Jimmy Andrex

Updated: Tue, 29 Nov 2016 10:23 am

Biography
Samples
Blog
Audio

Biography

Without a clue what he's doing or why, Jimmy performs all over the UK either with or without music. Black Horse Poet of the Year on two occasions, he has published two collections, Gormless (2011) and Leet (2013), along with three albums of poems to music, Cresties (2015), Puddled & Kallin (2016). The longer version of Cresties was featured last year at Wakefield Litfest and the Ilkley Literature Festival in 2015. October 2015 also saw the premiere of his first play 3 Characters at the Leeds 10x10 Drama Festival and his collaboration with RCM composer Amy Bryce, based on the story of The Green Children of Woolfit was premiered at the Leeds Lieder Festival in April 2016. Co-Founder (with John Irving Clarke) of Red Shed Readings, he is also compere of Holmfirth’s legendary Hot Banana Open Mic and an occasional presenter on elfm’s Love the Word. Described by Steve Pottinger as “angry, clever and articulate,” his wife thinks he should just tidy up that pile of books next to the bed. Many of his poems are set to music, you can download them for free at https://soundcloud.com/jimmy-andrex He is available and cheap and, to be honest, needs to get out of the house more, so why not book him. At this stage in a profile, people often put reviews, so here you are: “the best stuff around. A writer who knows no rules.” The Yorker Magazine “angry, clever ands articulate.” Steve Pottinger “You’re the best poet we’ve ever had here…we’ve had some right shite.” Two farmers at Richmond Theatre Royal For bookings, contact Lippice@mac.com

Samples

Be careful what you wish for (for Jo Cox) Let’s go camping, kids, away up Wharfedale past Bolton Abbey’s ice-cream crowds. Let’s not bother preparing, Just go down to Tesco’s in Batley, Live on buns & burnt bacon. Let’s chuck stuff in the car, just us, ill-equipped, not thinking it through. Or let’s escape to Glasto, spent bands in flooding fields searching for what’s long gone. Way back when there wasn’t a fence, but you could cry laughing at a bloke with a trombone doing Whole Lotta Love with his rectum, but when I checked my phone I just saw dumbstruck faces, unable even to smoke. Now it’s no joke, no protest vote but a corny nightmare where no-one’s speaking; Not the lovers and the artists in fancy dress, 27 with a bucket list, nearer 40 than 14, recoiling at the genie out the bottle, at pinch-faced plenty people possessed by a devil dressed as the common man. What do we do when demonizing is the problem? What do we call this satan, this dark permission? What do we do? Sit in online circles sharing outrage? Or reach out to White Van Man? Give that lad a map: Thinks Syria’s in Pakistan. He loves poetry. Not. Why not try your haiku saying Evil’s all Mens’ fault? That won’t have them purring round here; bellies full of bad beer and bad blood, hypnotized by wealthy mans’ mantras for fed up fans in vans, Daily Star poison dripping off the dash. Hard facts are for soft lefties. don’t call me stupid, you do-gooders want shooting. Cloak us in defeats and the failures of players. Move on to this week’s new profile picture. Back bench bullies still bellow Who are you? Hum a chirpy death march at family affairs. Shoes and a bag. A crumpled rosette. The Mail and the Express. This is what you get. Shoes and a bag. A crumpled rosette. The Sun and the Star. This is not a false flag. Shoes and a bag, A dim sense of shame Dust from the destruction layer What was her name? Myiasis Despite the pleadings of viral poetry, The summer song was permission for bigotry. The worms fought back by poisoning the birds And all our verse was so much chatter. Hollie McNish didn’t leap out to defend Jo Cox, But an ailing miner who defied angina. You couldn’t staunch a paper cut with YouTube views Never mind hostility for click bait wounds On refugees who only bleed if they’re under 5 and not got i-phones; who cling to dinghies like memories of Christmas, statistically alive, the air they gulp begrudged by bored consumers. England’s welcome mat is piles of raging tabloids, troll politics, chuckling well-cut right wingers who can’t believe their luck’s in: Open goals, old tricks, new tricks Imperatrix with a played out Olympics power point pout, maggot mouth feeding off the language of empowerment. At what point do we simply stand up and walk out And cause a fuss that just hurts us and no-one else in the losing cause of the Common Good, rather than winning in the machine that makes us sick? Can I wrap a message in a parcel that actually means something happens? So why bother? People like us have no choice. People like us, I’m tempted to say, have a voice, just because it rhymes, but that’s no justification for the endless self promotion. All this rage in a library on a Tuesday. I mean, I like Jeremy Corbyn, but I’d rather he knew how to book a seat. We have no choice. We write to get to sleep. Think this poetry might be a career? Auden didn’t, nor MacNiece, Eliot, Plath, MacCaig and all the best; Simon Armitage pays the rent With travelogues and translations, (nice though they are) and Ted Hughes didn’t write Pike for the celebration Of the Queen Mother’s birthday. This poetry just has to come out. We grumble and fumble for its smell They might not get that down South. We have no choice, we are Northern. Why write? A destruction layer under troll culture. Written Down. Matter of fact.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.