It all felt very retro. Which meant my ancient campervan (fifty-five years old in much the same way as Trigger’s broom would make it to that age) fitted right in. I treat any trip away in it as some kind of small adventure – how long will it take to get there? will it get there at all? how will it cope with hills? will it start when it’s time to head home again? – and revel in the small joys of a comfortable bed, the ritual of boiling a pan of water on the stove for my morning coffee, and the decadence of crumpets toasted under the grill with cheese and chili flakes. Bliss.

This morning, back home, autumn is in the air. The sun is shining, but the shadows are noticeably longer than they were six weeks ago, the yard is cool and damp till mid-morning, and I still haven’t quite got my head around how short the evenings have become. As festival season recedes into memory, I’ll turn to writing more poems, begin the process of pulling together a new volume ready for publication in Spring, and start rehearsing my sets for upcoming gigs in the cathedral city of Ely, and the seaside town of Morecambe (September 16th and 20th, respectively).

I shall be keeping my fingers crossed for good weather for both, and if you’re within striking distance of either, it’d be lovely to see you. In the meantime, I shall leave you with a beautiful tune by The Breath, who absolutely blew me away this weekend. Rioghnach Connolly’s voice is incredible. Have a listen. You deserve it.

“How you coping with the heat, Tim?”
“It’s not easy, Steve.”
“It’s not normal, Tim.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“Really?”
“It’s been hot before, Steve…”
“True. Last week was crazy…”
“Well…”
“…and July was unbearable…”
“Just a moment…”
“Unnatural…”
“Hold on…”
“It’s climate breakdown…”
“The planet’s been hot before, Steve…”
“Yes, Tim. July…”
“No…”
“It was. I was there…”
“That’s not what I mean…”
“Hotter than last year…”
“I’m saying the planet was just this hot…”
“And that was a hot one…”
“At the time of the dinosaurs…”
“You what, mate?”
“The dinosaurs.”
“Come again?”
“The planet was this hot at the time…”
“Of the dinosaurs?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It’s entirely natural.”
“The heat?”
“Yes, Steve.”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, Tim…”
“A natural cycle…”
“But human beings…”
“Yes?”
“Weren’t around back then.”
“Wrong, Steve.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m really not.”
“Dinosaurs lived alongside…”
“Go on…”
“The Ancient Greeks.”
“No, Tim. They didn’t.”
“They did.”
“And your evidence is…?”
“Well, somebody named them…”
“Right…”
“And their names are all Greek….”
“Oh boy.”
“So it stands to reason.”
“You reckon?”
“Yes.”
“Can you back that up…?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m all ears, Tim.”
“Two words…”
“Go on…”
“Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
“OK…”
“Tyranno, from the word ‘tyrant’…”
“Uh-huh…”
“That’s Greek, by the way, Steve…”
“Right…”
“And saurus…”
“I can’t believe this…”
“Literal translation…”
“This’ll be good…”
“Tyrant’s lizard, Rex.”
“You think?”
“Proving…”
“Proving??!!”
“That Ancient Greek rulers…”
“That’s a hell of a stretch, Tim….”
“Kept dinosaurs…”
“Don’t say it…”
“As pets.”
“You actually said it.”
“As status symbols, if you will…”
“Really?”
“In much the same way as Big Mikey…”
“The drug dealer?”
“Alleged drug dealer, Steve…”
“Tim, he was found…”
“Innocent…”
“In a warehouse…”
“Till proven…”
“Chock full of weed…”
“Guilty…”
“With £200k in cash…”
“A gift from a friend…”
“In his back pocket…”
“Anyway, that’s not the point…”
“There’s a point?”
“The point is that Mikey’s Siberian mastiff…”
“Is a danger…”
“Is a status dog…”
“A complete weapon…”
“Serving much the same purpose…”
“One hundred kilos…”
“As a tyrannosaurus did…”
“Of pure irredeemable…”
“For Ancient Greek tyrants…”
“Evil.”
“Probably Spartans…”
“Eh?”
“I mean, I can’t prove that…”
“No shit, Tim?”
“But they were the kind of bastards…”
“You’ve been watching ‘300’ again…”
“Who’d have a tyrannosaurus…”
“Haven’t you?”
“Hanging round the palace…”
“Incredible…”
“And call it ‘Rex’.”
“Wow.”
“I don’t know how much more evidence…”
“Evidence??!!”
“You need, Steve….”
“I’m genuinely lost for words…”
“The silence will be welcome, mate…”
“Don’t hold back, Tim…”
“And I say that…”
“Don’t sit on the fence…”
“As a friend…”
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Anyway, I can’t stop…”
“Oh?”
“I’m off to see Taurene…”
“Tinfoil Taurene?”
“Yes.”
“Big Mikey’s missus?”
“The very same…”
“She’s batshit…”
“She’s entitled…”
“You’re not joking…”
“To wear whatever…”
“Wife of a gangster…”
“Headgear she wishes…”
“And several sandwiches short…”
“It’s a woman’s right to choose…”
“Of a picnic…”
“And I thought you’d be all in favour…”
“Why on earth…”
“Of that.”
“Are you going to see Taurene?”
“She’s fixing my phone, Steve…”
“Is she qualified, Tim?”
“She’s got a whole TikTok channel…”
“Oh god…”
“Devoted…”
“To her fixing phones?”
“To her fixing phones.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s very convincing….”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So to fix your phone…?”
“She sprinkles rose water on it…”
“Of course she does…”
“Then hits it three times…”
“Right…”
“No more, no less…”
“I see…”
“With a hammer…”
“And has this fixed your phone, Tim?”
“Not yet, Steve…”
“Surprise me…”
“To date, I’ve lost half the screen…”
“Hmmmm….”
“And all of the ringtones…”
“Astounding…”
“But as Taurene says…”
“Go on…”
“Unravelling the sticky web of Big Tech…”
“The sticky web…?”
“Takes time…”
“Obviously…”
“And we’re only three sessions in…”
“I see…”
“Anyhow, I’ve gotta dash…”
“OK, Tim…”
“Time, Taurene…”
“And the 53 bus…”
“Wait for no man….”
“See ya, Tim…”
“It’s been a pleasure…”
“I’m sure it has…”
“And Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay hydrated. This heat’s brutal.”

