Yesterday evening I attended an Open Mic evening at a chic Harrogate eatery. To clarify, an Open Mic night isn’t attending a event to be entertained by a candid fellow called Michael… Unless, of course, the amateur turn is a forthright chap called Michael… In which case, you are attending an Open Mic evening presented by an open Mike.
Anyhow, I digress… Last night I read one of my narratives at an evening where fellow writers and I where given opportunity to display our literary wares.
It is the fourth occasion I have performed at these bimonthly reads; these bookish clambakes affording me a rare opportunity to peddle my prose to a wider audience. Listening to fellow auteurs creatifs and receipt of encouraging feedback both encourages and inspires me to pen more.
The genres of prose vary greatly; including insightful poetry, gripping life journals, offbeat observations and humorous narratives. Each piece not only giving the author a platform but also receiving audience feedback… The plaudits my efforts received included:-
“You weren’t as shite as I thought you’d be!”;
“Haven’t I seen you before on Crimewatch?!”; and
“Have you any idea of the time for the last train to Leeds?”
Mercifully, the trio of comments above are made up. What I penned/delivered actually received some very positive responses, which was heartwarming and inspires me to get back onto the penmanship saddle.
Anyhow, I enclose the piece I presented below for your delectation… Incidentally, the last train to Leeds is 00.45am.
So if you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll begin:-
The 6am beach landscape was a sight for my still focussing eyes. To the east, with sun rising tentatively over the North Sea, I was treated to a calming audio backdrop of lapping waves, along with a fragrant sea water bouquet. Surroundings assuaging the aftereffects of a previous evenings partying.
My senses affording an ambience opposite to the campervan stench I’d escaped from ten minutes earlier. A redolence of stale beer, sweat and flatulence defiling the mobile home’s mis en scene.
These unwanted, but inevitable early morning ‘gifts’ courtesy of my brother Ian and me after an evening of alcoholic debauchry. So odious the pong I momentarily wondered whether I’d woken in the camel enclosure at Whipsnade Zoo.
The van environment tainted further by our kids snoring. His grunting of such disturbing tone I concluded he was either being tortured in his dream, or his night vision included vasectomy by lump hammer.
My younger sibling and I had ventured to Beadnell Bay, in Northumberland, with two buddies, (Darrin and Tim), for a lad’s weekend away to spend a brio filled few days embracing this enchanting area’s beauty.
Although Ian and I are retired, Tim still works as a gardener, and Darrin is employed at Newcastle United football club. I’m unsure what the latter does at the Premier League club. However, as the team are perennial underachievers, I’d venture it isn’t be dusting trophies.
Our weekend itinerary included the watching of football, consumption of alcohol beverages, and (with Tim being our chef) avoiding food poisoning from his ingrained fingernail soil. Remnants of his trade as a horticulturist.
Darrin has his own campervan, thankfully reduced the pressure borne of everyone sleeping in my already burgeoning vehicle and awning. A move ensuring the disconcerting morning redolence didn’t reach a level where it registered on a Geiger counter… It’s amazing what you can pick up from the Go Outdoors store these days!
Tim slept on the groundsheet under my canopy. Watching him and our kid waking bleary-eyed from their respective sleeping bags on Sunday morning akin to witnessing a hungover butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Witnessing this play out moving me t accompany the action with a David Attenborough-esque commentary.
Late Saturday afternoon, the four of us embarked upon a wealth of erudite conversations. Amongst the topics debated the current political discourse in the UK and US, the value of a Stoic lifestyle, and why our Ian went to bed on Friday as a caterpillar and woke as a butterfly.
Among the US political debates, I pondered how a Donald Trump incarceration would play out if/when his numerous felonies are punished. Not from a perspective of how his red hatted followers would react at their hero losing his liberty… Moreover, problems prison guards would encounter at gauging where the Shitkicker King’s orange prison uniform finished, and his tangerine face started.
Sadly, as I write, the overgrown Ompah Lompah has just started his second term as President. Keeping him out of the clink. His numerous crimes and calumnies forever unpunished thanks to the misguided voters underpinning his toxic cult.
Although great friends for years, Darrin and Ian have opposite political views. I will not divulge their party preferences; what I will say though is one of them has conservative leanings and the other believes in greater butterfly rights.
Being someone who does not pin his flag to any political mast, my part in these debates was underpinned with unashamed mischief making. My contributions designed to naughtily inflame the prevailing fractiousness between both parties.
Wanting to contribute intellectually for a change, during a debate on nurturing offspring, I insightfully informed the party “I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside. Give them a sense of pride to make it easier; Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be.”
Adding further “I decided long ago. Never to walk in anyone’s shadows. If I fail, if I succeed, at least I’ll live as I believe. No matter what they take from me, they can’t take away my dignity.”
My buddies, though, weren’t impressed with my erudite notions about guiding our progeny. Ian dismissing my words with a curt “You’ve plagiarised those words from a Whitney Houston song, you bloody idiot!”
Saturday lunchtime saw the four of us watch the Leeds United v Portsmouth football game in an enchanting hostelry called the Craster Arms. With my brother and me both supporting Leeds, their failure to turn superior possession into a victory manifesting several disgruntled snorts. Disenchanted grunts not too dissimilar to those Ian made during his earlier slumber.
With my brother and me unleashing a tirade of frustrated barbs at what we were witnessing, it was fortuitous the outside pub area was bereft of a swear box, or other customers… Yes, I know; it’s not big and it’s not clever!
Tired after a full day’s revelry, Darrin and I had retired to our respective vans at 9.30pm. Ian and Tim, though, decided too venture to the beach for the remainder of Saturday evening with their remaining booze. One of their objectives was to see if sea water proved more successful than tap water at dislodging garden compost from Tim’s fingernails.
News of their trip to the seaside manifesting thoughts within me of a scene in the movie Jaws where the two guys chain a Sunday roast beef to an Amity Island jetty in a bid to catch the predatory shark. An ill thought-out idea which nearly ended with them as the great White’s second course.
Sunday morning saw me rise at 6am to another a Northumberland sunrise over the North Sea and a toxic flatulence cloud over my campervan.
After another brief solitary stroll to the beach, I settled down to a coffee with the other fellas. A hot beverage washing down a bacon sandwich prepared by Tim; a butty smeared with ketchup and Levington’s compost.
A few hours later, after packing away our equipment and bidding each other farewell, the official closing ceremony took place. A scene which saw us piped to our vehicles by our kid. God only knows where he found the bagpipes… Or, indeed, when he learned to play them!
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