The best of Attila the Stockbroker, with knobs on!
I have no truck with folk who deem poetry about terrible events âtragedy pornâ. Iâve long held the opinion that poets are cultural historians, and that it is almost our duty to document tragic or unjust events as they happen, to write the rights and wrongs, power dynamics and hegemony, the nitty-gritty that is omitted in history books, or brushed under Murdochâs media carpet. We provide balance in a world skewed towards capitalist and/or religious ends. You can tell how important poets are by the amount that get killed all over the world for writing poetry about injustices in their own lands, by their own governments.
Thankfully, that doesnât happen in Britain, otherwise Attila the Stockbroker would have been offed a long time ago, and we wouldnât have this collection, amassed over 40 years, to savour. We wouldnât be able to flick through its pages and read about the Berlin Wall coming down, its effects on the people who live there, and those who only visit or read about it in the papers. We wouldnât delve into the dark corners of Hillsborough, Grenfell, the 1980s terror of The Russians during the Cold War, video nasties, 9/11, the Battle of Orgreave, the Paddington train disaster, Aberfan, the election of Donald Trump, the âfinancial crashâ of 2007, or indeed, tabloid photos of a certain princeâs royal appendage. Pretty sure that last one would get you stoned, whipped or hung in some other places on this planet.
âHeartâ kicks off with a suitably heart-warming poem for his wife Robina, written during lockdown and accompanied with a photo of the still-very-much-in-love married couple
We looked into each otherâs eyes and said
âNo one Iâd rather be in lockdown withâ
I think there are many couples who have uttered those words, and plenty, of course, who havenât.
There follows a section which the title of the collection infers â Attilaâs heart being very much on his sleeve in poems about his late father, his stepfather, Auntie Rose, and the epic heartbreaker âThe Long Goodbyeâ, written for his mum when she was suffering from Alzheimerâs disease. Thereâs a delicately poignant poem in this section which I just love. Anyone whoâs cleared the house of a deceased parent will recognise the scenario of finding items or photos that catapult you back to childhood. âItâs Made Of Wireâ is one such poem:
Itâs made of wire.
No, letâs be more specific.
Itâs a piece of wire.
A piece of wire twisted round itself
with a loop at the far end.
It looks like a stiff metal lasso.
âŠ
Suddenly I am seven years old again.
Lassoing a boiled egg with the wire noose
and burning my fingers
as I try to manoeuvre it into the egg cup
âŠ
so I can experience the wild, destructive delight
of forcing it through the ridiculously inefficient egg slicer
âŠ
And the brush?
Mum painted pastry with it.
âŠ
I wish I had saved the wire lasso
and the egg slicer
and the funny brush thing
- and that is ridiculous.
It is ridiculous isnât it?
Isnât it?
The physical properties of those unpoetic kitchen utensils translate, via memory, to love, to safety, to a time when neither one of you considered you might not be here one day. The wish to have hung on to âuselessâ items is imbued with a longing for the physical presence of the lost parent, and the ache left behind when we are dragged away from the age of innocence.
Attilaâs usual bluff and bluster, the rough and rowdy poet, disappears behind a gentle veil of kindness, love and care that really is the root of the man, that spurs all of the other stuff. In truth, he loves humanity, hates exploitation. His passion comes from that deep love and compassion; you donât get one without the other. There are liberal splashes of grief for friends who departed too soon, indeed, the book is âIn memory of Steven âSeethingâ Wells, 1960 â 2009. We started together. He finished too soonâ, and these nestle alongside Just Plain Revolting poems, including the infamous âJoseph Porterâs sleeping bagâ .
I confess, some of the earlier works surprised me, in a good way. I was expecting rhyming couplets and ABCB rhyming structures, but not streams of consciousness, and definitely not verse flavoured with more than a hint of Ivor Cutler
Worthing
On the beach at Worthing
the lugworm casts
by the sewage outfall
look like dirty shepherdâs pie.
We walk the shingle
hand in hand
and the crabs on the nearby groyne
remind me of more intimate times.
Your hand resembles a limp flounder.
I squeeze it dispassionately.
The seaweed smells like a dirty toilet.
Refreshed, we return for dinner.
In a section entitled âA Load of Bellocâsâ, dedicated to the humour and style of Hilaire Belloc, Attilaâs earliest poetic inspiration, titles such as âHow Are Your Bins Doing In This Hot Weatherâ are just funny on their own, and some are short though still chortlesome:
The Axolotl is a beast unsung.
It stays a larva. Itâs forever young.
If Nature ran its course, the Axolotl
Would be a Salamander. But itâs notl.
I was raised on juvenile humour. At the grand old age of 53, I still think my own farts are funny, so poems like this are right up my avenue. Ahem.
As if being a poet, journalist, multi-instrumentalist musician, journalist and political activist isnât quite enough for one man, heâs also no stranger to rap, and âHeartâ contains several of this ilk, one of which points out the versatility of the performance poet, who can perform at a momentâs notice
Filled in for Linton, filled in for Clarkie
Filled in at Glasto while they hunted for a sparkie
Filled in for Donny Osmond and thatâs not a myth
But Iâll never be a sub for Craig Mackail-Smith
The latter played for his beloved Brighton and Hove Albion FC, for those not in the know. Of course, no collection by Attila would omit one of his all-consuming passions, football. There are eleven pieces in the Football section â one has to wonder, was that a deliberate choice, or serendipity at work?
It took me several days to finish the book, and what struck me was how laborious the selection and ordering processes must have been. Imagine writing constantly over 40 years, and then having to choose which pieces you wanted in your collection. There are no less than 180 works of poetry and song lyrics in this opus. Having picked out which ones would make it, youâd then have to decide which order they ran in. Anyone whoâs ever put together a (much shorter) collection will know what a swirling confusing ever-changing headache this can be. Still, heâs had the whole of lockdown to do it, and you canât spend all your enforced time off the road just fishing and gardening.
I think itâs important to mention that without Attila the Stockbroker, or John Cooper Clarke, the performance poetry scene as it is today almost certainly wouldnât exist, and definitely not for working class/radical poets. Launched into public consciousness by two John Peel sessions and a Melody Maker front cover in the early 1980s, Attila has spent 40 years touring the world performing his unique brand of spoken word, poetry and music. Having played almost 4,000 gigs in 24 countries, releasing countless books and records along the way, heâs now viewed as the godfather of the British spoken word scene. Heart On My Sleeve celebrates the 40th anniversary of his first appearance, and a lifetime doing what he loves. These two working class men, one northern and one southern, opened the poetry doors for the rest of us, and I know Iâm not the only one to feel deeply grateful for that.
This is a must-read compendium of social commentary, human observation and humour, a lot of humour, the daft kind, the cutting kind, the scything-down-the-power kind. There is a poem in here that will match any mood, that will stand nose to nose, boot to boot with any fascist or exploiter of humanity, or will make your granny laugh till she snorts. And underneath it all lies his message to us all: that you donât need to be âa celebrityâ to lead a life earning your living doing what you love to do. You just need a way with words, the self-confidence and organisational ability of Napoleon and skin thicker than the armour of a Chieftain tank.
Altogether now:
His knob, his knob, a picture of Prince Harryâs knob, HIS KNOB!
His knob, his knob, a picture of Prince Harryâs knob!
His knob, his knob, a picture of Prince Harryâs knob, HIS KNOB!
His knob, his knob, a picture of Prince Harryâs knob!
Yes Iâll read the Sun and Iâll believe it
With my picture of Prince Harryâs knob
Attila the Stockbroker, Heart On My Sleeve - Collected Works 1980-2020, Cherry Red Books, ÂŁ13.99
