Niall O'Sullivan – Poet

So here’s the lowdown, I’m five minutes into my set in a dark, broody Soho garret and I’m unable to finish a sentence because some guy keeps on shouting “Fuck off” at me. Other members of the audience are telling him to shut up because they want to hear some poetry. Despite my polite attempts at placating him and an assortment of tough guys about to take him outside for a kicking, he keeps on shouting.

A week later I’m at the local theatre of a town that is pretty far from Soho. I’ve finished a set about an hour before, but now I’m back on the stage with the headline act John Hegley and the host Paul Lyalls as well as a good portion of the 100 strong audience. We’re dancing to the greatest hits of Tom Jones.

The only real connection to these two events is that they were both gigs on a Saturday night that happened within a week of each other. But there was something about the contrast between the two that made me think long and hard about the relationship between the arts and the public.

So, let’s get back to the guy shouting at me. He’s tall, looks a bit like a cross between Mick Fleetwood and that guy that plays the serial killer in Manhunter. The reason why he’s kicking off is because I told him about the former comparison. Only reason why I did this was because he got up, talked a little, knocked into some furniture and basically made a horses arse of trying to get out quietly. I had just started a poem that would run for about three minutes, but the whole audience have been distracted by him. So here’s the choice I have available, carry on reciting the poem, aware of the fact that the audience have missed the opening segment, or stop reciting, address the incident humorously and start again. So I make a Fleetwood Mac reference. The guy goes apeshit, goes downstairs to complain and within five minutes is back upstairs shouting at me and being a world champion twat. In the meantime, I’m apologising to him. this goes on for about five agonising minutes. He finally calms down when a great poet stroke boxing trainer tells him he’s going to get his arse kicked. One final detail, the bar stopped serving the guy an hour ago.

So, the questions you’re probably asking are, why wasn’t this guy chucked out or knocked out, why was I being so nice to him and why did he seem so sanctimonious and self important? The answer my friends is this: the event was at a member’s bar and the man in question was… a MEMBER! My main reason for being so well behaved in the face of his bullshit was because a friend of mine runs the night, it’s a cool night and I don’t want to cause any hassle for the artists and promoters. The whole audience is on my side apart from one boho idiot who looks like Milli Vanilli and is probably pissed off that no-one else is paying him any attention (if you watch the video link, he’s the guy that applauds Fleetwood at one pathetic moment). So because this guy is a member, the incident comes off like some kind of diplomatic crisis. In the end, order is restored, I get to read one more poem and the guy leaves during the break. Here’s a video of the incident: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uKZSiMG6ok

A week later, I’m at the Crawley Town Football Club VIP area with Paul Lyalls. John Hegley is supporting the away team, so he’s in the stands by choice rather than by some kind of punishment. While this is the VIP area, there isn’t a single toff in attendance. The VIPs are mainly made up of local working class people who are connected to the club. The VIP dinner consists of pie, taters and peas. Not a prawn sandwich in sight. Within minutes my plate goes from heaped to spotless and I have to undo my the buttons on my suit jacket.

There were plans at one point for us to perform some poetry at half time, and I’m glad those plans aren’t going through. They even thought it might be a good idea for us to march out to the middle of the pitch and recite. I can imagine the response: “…even though they booed and jeered me while I was up there, they must have liked me because they kept on throwing money at my face. Mainly coins.” Luckily the plan is scrapped and we save our performance for the theatre later on.

It turns out that a fair portion of the 100+ punters packing the theatre went to the match too. Some of them chat to me afterwards and congratulate me on the bespoke poem I wrote about Crawley’s underdog victory. They recognise all the little moments I put down, they felt like they were at the match again when they heard the poem, and by jove I feel like I’m doing my job. All the books get sold and the gig goes great. Any bad feeling from the idiot the week before has been forgotten and I’m feeling good about my profession and the health of my art form. Hegley comes on stage afterwards and does the business, as usual. It’s a good night.

So what’s the big epiphany I have to share about these two events? Well, here’s where I get all party political. If you’ve been following the election coverage then you know that the two major parties will be cutting arts funding. Not only that, but the Tories are wanting to encourage patronage from companies and the wealthy. This can only lead one way and the episode in the members bar reflects it. People will fund the arts until the moment comes when they feel it’s insulting them, then watch the tantrum erupt. Many people still feel that the culling of Thames television by the Tory government of the time was due to the critical documentary Death on the Rock. The toffs and nouveau rich will only fund the arts if it can help them feel a bit boho and less bourgeois, a sop for their vanity rather than the pin that pricks the bubble. It’s the equivalent of Charlotte from The Cherry Orchard, entertaining the complacent aristocrats with some sleight of hand magic to distract them from peasantry outside.

Arts funding represents another alternative and a worthy one at that, not all art should be made to impress patrons or work as a business plan. Quality art should be funded for its own sake. But there is another way. That other way is to stop underestimating the man and woman on the street. This doesn’t mean that you have to march out onto the middle of a football pitch and recite your verse, but a little advert in the match program might entice a few of them to the show later on. You know, these guys might be just as bored with X-Factor as you are, but they haven’t been shown the alternative. The poetry stage at Latitude is another example, plenty of families came for the bands and the kids attractions, stopped by the poetry tent and spent the weekend there. In short, I guess I’m saying in my usual half arsed and messy way that poets should spend less time feeling sorry for themselves in their garret when there’s pie in the kitchen.