The festival aims to bring the best in pub theatre, one-person shows, and storytelling to our city, and it’s all about putting bums on seats in small, independent venues, and bringing art to people in places they’re familiar with – in cafes, pubs, and bookshops where they live. And it’s working. So far, about a third of the people who’ve filled in feedback forms (these forms are a necessary evil when you’ve got to crunch the data about a project to justify your funding) had never seen Fringe before they came to a Midlands Fringe event. Just as importantly, almost all of them say they’ll come to Fringe again.

This matters.

Our little collective believes that everyone should have access to a vibrant arts scene in their town. That people shouldn’t have to travel to a theatre in a major city an hour or so away. Making travel a prerequisite to enjoying theatre plonks a substantial economic barrier in the way of people. It means that folk who are short of free time, or who rely on our creaking public transport system, simply can’t partake in much of our cultural life. Without intending to, it creates a massive obstacle, and excludes a large number of the population. Fringe sets out to remove those obstacles, and bring art and theatre to people who might otherwise not see it.

It’s also a lot of fun. Last night we had a showing of the film I Get Knocked Down – exploring the music and politics of Chumbawamba, what they achieved, and what you do when you find you didn’t quite manage to change the world – followed by a Q&A with co-directors Sophie Robinson and Dunstan Bruce. As someone who worked for the Chumbas as a backline tech for eight years, and who still believes in doing what I can to make the world a better, less unjust place, I found the whole evening fascinating. Happily, so did all the other people who came along.

This matters. A society with a rich, thriving, diverse cultural life is a stronger, more resilient society which offers us more opportunities to be creative, more opportunities to be exposed to new ideas, more opportunities to learn about ourselves and our shared histories, more opportunities to share that experience with others.

