“Oh what a night” the Howcroft came to life last night, restored polished and powdered to perfection.
An abundance of poets sharing a collective spirit . Compèred by Paul Blackburn effusing his brand of charm and cheek in equal measure. I am so happy we are back in the bosom of Bolton`s best poetry venue.

Eric Tomlinson let fly at the politicians and afterwards explained why the Penny can be so vital to us all
Scott Devon, never fails with words that grip and hold our attention.
James Hartnel, a welcome return with profound and inspiring poetry
Pete Crompton as always enjoying his poetry and entertaining to the max.
Gordon Zola singing no less and inviting participation, a happy chappy.
Dermot Glennon delivered two deep and disturbing poems, but that's DG…
Jeffarama was more subdued than usual especially with his reflective poem about 'depression'
Darren Thomas shared Larry the Lobster and a tangle of tongue tying verse.
Tony McNeil kept our attention with a 3rd Age Scenario, very interesting!
Rob Goodier - happily danced his way through a few oldies
Julian Jordon - a worthy wordsmith as always - I particularly liked his 'police state' poem
Sophie Hall, making her Howcroft début, took us on train ride and expounded the freelance fighter writer
Jane Willcocks another début Poet took us on a Pastoral walk creating an oasis of calm.
Abi Idowu's sweet romantic imagery hit a hot spot.
And me Val Cook, a story poem and the dangers of cocaine.

So come along to our next evening, we have free “Butties“.

There are many ways in which to spend a Sunday evening. That time in which to dwell inside those brushed-cotton weekend hours, or those minutes in which we can chillax or kick off the boots of a working week, or we can even, if we’re that way inclined, spend the time attempting to insert horse-chestnuts into our ear canals – or wherever else that may float our barge – because we can.
Sunday night also means it’s ‘Howcroft Night’. That much celebrated read-around that allows for both poets’ and t’other room alike – to gather, dressed in their finest rhyming couplets, and exhale their linguistic imagery into an air so receptive and so appreciative – there is hardly a deliberate heckle within a flappy ear-shot.

Much of the Howcroft and its muse are irreplaceable. This may go some way to help explain just why the room’s fixtures and fittings have been removed – and not been replaced. It now has an authentic feel of modesty about it. I’m not sure I like it this way. I prefer it when ‘modesty’ takes a seat and is forced to watch the pizzazz of previous poetic circuses as they sound their own drums of performance. The days when make-shift Carnival floats where driven at manageable speeds through our intellect and our opinions were washed in those bubbles of ticket-tape as we screamed aloud our deep and meaningful verse. Those days when the room had curtains – and colour. Not the bland, soulless hue of magnolia. Unless it’s the atmosphere that’s killing the room? Maybe the room reflects our verse? Our mood? Our collective energy? There are some people who would in fact agree with that statement. The Gypsy’s Tent in comparison appears like an explosion in a factory making Kaleidoscopes.

Last night, those of us who gathered, looked like those last few remaining foam-chips inside an almost empty cardboard box. Maybe next month there’ll just be a few tables and chairs situated in an open space? Underneath the stars; where a once leaking roof and four magnolia walls had stood. Alfresco poetry – live in Bolton. Hmmm.
Of the 23 consenting adults that did attend, each performed their poetry in their own unique and deliberate styles. Anyway, the poetry...

It’s not often you can talk shite and get away with. Not in Bolton. Not at The Howcroft. Last night Eric Tomlinson did just that. He talked shite. Well, he didn’t actually say the word ‘shite’ but he did perform a humorous poem that had many connotations to the act of ‘having a poo’. If you’re eating- I apologise. If this image has burnt itself onto the retina of your mind’s eye, imagine how we must has felt? Eric has a great dialect and manner. This allowed him to recite a poem with a ‘poo’ theme and, quite frankly, to get away with it. Flushed with success, Eric took his seat and wallowed in that satisfying warmth that only post-curling motion can bring. Moving shitly on...

Scott Devon; that man of mystery and wearer of very long trousers, made a welcome return from the islands of Academia and delivered a poem in his unique, inimitable style. Not sure how he remembers his words though? I think he may ad-lib in parts. If he doesn’t, then he has a great memory. Maybe I should tell him when my wife’s birthday is...?

A man purporting to be one of the four Dermot Glennons was also there. I would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t. This man travels like Swine-flu. Liverpool one night – Wigan the next. Wherever I go – he goes. There are four ‘Dermot Glennons’. I think this is a cunning decoy strategy to avoid would-be assassins. Usually, Dermot takes no prisoners with his poetry. Choosing instead to shoot them in their headscarves. As we speak, his wife will be slowly decomposing in an upstairs attic. You had to be there...

Val Cook, looking refreshed and invigorated from her continental escapades, read with her usual established and self- assured style. Pete Crompton read in his much softer tone, a tone that’s as equally impressive as his ‘rants’, and in my humble bulb of onions – better suited to his poetic intellect.

A young lady I only know as ‘Sophie’ read a very long piece which was demanding to listen to but ‘listen to’ we did and I suppose that’s the charm of The Howcroft. It’s a place where the razzamatazz of animated performance can sit quite comfortably next to the stillness and serenity of a recital. Where intensity and showmanship can, and often do, share the same ablutions.
Maybe it’s this diversity that keeps me going? Whatever it is or however it manifests itself, once this compulsion that draws me to nights like ‘The Howcroft’ fades, then it’s time to hang up what I get hung up about. And if that makes sense – then you need to spend more time inserting those horse-chestnuts into a waxy, but more than receptive orifice...

I love reading your reviews Darren...
always straightforword with your perspective...
and quite amusing : )

Brilliant, Darren. I wish I'd been there to witness it all.

Of course you were there Julian. You were the one who offended Rob Goodier with inappropriate laughter!

Great review as ever Darren. Thanks. Winston

Sorry I couldn't make it, must try harder.