Having spent a small but significant part of my life dealing with death, it was incumbent upon me to enter those bland, lifeless rooms - better known in some law enforcing circles as - The Dead House. You may know them as Mortuaries or Morgues.

Having now left the vocation that required this worrying, and often unnerving process to take place, I thought (rather foolishly) that I’d seen the inside of my last Dead House for quite some time. How wrong I was.

Bolton’s ‘The Howcroft Inn’ is a Morgue. By definition, a morgue is several things - including, “a dismal place that lacks warmth or cheer”. I suppose by that definition - I’m a Morgue too. However, I’m blatantly aware that I lack warmth - while I’m sure others are PAINFULLY aware that I lack cheer - but quite frankly - my surliness is of no concern to them - or you. Unless, of course, you choose to attend a Write Out Loud poetry event at The Howcroft. Take last night…

I’ll be frank. Compared to previous 'Howcroft nights' - last night’s events were dismal. The few people who’d clearly made the effort to support the event should be congratulated. The rest should be made to bury their heads in those shameful piles of bat-droppings we gathered at the event’s interlude.

I’m a nostalgic kinda’ guy, and as such, I remember those Sunday nights when poets and performers alike would be forced to stand on each other's heads just to catch a sound-bite, or a glimpse, of their peers in full poetic flight. Now it seems that those who choose to attend are being forced to contort themselves by spreading out in a bunch. And, I’m asking myself - why is this?

Write Out Loud’s numbers have increased six-fold since I became a member. Of course, I take no credit for this, just as I take no responsibility for those people who've chosen to leave the site as a direct or indirect response to what I’ve written - but WHY are people choosing to stay at home? WHY do people involve themselves in the written aspect of a ‘performance poetry website’ - yet choose NOT to attend at one of the few events that will allow them to express their poetic creativity? Is Write Out Loud losing its appeal? Are its members more preoccupied with writing this month’s inaugural winning poem for WOLOP than they are of attending at one of the few opportunities they’ll have of performing? Quite frankly - I don’t know? And yet, do I really care?

419 words so far would suggests that I do - and of course, I DO care. So, together with my caring cape of attitude flapping in the winds of concern - I disguised myself as Auguste Dupin and commenced my investigative journey. A Journey I’m calling - rather unimaginatively - ‘The Murmurs in the WOL Morgue’… but before I do - let me just say a word or two about those sterling WOL die-hards. The Stalwarts. The regulars. The ‘we REALLY don’t have anything better to do on a Sunday night’ gang.

Dermot Glennon, or DG as he’s known to his friend was the night’s compére. He did a sterling job of confusing an already confused collective considered capable of configuring what it was he was actually talking about. Underneath his blanket of gibberish and pillow of alliteration there were some equally comprehensible strings of decipherable semantics - but who wants to jump into bed with a man whose idiolect is clearly too big and unfathomable for the average sized orifice - AURAL orifice?

The artist formerly known as Gordon Zola, now Allan Gray, was introduced, rather perplexingly, as Gordon Zola, and if I’d not heard Allan perform on many other occasions this could have been even more confusing. As it was, Allan - or Gordon - no - definitely Allan, performed a poem about food. Skilfully secreted in his poem’s clauses were the names of foodstuffs and anything loosely associated with food. From a personal point of view - I’d heard it before and remember writing something about it the last thyme he pear-formed it. Great then, but brilliant last night.

Eric Tomlinson was hardly recognisable without his trusty friend and ally by his side. Yet Eric delivered his well paced, self-assured, sizeable rhyming couplets with a passion that we have come to expect and ultimately demand from our seasoned, competent poets.

Don Parry bounced his balls of meter and playful verse with his contribution, choosing - for a first half at least - to leave his guitar inside the confines of well-secured case.

Sarah Crowther made a colourful - and more than welcome - addition to the evening.

Simon Ellis read a brief but intense piece - with words covered in a residue of pain and cynicism.

John Clays braved the elements of indifference by travelling from Wigan with his wife Sandré, and between them they each performed a piece that was thoughtful and well crafted respectively.

Dave Morgan arrived late to muted ironic cheers and went on to perform a confusing piece that was met with a muted ironic cheer.

Nat Clare was on fine form. He performed a piece titled ‘Pan-pipes’ which was both very observant and funny.

Val Cook spun more than one plate as the event’s raffle organiser and performer.

Isobel, a regular contributor to the ‘Write’ element of ‘Write Out Loud’, both read AND sang her work.