And now, I’m going to pivot to talk briefly about my small post-industrial town on the fringes of an impoverished council borough out in the urban sprawl of the West Mids. The sort of place that gets ignored. The sort of place – and there’s far too many of them – which is skirted round and bypassed, whose history is torn down, whose history is burned in mysterious (and convenient) fires, whose history isn’t deemed worthy of record.

Step in, Willenhall History and Heritage Society. This small group of enthusiasts and volunteers has amassed a huge collection of documents and artefacts connected with our town and its lock-and-key-making history. Now they want to take the first steps to making that accessible to everyone. So they’ve set up a crowdfunder to enable them to do that. And they’re almost there.

I know that – at a conservative estimate – 99.9% of you reading this have no connection whatsoever with my hometown, but I’m mentioning what the Heritage Society are doing in the hope that if you’ve a few quid to spare, and pledge it to this project, you’ll know you’re playing a part in laying the groundwork for something future generations here can use, something which will give them a deeper understanding of who we were, and who we are, and who we can be in the future. Because I think all that matters. I hope you do too.

You’ll find the link to the crowdfunder here. There’s fifteen days left till it closes.

Thank you.

all the best
Steve

If you’re looking for me, I’ll be here [checks weather forecast] till at least late Saturday, possibly hiding in the fridge. Odd behaviour, I know, but climate collapse tends to change the parameters of what’s acceptable, dontcha think?

And now, I’m going to shift gears and celebrate a poetry competition success. Does it feel incongruous to do so? Absolutely. Am I still learning how to navigate a world where it seems as though the old order is collapsing before my eyes and we haven’t begun to terms with it? Indeed it does. Trust me, I’m aware of how incredibly difficult it can be to straddle these disparate realities and give them both headspace, but I take heart – there’s a slight detour coming up here, by the way – I take heart from a recent Substack by Caitlin Johnstone. She writes brilliantly and unflinchingly about what Israel and the West are doing in the Middle East, but in her recent piece she focussed on just how vital it is to celebrate the good things that happen, to hold on to joy, and not to lose sight of all the good things that human beings can do. I think she’s right.

So, back to the poem.

It’s called How We Made It Through The Dark Days, and it’s just won a runner-up prize in the Wirral Poetry Festival poetry competition. The inspiration for it came from a social media post by poet Brian Bilston, in which he gave a list of ‘discarded opening lines for a poem’. One of those lines was For that was the winter we listened to Enya. I decided I’d run with it, and see where it took me. Dear reader, it took me off into a flight of fancy and onwards to a runner-up prize, and I’m more than happy with that. My thanks to judges Martin Figura and Helen Ivory, and my congratulations to all the other winning poets – there’s some wonderfully beautiful work in the selection Helen and Martin made.

If you want to read the full text of the poem, you’ll find it here. Me? I’m back off to the fridge. That little light inside? It goes out when you pull the door shut on yourself. Thought you might like to know. I recommend taking a torch.

all the best

Steve

This is not normal, folks. At least, it’s not normal for poets whose heritage stretches back through generations of soft rain, northern seas, and cold wind. Others of you may view this furnace differently, but I’m in a mug sweat typing at my laptop, and I don’t like it.

Anyway, let’s talk poetry, before I’m transformed into a ball of super-heated steam and low-level annoyance. We’ve got about five minutes.

First, a gig. A great gig in Hull, last Friday at the city’s legendary New Adelphi club, courtesy of Hull poet Jim Higo. It was one of those nights where everything falls into place, where links between poems are seamless, where you can feel the room lean in to listen when you’re on stage, where the audience are there with you, every step of the way. Reader, I loved it. My new poem art/class is fast becoming a key part of my performance, and I came away from Hull knowing I want to gig more, to fit in as many gigs as possible. So if you run poetry gigs – or you’ve a function room and a bit of gumption – get in touch. You won’t regret it.

It’s also ten years since the Brexit vote, so I guess we must be in the sunlit uplands now, frolicking about in the land of milk, honey, blue passports, and sovereignty. Don’t it make ya proud? I can’t think why that reminds me that one of my poems was published in Yorkshire Bylines and CultureMatters this week. Must be the heat. Yeah, I imagine that’s it.

