It's not you, it's me.

It gets a bit convoluted here. Where do we start. So after 40 days and 40 nights wandering around the lone and level sands that Shelley describes, observing all the beautiful, vague names and pondering the subjectivity of history, I stumbled into a strange land, no more objective (both remain, I think, on about 41% objecitivity), but with a lot less Baudrillard and more Peter Shaffer and ales. Yeah, I finished mt term paper. Splendid.

So after a slight speckle of deep-turqoising with my fellow post-graduates, we decided to stroll down that evening to some kind of poetry event down at the Sanctuary cafe. Now don't get me wrong, I do love poetry. But I had a mildly distressing experience with a poetry night down at the Sanctuary a few months ago (Brighton, what has happened to you? It made me want to increase the weight of the Dead Poets pressing down on T. S. Eliot's back.). But after having fun at Sam's poetry evening at the Fringe Cafe Bar, I thought why not, and getting my sheet of paper with the poem upon it, I strolled off to meet the po-mo bo-ho's down at the Lion and Lobster. Pint of ale. Dashing off to sign up whilst Gareth told me anecdotes.

DYING FOR A BABY? I NEARLY DID.

Sign up. Run back. Finish pint of ale. Back to the Sanctuary. Grantchester?

So in we go. Quite packed. Surprise no. 1 is that it's a competition. People stand up and read out various pieces of poetry, varying from the hip-hop freestylin' action to the delicate syllables of modernism. And probably a couple about a flower in a jug. I go and read out The Ballad of Tom Waits and Art Garfunkel. Nice. Goes down quite well, even if I say so myself. One day, that growly-voiced singer will be released.

Okay. Surprise no. 2. There's more than one round. In fact, there is a second round. And, being in it, I have to read out another poem. Deary me. What the bloody darn heck am I going to say? What do I know off by heart? It's going to have to be a Can't Snorkel song, performed in a 'poetic' style. What sounds like a poem? Pig Heart Boy.

All ready, until the girl who reads directly before me does a poem about how her younger brother has a hole in his heart. No. That's probaly surprise no. 3. It's too late, and up to the microphone I go;

"No kocher organs for this lad,
No human transplant from his dad,
No living duck plunged into his chest,
Just porcine ventricle, the best!

Pig Heart Boy, he is a pig heart boy."

We finish the second round. I doubt very much I'm in the third one, and pop upstairs during the break, to go see Jacob. He's upstairs. It's not worth the strapping young lads. I agree with him. Rant at Jacob and Sam and Maya. Pop downstairs. "Oh Chris you've missed your slot."

Sugar. I've not only missed my slot but I wouldn't have a darn thing to say even if I'd been there. I'm on next. It's going to have to be Norris Mc Whirter, the new Can't Snorkel party number. For a point of information, Norris was editor of the Guinness Book of Records until his death in the late part of 2004. We will miss him, despite his dubious far right leanings. He set up the book with his brother, Alan Mc Whirter, who was killed by the IRA.

"Oh, the man with the strongest human bite.

He's the strongest man in town.

Oh, the man with the strongest human bite,

He's the strongest man around."

It didn't work out as the greatest poetic work since The Waste Land, (partly because Larkin has already stolen that crown with "Essential Beauty" but also because it sucked.) Went quite well. Needless to say I didn't win, and Girl Who Read Poem about Brother with Hole in the Heart did. Bless her. Good poet.

So I ended up going home with a load of people off my course, except I put them off by buying milk, so I actually dropped the milk off home and picked up a bottle of white wine from my house and went home with Alison, Karim and NICKY? she suggested that I write her name like that. Like a fool (amidst Alison and Karim arguing about Derrida and the opening of a bottle of wine with a screwdriver) I let the fact that I am called Shiny Mc Shine slip, not to mention the whole Dolores Luxedo slice of pie that slid out onto the pie dish recently. And she said that she would find me on the internet. So. lassie, do say hello if you're popping in. Not to mention that you're a hot slice of lady pie who is currently doing the spelling and grammar for a 'dirty' magazine and thinking about everyone's favourite psychoanalyst. We should pop into your local for a pint of ale?