The past month or so has been very quiet for me, in more ways than one, as I am currently suffering from the most damagingly distressing and displeasingly disruptive disease known to perf poets all over the planet. I have a sore throat. It may be something to do with my kidneys (I have a mild infection right now) or it may be something to do with the number of naughty words I so literally sprinkle my rude verse with (sorry, powers-that-be) or it may be all the randoms I end up kissing (oops!), but I thought it best to turn down a gaggle of gigs and take rather less swigs of alcohol this month past – though I still managed to do a fair few, and down a fair few, as these things are arranged in advance, usually, and I am a bird of her word – a thirsty bird, as well.

First up this time around was a telly audition. Only one camera on me, but the Alien-like size of the thing had me fear-filled and flopping about like a jellyfish... Not a success. Rather than admit defeat, however, I decided to face my fears by borrowing a friend’s Sony Handycam and begin carrying the thing around at all times of the day and night – annoying for some, but less so for others. The burlesque dancers at my next gig, a charity cabaret show in aid of Blood Bikes Wales, were certainly delighted, and proceeded to prance and parade in front of the camera without so much as a by-your-leave. Footage of Lady Moon Bun’s, er, buns, Didi Curve’s curves, as well as a “corset train” (girls in a row, all tying each other into the things – a bit like chimps picking each others’ fleas, but much more sexy!) will be online very soon...

I realised at this gig that you can very often tell the class of clintele you are entertaining by looking at the running order of the event. The order this time was: burlesque with a comedy act (me);  a band; a man in a gorilla outfit playing the drums; and, finally, a raffle, every prize of which consisted of drink. So, basically, boobs, rude words, a drunken singalong, an animal act (!), and the headliner: free alcohol! The crowd was loud – they shouted, they sang, they laughed and joked – but the heckles were easily turned into chuckles, and I left the gig loving those spit ‘n’ sawdust style pubs even more than I already do. Thank you for the booking, Angel De-Lites!

Another charity event followed, this time the Sam Slam, a poetry slam in aid of Cardiff Samaritans. I was the guest poet (read: sacrifice!), so was up first in front of a full house at 10 Feet Tall in Cardiff. Then, I joined the judges for a very heated poetry battle which was eventually won by Cardiff’s only nonagenarian spoken wordster, Betty Lane. Betty also headlined National Theatre Wales’s wonderful Word 4 Word event the following week – not bad for a woman in her 90s! The only embarrassing moment for me was when Betty jumped up onstage after I had to be helped down by the organiser, perf poet Steven Kenward. The audience seemed to find it amusing ... Of course, that’s why I did it. It was on purpose! No, really...

Anyway, I then decided to take a back seat at both Cardiff’s Birkenstock Festival  and Swansea’s The Crunch. The former was a feminist fundraiser featuring musicians, performers, craft stalls, and a raffle (the raffle wasn’t the headliner this time, however), ably organised by singer-songwriter Molly Zacharias; the Crunch is a regular spoken word night run by top beat poet and Mozart's bar manager Adam Sillman. Thanks to writer Howard Ingham and his missis, I was able to stay over – annoyingly, the last train back to the Diff is at the unreasonably early time of 10.30pm! Their kindness meant I was able to stick around and hear not only the very pleasing poetry of Claire Houguez, but also to see the saucy burlesque stylings of the lascivious Lilly Laudanum. So, this time, the running order was the right way round – tassle twirls are best at the end of an evening’s entertainment, donchyaknow!

The year concluded with one of my favourite regular events – the appropriately-named Unemployed Daytime Disco. Yes - it’s a disco. In the daytime. Run by the unemployed. You don’t have to be out of work to attend, but the start time of 2pm certainly makes this tricky for the average 9-5 desk monkey. Spoken word is an inherent component of the event, as one of the organisers, Adam Johannes, is also a perf poet. Co-organiser Bronwen Davies, of Little Eris, is a musician. The event normally begins with some spoken word, and ends with a full-on rave. That’s at 5pm. My desk monkey friend came along and we drank some of the venue’s famous 80% proof rum. On the way home, at 7pm, I could hardly speak. My words wouldn’t come out right. My eyes were burning and my brain was frazzed. I don’t remember much else, but I believe I attended another party that night, and several others in the run-up to Christmas. You can guess what I might have gotten up to by reading this. Let’s just say, I wasn’t shy with the mistletoe. When I woke up, it was 2012. I still have a throat infection. I’ll find out next week whether it’s the kidneys or the kissing that did it... This spoken word bird needs her beak back and her song restored. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Next up: hosting a night of short creative presentations; talking about creativity on a podcast; holding a stall at a book fair; spouting verse at a magazine party; helping out at a small press in Wales; performing at Bristol’s Old Vic with Byron Vincent; and preparing for a gig in Japan!

Mab Jones is a Cardiff-born, bred, and sometimes bored, bird. She performs all over the UK, when she doesn’t have a sore throat. Find out more, here: www.mabjones.com