The only ‘first-timer’ was a girl who delivered in a confident manner- but a girl whose name escapes me. Sorry.

And that - as they say - was that. But then again, I did have to leave at the interval. Maybe that’s when the party REALLY started?

Now, I’m off to investigate a murder in Paris….

(B^{-)

As always a very interesting and detailed review...
Keep me posted on The Paris Investigation ; )

I've never visited a morgue before Darren - you are one up on me there. I have visited a 'bone house' though - perhaps the less said on that the better. Moving swiftly to Dermot's compering (note the thought process folks...) Yes - Dermot's use of language is perplexing at times as he seems to try to lose his audience deliberately. The theme for the night was insulting the poets and boy did he manage that well with me.... Regrettably I arrived late. having spent half an hour driving round Bolton trying to find the place. I was immediately pounced on to read a poem and in too much of tizz wazz to take on board the deluge of insults that preceded my entry onto the 'stage'. My vague recollection of it was that He thought I was a big headed loud mouth who had too much of an opinion on everything. I ask you - moi? It never ceases to amaze me how Dermot can be so sweet and pleasant on a one to one but so vile in discussion and on a stage. Moving swiftly on.
Part of the problem with the attendence levels surely has to be the day of the week. Who the hell really wants to go out on a Sunday night if they have had a busy week-end and work/school to organise for next day? It took a superhuman effort for me to get there - and I left half of my brain behind - yet again got the wrong draft of a poem - so glad you left half way through and weren't able to review that one Darren.
I hate the lighting at the Howcroft - far too bright for my taste - it did feel a bit more like an operating theatre than a pub. It would have been a lot more atmospheric with more people - perhaps we should bring cardboard cut outs next time. Having said all that - the people who were there were great fun. I noticed a more relaxed atmosphere - a greater number of funny poems. If I read there again will have to be sure to write something witty.
The Howcroft couldn't possibly come close to the Tudor but I had a pleasant evening and more importantly, my old mum just loved it.

Well , Darren, I enjoyed the compere and thought it was very funny. Was it only me? I agree that the attendance was low. The poems were not as varied with a lot of comedy which made it less challenging and interesting to listen to than usual. I didn't even read! I'm afraid nerves find me not enjoying listening -so I had asked my daughter to read mine; she murdered the first one so the morgue similie might be right there! Isobel thought she had problems! It was great to see Isobel and I enjoyed the Alfie poem. I had hoped you might do both your poems as you said they were short but the one I heard was very short and I had only just entered into it when it had gone. The second half in the whole was better but not individually particularly. Some moments are like that. I think we should all turn up to perform or listen for the moments of great words, the passing lines in between being blocks of colour to fill the evening. Not a morgue, more like painting masters in a gallery.
Hope you enjoy murder in Paris, I think Colonel Mustard did it.

I did spot you in the corner Jane - sorry we didn't get chance to chat - I seemed to spend a long time in the interval waiting at the bar - hopefully we will next time and I'll also get there in time to hear everyone's poetry.
Darren - maybe it was the boot-leur een the Owccrroft weeth a 150 watt condel steek...The victeem - poor Alfie....

My theme is always to insult the performers. In the same way that you can damn them with faint praise, you can exalt them strong criticism.

My introductions will always herald the performers that I'm introducing as either very bad poets or very bad people, such that from the moment they step onto that stage and open their mouths to speak, the only way their popularity can possibly go is up (from where it was immediately following my introduction.

When performing both comedy and poetry, I've seen too many comperes introduce acts by bigging them up. Inevitably, several of the performers introduced in this way will die on their proverbial arses that particular night.

The most amusing deaths are to be seen from comperes who introduce acts with references to what they consider to be the individual performers particular strengths. At some point in the evening they invariably find themselves introducing an act about whom they can think of almost nothing positive to say. By the way, if there are any bloodsports fans out there, see me privately and I will tell you of events at which this last regularly happens.

In summary: slag 'em to hell, and everyone's a winner.

Hey DG - If I ever decide to come over and perform a poem and you happen to be compere - what would you say about me?!

So the more vile you are about a poet, the more you respect them - there's some hope for me in all that Dermot..
Francine, I wouldn't invite your write up too early - I dread to think what Dermot might think up, given time to stew over it. I guess you do teach us sensitive poets to be more thick skinned Dermot. Will start to worry when you become nice.

well, for those who stayed for the second half, all I can say is ....Rhubarb

Yes Jane
Great atmosphere
Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubarb
"Always look on the bright side of life Bu- bum Bu- bum Bu- bum
You just had to be there.