Although Bolton’s ‘The Howcroft’ and Wigan’s ‘The Tudor House’ may share the same poetic field, they are indeed two completely different tents. This has been reinforced during the last few days - slow, cumbersome days filled with nothing much more than Icelandic ash, a poxy Chelsea double (sounds like a drink) and politicians’ oversized foreheads bursting with rhetoric and smarm.

Thursday night at The Tudor reaffirmed my wavering belief that performance poetry can still be beneficial to a failing heart and a rapidly darkening soul. Against a backdrop of The Tudor’s recently refurbished stage - performers and poets alike gave their all in an attempt to engage a demanding, enthusiastic audience forged from the remnants of failed relationships, drunken curiosity and the die-hard commitment of the ‘there’s nowt better on’t tele’ brigade.

Those who managed to engage this knowledgeable but equally demanding audience were rewarded with a combination of polite applauds, sincere applauds, whistles and cheers, indecipherable grunts, and the occasional, less familiar sound of a male Buffalo’s mating call - apparently.

And whist I may still view Wigan’s WOL event through my rose-tinted welding goggles, I still maintain that when Wigan’s good - it’s very, very good - and when it’s ‘bad’ it's still good. There’s an intangible spirit within the room that lifts each and every participant up by their failing knicker elastic and points them in the general direction of salvation’s bright light. It’s difficult not to find yourself being swept along in amongst the bristles of poetic diversity. Sucked up through that powerful hose of spiritual cleanliness or to find your best rhyming couplets being tickled and given a good dusting with that feather-like-touch of genuine sentiment. You leave feeling cleansed - and of course - in my case - blind drunk.

There were some exceptional performances - some notable performances - and performances that I couldn’t recall - even if under duress. But on the night, I recall the overall encouragement and genuine passion felt by an audience and those who contributed in a more direct ‘trousers around the ankles’ kinda way. Far too many names to identify directly - not least the usual suspects. The now familiar poetic glue of Pete Crompton, Chris Co, Isobel, Allan Gray, Jefferama, Rachel Bond, John and Sandré Clays, Kenny, Frankie Abrams - there were many, many more and I’m sure people have their own opinions as to who stood out for them. Personally, I just enjoy the whole atmosphere that has built around the Tudor’s poetry nights - and like those workers at Wigan’s Heinz Beans factory - I like to feel its pulse.

If the life force that fuels Wigan’s WOL night is transferable - then perhaps Bolton’s The Howcroft could benefit from an injection of say, a zillion gallons. WOL’s Sunday night ’Howcroft’ was perhaps the victim of a Gregorian calendar’s conspiracy which, on occasions, will pit a ‘second Thursday’ against a ‘third Sunday’ within just a few days of each other - and whilst a poet’s imagination and willingness to share their work may be an immeasurable depth - in the current climate of heaving doom and heavy taxation - their pockets are not. So, we were left with what was once known in old money as ‘an intimate’ bunch - in today’s exacting plastic currency values - that’s a little over ‘a miserable’ bunch of eleven.

It felt like you were visiting an old dying relative. A relative who you once held in high regard as they regaled you with their tales of war time woe and futile ambition. I genuinely felt a sense of loss. Wearing my brightest pair of nostalgia trimmed Y-fronts, I wistfully recalled those Sunday nights of yesteryear, where The Howcroft was packed with enthusiastic, shiny faced characters who would do their utmost to entertain and feed our poetic spirits with music and verse the size and sizzle of huge Buffalo steaks - whereas last night - we had to make do with a landlord’s generous (free) supply of ‘oven chips’ and buttered bread. The atmosphere began somewhat stifled - but with a true fighter’s spirit - we grabbed those testicles of spirit and mood and gave them an unsporting squeeze. In moments like these one of two things can happen - either the referee can call ‘foul!’ or a group member can make a revelation deemed worthy of any Red-top publication - and as there WAS no referee - it had to be the latter.

Step forward Miss Augusta Darling…



Augusta’s revelation came as no real shock - not to me anyway. Although to one or two on Write Out Loud the personification of Miss Darling’s words may come as a greater shock - a MUCH greater shock.
I don’t like to say ‘I told you so…’ who am I kidding? - of course I do - so to all those many months ago ‘I told you so - with big hairy knobs on’ - which is an unfortunate turn of phrase - given the circumstances of Augusta Darling’s revelation.

That aside - Write Out Loud at The Howcroft is obviously in dire need of people’s visible life-support machine. Without it, much like most things that were once throbbing with the spoils of oxygenated blood, it will wither and die. And no poetry event deserves a slow painful death. Leave that for us drunken poets who are still foolish enough to perform.

Yes - I'd agree with Chris. I always want to and plan to go to the Howcroft but life just gets in the way...
It following the Tudor and being on a Sunday night doesn't help. It always has a warm welcoming atmosphere. Maybe next month...

Was speaking to our Christine and we'll commit to turning up at the next Howcroft event to give our support also.If someone wants to sit in with us as we navigate our way there,that would be good as we almost got there once,then became disorientated and retreated to Wigan!...and this from someone who worked in Bolton for three or four years!

Great night at Tudor too last week!

Bolton is pretty far for me to get to anyhow and i do love it, but sunday is a terrible night off the week for me to get back to where i live on (without a car).. If it was any other night of the week, I would defo come as I have trains I can get home but sadly not on a Sunday! (Same applies to Middleton to a lesser degree too). A massive shame!

Isobels 'Dolls'
absolutely loved it.
sometimes a poem just grabs you.

Thanks for your comment Pete. I seem to remember your football rant going down equally well. What a double act! You've got me reconsidering my decision not to post that poem. Will have to get round to recording it - it's so not page... xx