The Tesco Trolleys (POEM)

It’s taken some time to get round to, but here is a new poem derived from the final verse of ‘If It Pleases You More’. Logically, this is what that poem should always have been (or a close approximation at least), but it took reading it out at last week’s Poetry Stanza to get the feedback necessary to make me realise I should have developed a promising theme further rather than tacking together two half-hearted themes. Hopefully the new work here does that promising theme justice.

The Tesco Trolleys

The Tesco trolleys are breeding, gone feral;

lurking in the yards and the bushes,

prowling the council car parks

and scowling at the wait for their keeper.

(He works so very hard

in this new, most modern industry,

earning and yearning to buy

that elusive winning scratchcard).

Mocking his fruitless endeavour

the trolleys jolt and stray further away,

awkwardly rolling their authority

into ever-expanding territory,

a warning to rivals who may wander astray.

The Sainsbury’s gang keep their patch,

and nor will you glimpse the immaculate

crisp-white handle of a Waitrose example.

What of the Icelandicus Trolleyus?

They remain indoors – compliant, sedate –

thanks to the anonymous electronic tags

clinging to their slender metallic legs.

These basket-case beasts.

These un-caged cages on wheels.

Under cover of night they play

out their feuds, deeds unseen

by our prying eyes.

But spare a thought for the weak ones

and their tragic unsolved demise:

upturned and drowned in the canal,

only a grimy blue Tesco handle to show.

Super Times In Supercars

The only problem with doing a weekly round-up of our pub quiz endeavours is that it highlights when I’ve been slack in writing new material for the blog. I can’t really explain why I’ve been slack in the last week; ever since going to The Leopard last week I’ve let my foot off the gas a bit (an apt – if trite – metaphor given what you are about to read). Part of it is being generally busy, and part of it is finally being able to settle into the new domestic arrangements.

Some of that ‘busy-ness’ included going to Stafford on Saturday for a driving experience. For various reasons – not least the lack on Aston Martin DB9 to actually drive after the Lamborghini Gallardo – I’m not going to write a post specifically about the morning. However, it put in mind (how could it not?) my first driving experience a couple of years ago at Silverstone, and so I thought I’d re-post the article I wrote about that particular occasion.

It’s also fitting to re-post because it’s this (albeit in a heavily butchered form) that has helped secure me a place on an Arts Council-funded non-fiction writing course taking place over the next few months. It’ll be interesting to see how easy it is make the most of that and continue pursuing the poetry, but maybe that is a blog post for another day.

* * * * *

“There’d normally be some cones out showing you where to brake, but we’ve taken them away today.”

Not words you expect (or really want) to hear a few minutes before taking control of the sort of car you’ll probably never own. The elements are already conspiring to make life difficult – a heavy rain shower half an hour before arriving at the track has ensured conditions are not exactly ideal: “If it was bone dry it would be easy, and if it was soaking wet it would be easy. But it’s quite greasy out there, so that’s another little challenge for you.”

Seven of us – six men, one woman – are in Briefing Room 3, a sparsely decorated cabin with a large white board on the front wall depicting a perfect racing line. Ominous grey clouds peer through the window with ever-greater intent as the instructor continues describing the racing techniques we’ll be expected to employ – braking and downshifting in a straight line, feeling the levels of grip available at each corner, balancing the throttle, accelerating smoothly out of the bends…

None of these ideas are unfamiliar having been a motor racing nut since as far back as my memory will stretch. Silverstone has been the home of the F1 British Grand Prix for even longer, so naturally it’s the location of choice for a first taste of driving a supercar. My own road car – a Toyota Yaris – is classed as a supermini, but a prefix is the only similarity I expect to find between it and the Ferrari 360 Modena.

Indeed, having never come close to exploring the limits of the Yaris’ connection with the road, the idea of a 400bhp car struggling for grip under my right foot only adds to the nerves. But they’re nerves of excitement, not fear. Arriving early and getting the opportunity to watch the cars out on the circuit – as well as seeing the smiles of delight as people return from their three lap runs – only heightens the anticipation further.

