
‘Exactly,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Because Brentford never had an Arts Centre before.’
Well, it certainly had one now. Every resident of Brentford was a shareholder. Each had paid for and laid one brick, which possibly accounted for its ‘modern’ look.
It is true to state that the bastions of High Art and Literature had not been taken by storm by the Brentford Set. And the makers of macramé plant-pot holders and personalized lavender bags slept easy in their beds, free from the worry that the superior artisans of Brentford would presently usurp their supremacy.
But the Arts Centre had spawned something: the aforementioned Brentford Poets, of which Time Out had taken note and written up in their pages.
‘Every man and every woman is a poet,’ wrote the magus Hugo Rune. ‘Though none are ever so great as I, and most are just plain pants.’
Rune had once made a memorable appearance at the Brentford Poets. Clad in his famous five-piece suit of green and chequered Boleskine tweed, wearing his famous ring of power and carrying his famous stout stick, his famous shaven head decorated with an elaborate henna tattoo of two nuns fighting over a BMX and his infamous size ten feet encased within complicated holistic footwear which smelled strongly of creosote and trailed tiny sparks as he walked. Rune recited his famous Hymn to Frying Pan. A five-hundred-and-eighty-nine-stanza epic verse dedicated to himself. He was accompanied by his acolyte, Rizla, who filled in Rune’s pauses for breath and frequent visits to the bar with melodic renditions on the swanee whistle, ocarina, kazoo and bicycle pump/armpit.
All who witnessed the performance agreed that it had been a unique and moving experience and many converted at once to the Church of Runeology and remained Runies for the rest of their lives.
Others protested that there hadn’t been time left in the evening for them to recite their poems.
Hugo Rune dealt justice to these philistines with his stout and famous stick.
But Hugo Rune had long ago shrugged off his mortal form and joined the choirs eternal. Whom he no doubt entertained with his Hymn to Frying Pan, with fill-ins by Rizla on the armpit.
So thus it was that the Waterman’s Arts Centre came into being. But, one might be forgiven for asking, How So The Brentford Poets?
Good question.
It is a fact well known to those who know it well (and Hugo Rune would probably be amongst these), and curiously it runs in verse:
Wherever you find a poet
You’ll find another near
And wherever you find two poets
You’ll find they’re drinking beer.
On the opening of the Waterman’s Arts Centre, an affair almost as memorable as Hugo Rune’s reading of Hymn to Frying Pan, although few there are, with the possible exception of Old Pete, who would remember it today, there hadn’t been a Brentford Poets.
There had only been a Writer in Residence.
And this the long-forgotten author.
The long-forgotten author had been given quite a remit. Found a poets’ group, it said. The long-forgotten author, bereft as ever of ideas (he was the kind of author who specialized in an homage) put an advert in the Brentford Mercury:
Poets wanted to perform at a weekly poets’ get-together at the Waterman’s Arts Centre.
A free pint from the bar for everyone who reads an original poem.
The bar ran dry the first night. It was remarkable just how many drinking men of Brentford felt the muse so suddenly arise in them.
But the reviewer from Time Out, who happened by chance to be there for the Busby Berkeley Retrospective showing in the Arts Centre cinema, was so impressed by the enormous turnout (he never even got close to the bar himself) that he gave the event a write-up.
Numbers began to drop off a bit when the Writer in Residence decreed that pints should only be awarded to poets reading original poems which had some degree of artistic merit and ran to more than two lines inevitably terminating with the words, ‘Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen and mine’s a pint of large, please.’ Many thirsty minimalist poets left the Arts Centre, bitterly complaining as they did so.
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.
Ellie 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 okay.’
‘Good good,’ said Ellie. ‘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 poly-vinyl-syntha-cotton-latex-suedo-silk mix.’
‘Nice,’ said Derek. ‘And I love those shoes too. They make you seem…’
‘Taller,’ said Ellie. ‘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 Ellie. ‘Fashion is no laughing matter.’
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘I mean, no, but you are, perhaps, and I mean no offence by this, slightly 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, whose dress code and look, although natty, sadly owed an homage to a chap called Bob Dylan.
Ellie 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 Ellie. ‘The head office of Mute Corp.’
‘You didn’t actually get to see old man Mute?’
‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘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 Ellie. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘What?’ said Derek. ‘Already? But you’ve only been here a couple of days.’
Ellie 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 Ellie, 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 Ellie.
‘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 Ellie, 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 Ellie.
‘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, sushi or Ginsters pies.’
‘That will be fine then, I’ll have all of those.’
Derek sighed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘As it is your last night here.’
Ellie 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.’
‘Aw,’ went the anglers. ‘Shame.’
‘Maybe next week lads. But this week, not bream. I have to say that I toyed with the idea of writing a poem about mule-skinning.’
A cheer went up from a group of muleskinners over from Cardiff for the annual muleskinners’ convention that is always held at the Function Rooms at the Station Hotel.
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‘Evening lads,’ called Old Vic. ‘Good to see you here again. I’ll pop over to have a word later, I need a new eight-foot bull whip, I wore the last one out at the Easter fete.’
‘Three lashes for a quid,’ said Derek. ‘He always gives good value. The money goes to charity of course. Small and shoeless boys in search of a good hiding, or something.’
‘Really?’ said Ellie, tucking into her tucker, which had lately arrived at the bar counter. ‘Could you pass the cranberry sauce, please?’
Derek passed the cranberry sauce.
‘Now,’ Old Vic continued. ‘I must confess that I didn’t write a poem about mule-skinning.’
Ellie looked up from eating. ‘What a fascinating man,’ she said in a tone that was less than sincere. ‘I’ve no doubt that he’s about to tell us that he didn’t write a poem about uni-cycling vicars either.’
‘Let the old boy have his say,’ sshed Derek. ‘He’s a venerable poet. And he was a prisoner of war.’
Ellie said, ‘Pass the ginseng dip.’ And Derek passed it over.
‘Any uni-cycling vicars out there?’ asked Old Vic.
Another cheer went up.
‘Sorry,’ said the ancient. ‘Maybe next week.’
‘My money is now on Yugoslavian junk bond dealers,’ said Ellie to Derek. ‘Or possibly Venezuelan gorilla impersonators, deaf ones of course.’
‘So,’ said Old Vic. ‘I considered all and sundry, but I’ve decided to do a poem about the time when I was–’
‘A Prisoner of War!’ chorused all and sundry, except for Old Vic.
‘Ah, I see,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s a running gag.’
‘It doesn’t work if you don’t come every week,’ said Derek.
‘I’m not altogether certain that it would, even if I did. Pass the crow’s foot puree, please.’