20.16 Blog #29: National Anti-Slam

Dear Sir and/or Madam.

Further to my previous correspondence dated 1st May 2016 (viewablefor your achievable achieve here) I have been strongly encouraged by my outrage to send this further correspondence.

Imagine my horror upon taking a short visit to That London and taking a stroll through gentrified Hackney and visiting the Picturehouses, I, once again, was forced into a context whereupon I was viewing an ANTI-SLAM in a Picturehouse!  Not just any old run-of-the-mill Anti-Slam but the NATIONAL ANTI-SLAM FINAL.

I was outraged like a shinbone being wafted in the desert

I was disgusted like a hedgehog headbutting A mollusc

I WAS maddened LIKE a stovepipe at closing time

I was fuming like Rome ON a Tuesday

I was quite literally angry.

The pretence of Edinburgh’s Doug Gary proved, once again, that once more performance poetry is, as it once was, a once-and-future thing of pretentiousness.

London’s Camilla made me disgusted to my very core, my core was well and truly rumbled and rubbed and was quite literally pumped with terror and disgust and other emotions far too smutty for the Internet.

I rather felt the Sheffield’s Starr Quality Theatre School™ representative was far too young and working class for a poetry event.  In addition (or, moreover) the reprehensive from Cambridge (Miss Spinning Jenny) was a poor imitation of Working Class Northern Life, and I should know, I’ve seen Kes.

Clearly Ms. Joy France, is clearly an example of what happens when lovely ladies are inclined (or, forced?) to visit Manchester.  The York poet Monica Offlebaum used a large amount of cultural appropriation, a term I do not fully understand but am willing to employ in my review.  Vera 100% Chinese's poetry was...

Sorry, got interuptted.

Now, where was I?  As a Normal Person I neither use, nor like, Twitter and the Edinburgh Fringe duo (American, thus proving the sort of place Edinburgh becomes in August) known as #HashTag@TeamTrending were rather loud but did make some effective political points.

Newcastle’s Viking No Name was neither a Viking, nor unnamed.  They resembled a mime, alas they used words.

However, as a chaffinch enthusiast, I was highly impressed with J. Arthur ProofRock’s deep interpretation was deeply stirring and a fine winner.  I wish him well in whatever body shapes he goes onto in the future.

The Judges were quite visibly referred to as a Jury interchangeable, never once stepping up to clatter down the hammer and put an end to this horror.  No, more they seemed to love the lack of love.

I will admit hosts Dan Simpson and Paula Varjack were admirably bearded.

I do rather hope this never returns to my hope town of York City FC and I do sincerely hope that poetry can do so much betterer.

Yours sincerely

A. T. Slam