Thoughts of paddle shift gearboxes and how to hold the steering wheel properly (as well as clipping every apex like I race cars for a living) fill my mind as we all don the necessary balaclava and helmet. One instructor takes responsibility for each driver and shows them to a car outside. From the stable of Ferraris lined up waiting to be unleashed, I get the only red example, and it has a big ‘1’ emblazoned across the bonnet. Here’s hoping to live up to it…

The cockpit is surprisingly spacious but very low; there’s a definite technique to getting in and out gracefully, and I’m grateful for the helmet after a couple of bumps to the head on the roll cage. Once settled there’s a whirlwind introduction to the inside of the car – the space to rest the left foot, the position of the gear paddles, how to unfasten the five point seatbelt, and saying hello to the man who’ll be in the passenger seat for all six miles.

Every mirror is angled for the instructor, leaving me to ‘just’ focus on seeing what’s in front and driving each corner properly. First, though, is the small matter of leaving the waiting area. It feels disrespectful putting a machine designed for such swift forward motion into reverse gear, especially for a trivial manoeuvre better suited to a supermarket car park, but we’re soon staring down the infield road at the inviting tarmac of the circuit.

The engine burbles and murmurs in mechanical birdsong as I get a feel for the gear changes and an idea of what the accelerator may be capable of. Feeding onto the circuit, suddenly the full majesty of the racetrack presents itself and the twitter becomes a roar. No matter how many books you might have read, races you might have watched, or video games you might have played, there’s no substitute for actually being here.

It doesn’t matter how well you know the circuit either; the track is 15m wide and looks totally different from the driver’s seat. Speed suddenly has no context; big distances are covered in moments, and with no cones to indicate braking points, instruction comes from the passenger seat. At the point of turn in there’s surely no way the car has slowed enough, but with the slightest of squirms as the rear wheels seek something to cling on to we head onto the first straight.

Where I’m told to really put my foot down…

Too many years of trying to drive economically help me believe I’m pressing the accelerator more than is actually the case. The noise with the pedal closer to the floor is astonishing and brilliant – bearing down on the chicane and desperate to savour both the sound and the acceleration, I’m only half hearing the instructor, but again we make it round, and again he tells me to go for it.

Sweeping onto the longest straight at the end of the lap, finally the gear display gets to show a ‘6’. Changing from fifth during full acceleration is like being pushed in the back while running – somehow you go even quicker. The joy of driving this car in this environment is overwhelming, but no sooner do you start growing accustomed to the feeling than the next corner, and the second lap, is upon you.

Laps two and three are equally exhilarating, each time striving to improve on the one before. Perhaps the greatest challenge is mental: the concentration required is surprising, and gives a real appreciation of the demands of genuine racing. No major dramas occur – the car is dramatic enough, especially to a novice – though it turns out pressing the windscreen washer control instead of the ‘gear up’ paddle is easily done (twice!).

It’s all over so quickly, and faced with the prospect of leaving it’s tempting to wait around in case an opportunity somehow arises to do it all again. Passing the empty grandstands on the way to the exit makes you crave the atmosphere and excitement of a big event, a Grand Prix weekend. After the last hour, though, you no longer feel like just a spectator. You feel like something more – something better – because when the buzz finally wears off, nothing can replace the thrill of having been on track in a thoroughbred supercar.

Not Going To Monaco

I didn’t make it to the second stage of the competition. In practical terms, this was a good thing, because our new wireless router hadn’t arrived and so participating in an interview via Skype was going to be a challenge without a reliable internet connection. In all other terms though, it was obviously a disappointment, albeit not the most surprising one.

Just once – and I attempt to say this without any trace of bitterness – it would be good if the judges for these sorts of competitions could explain how they come to their conclusions. I skimmed through 40 or more of the 66 pages of entries for this particular contest and, unless there were ten AMAZING efforts in the remaining 20 pages, I can’t help but be – deep down – a little crushed.

“The more creative your entry, the more chance you’ll stand” said the submission guidance (or something along those lines). Writing in the non-specific third person was perhaps not the most creative idea ever entertained, but (to my mind at least) it demonstrated a little more endeavour than churning out, “I’ve been a Formula One for fifteen years and I understand how its technology works” etc etc.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Alright, alright, sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have started trying to analyse how these things work, it was never going to turn out pretty was it? Although, better this (perhaps!) than my original thought, which was to respond to the announcement on Facebook with a ‘Like’ and then a comment saying, “Bastards!”. With some shame, I admit that I did respond on Facebook, albeit with a completely disingenuous, “Well done to the ten people chosen.”

I really should have known what to expect though, which is the most galling aspect. There must be something in the way I approach the writing of these submissions that misses the mark with those who decide what is ‘good’ (however arbitrary a measure that might be). Eighteen months ago, I entered a competition run by Shell and Auto Express and my finely crafted entry lost out to, amongst others, one that described the fuel as “a magical power potion”.

If it’s that sort of thing judges want, or generic self-aggrandising fluff, then they can keep their competitions. I might be a miserable loser, but at least I’ve stuck to my writing principles!

The Leopard Can Change Its Spots

May 17^th meeting of the Staffordshire Poetry Stanza at The Leopard, Burslem

It’s not often in life that you can sit in rickety old room and have Act V of Shakespeare’s ‘King Lear’ quoted at you while the melodic sound of Dire Straits drifts through the haunted pub from the bar below. There’s something almost … well, poetic about it, albeit in a surreal sort of way. There’s definitely something surreal – though ‘oxymoronic’ might be a better term – about having a debate on whether a materialist would ever write a poem, while Mark Knopfler’s masterful guitar is interrupted by what sounds like a fight trying to kick off.

(Outside the meeting room, on the landing window cill, sit a selection of books, a number of which are Lee Child novels. I can’t help but be comforted by this – after all, if any fight somehow reaches upstairs, there’s an immediate resource to turn to for advice on how to handle a physical confrontation. Bless Lee Child!).

And to think the Leopard seemed such a sedate place on my first visit three weeks ago! (A visit you can read about here, if you so desire). Fortunately, nothing more untoward than accidentally standing on the barmaid’s foot on my way out took place; the evening therefore remained a peaceful one and I wasn’t forced to resort to invoking the spirit of Jack Reacher to protect my fellow group members. There was some good poetry too, which was probably the most crucial aspect of the night(!).

Coming almost exactly two months since writing the blog post that led me down this path, and with that nervous first meeting out of the way, where do I feel I stand?

Perhaps it’s an age thing, perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, but I can’t help but think that referencing Jack Reacher in the introduction to this post highlights probably the single biggest difference between me and most (if not all) of the other attendees. Maybe I do some of them a disservice, but if I were to bring up Lee Child and/or Reacher in conversation, I’d be very surprised if anyone really knew who I was referring to.

That’s not a criticism in the slightest; I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so warmly welcomed by a group of complete strangers and then, crucially, remembered by the same people when meeting them again three weeks later. No, the only reason I say it is to contrast my approach and background with that of everyone else’s. There was me last night, impressed with some of the popular fiction stacked in the window, surrounded by people who had written poems about Sappho, abuse in the Catholic Church, the nature of existence, coal mining in the north-east during the war, and the French painter Valette.

Surrounded, too, by people who could quote poets and poems of all subjects and styles without batting an eyelid. It was impressive and inspiring three weeks ago, and again last night. Do I feel intimidated? Only in as much as I don’t share that knowledge and cannot sensibly contribute. I don’t mind the fact that that is the case; my only fear, perhaps, is that I might quickly bore people if I do contribute.

Not that I didn’t offer a few suggestions. Mainly on a poem or two that – and please let me assure you that I say this with the self-awareness that I only wrote my first ‘proper’ poem in March! – reminded me of something I might write (in terms of style, at the very least, if not language). I may not have studied English or Literature since GSCE level ten years ago, but I like to think I know if something sounds ‘right’, so hopefully I can keep contributing as I attend more meetings.

And I possess every intention of reading a little more, even if it doesn’t quite stretch my knowledge to that all-encompassing level. On John Williams’ suggestion at the last meeting, I submitted a couple of poems to a magazine called Quantum Leap, run by one man from his home in Rothesay. With some amazement, I received a reply from him last week – together with a copy of the latest magazine, natch – saying that he wanted to keep one for publication (‘Reading Light’, which will appear in the November issue). Rejection slips will surely follow in sufficient number, but as starts go, this seems a pretty good one.

I haven’t read the magazine in any detail yet, though I have skimmed through it and read a few of the printed submissions. At first glance it certainly seems more accessible (to me) than, say, some of the poems that were contained in ‘The Nation’s Favourite Comic Poems’, which makes me wonder why. Is Quantum Leap simply ‘my sort’ of magazine? Is ‘amateur’ poetry (non-professional poetry?) simply a bit easier for my untrained eyes to read? Or is it always the case with a diverse collection like TNFCP that there will be some you like and perhaps more that you don’t?

Probably it could be quite easy to get downcast at the possible answers to some of these questions, not least when you factor in my complete ignorance of even the basics of poetry (I mean, what exactly is a foot?!). I acknowledge that I started writing poetry in March, (a) to enter a competition, but which then developed into (b) the idea of trying to become ‘a poet’ (whatever that means), if only as something to chart the progress of on the blog.

Poetry has, however, got under my skin. Having started with the intention of writing only irreverent (and hopefully funny at times) work, in the last week or two I have begun to discover the joy in aiming for something more profound and more, dare I say it, artistic. On that basis, I took ‘If It Pleases You More’ to read last night. It met with a favourable response, but also garnered plenty of suggestions for improvement – including, ironically, the idea of reinventing it completely to focus on the verse about Tesco trolleys, which was generally considered to be the more imaginative part and generated a few chuckles.

Maybe I should stick to the original aim of irreverence!

Frankly, even if this desire to write poems were to suddenly disappear in the middle of one random night, I’d like to think I’d keep attending the Poetry Stanza. Rare is the opportunity to sit with a group of warm, witty, creative individuals who come from such a diverse range of backgrounds. Listening to people read their work, enjoying the respectful and constructive discussions, learning something along the way – it really is a splendid way to spend three hours on a Tuesday evening.

Even if I can only offer some discussion on the combat techniques employed by the fictional Jack Reacher. And even if fights might break out in the room below us! Isn’t there a poem about keeping your head while all around lose theirs?

(Note – that was a humorous rhetorical question at the end there. Even I know that line of verse!).

Poetry ‘things to do’:

- Subscribe to Quantum Leap and read the latest edition.

- Read the Roger McGough collection from the library.

- Continue reading ‘Poetry Writing – The Expert Guide’, by Fiona Sampson.

- Rework ‘If It Pleases You More’ into ‘The Tesco Trolleys’.

- Enter three or four competitions that have deadlines at the end of May and June.

- Keep writing and chipping away at the list of ideas!

Form Guide (POEM)

This may or may not be related to the spectacularly unsuccessful evening I had at Uttoxeter races yesterday...


Form Guide

A string of numbers;
monetary blunders!
Mine? And the thousands like me…
Imagine if we, not unlike these equine profits
- sorry, prophets - of fortune and hope,
had our daily office zoetrope boiled down
to a parade of innocuous integers,
tailor made so we might shoulder piles of cash,
bags of loot - and all those dreams! -
on our open book.