Take it easy out there, folks. Stay cool. Stay hydrated.

But if you’re anywhere near Hull (this Friday evening) or Leeds (on Saturday afternoon) then I’m there doing a couple of poetry gigs in what we in the Midlands know as ‘the north’. The gig in Hull is at the Adelphi, and is a cracking night of spoken word (I’m attaching the poster as proof) while on the Saturday Emma Purshouse and myself will be doing a PAYF gig at the Fox & Newt on Burley Road. 2pm start.

Come along. Say hi. I’ll have caught up on sleep by then, honest.

Have a good day, people. Be good to each other.

See you soon.

It was the mid-1990s, and I was living in Leeds. I was busy avoiding having a real job by working on the local crew, unloading trucks in the morning, watching the gig, and then loading the trucks back up again. I was young. I believed I would live that way forever.

At one of the gigs – I can’t for the life of me remember which one – there was a stall at the back of the venue, a stall about what was an ongoing miscarriage of justice. Now, I knew a little about miscarriages of justice – The Birmingham Six, The Guildford Four, and The Maguire Seven had all been freed a couple of years previously after lengthy and determined campaigns to overturn their wrongful convictions – so I went up and asked the bloke on the stall what the story was here.

This was how I first learned of the case of Satpal Ram.

Satpal had been found guilty of murder in 1987 after defending himself against a racist attack, and the stall was the beginning of a campaign by his friends in Birmingham to make people aware of his case. The bloke looking after the stall was Stan, and he was one of Satpal’s friends. He’d come up to Leeds with the band whose name I can’t remember so he could talk to people at the gig about Satpal. Stan had a lot to say. The two of us spent the night drinking coffee back at my flat and talking about injustice. Then Stan headed back to Birmingham. Or maybe to another gig. All these years on, my memory’s a little hazy.

A major obstacle for small, grassroots campaigns like the one run by Satpal’s friends is the difficulty of getting the word out to people, of building momentum. Somehow – and this is another element of the story whose details have been erased by the passing of time – I had a contact at Big Issue North. I spoke to them, they said they’d be interested in a piece about Satpal, and next thing I knew I was applying for a prison visiting order, and travelling north to meet with Satpal in HMP Frankland.

The Big Issue piece never appeared. I’d been so moved by talking with Satpal, and so outraged by the obvious hostility of some of the prison officers, that when I got back to Leeds I couldn’t find the necessary skill and craft to write with the clarity and detachment a piece of that nature warranted. What I wrote was never going to be something that could be published in a mainstream magazine, and by the time I realised my mistake, that particular door had very firmly shut.

In September 2000, I moved to Birmingham. I was – for my sins – still avoiding having a real job by working on the local crew, unloading trucks in the morning. Satpal was still in prison. I still saw Stan doing the stall at gigs. We’d chat. I learned about the growing international awareness of Satpal’s case, and the pressure that was building to release him. Then I’d go back to loading trucks.

I was still loading trucks when Satpal was finally released in June 2002, after fifteen years in prison.

Now let’s fast forward to May 2026. I get an email from Stan, who I’ve not heard from in over twenty years. He’s letting me know that a film called After Eight will be showing at Birmingham’s Midlands Arts Centre. It’s a documentary about Satpal, about the campaign to free him, about what happened to him in prison, and what his life is like now. He thinks I might like to see it.

I go to see it.

Stan is there. Older, as we all are. His jet-black hair turned grey. It’s good to see him, and we pick up nattering where we left off all those years before. The film is incredible. I won’t say it’s an easy watch, because it isn’t, but it’s incredible. You get a sense of Satpal’s strength and resilience, as well as the scars – physical and mental –from all those years in prison. You get to hear from his friends, a bunch of ordinary – and extraordinary – Brummies who started a campaign all those years ago with the aim of getting him freed, and succeeded. Who started with a few home-made banners and t-shirts, ended up running an international campaign, and went with it, because they knew that what they were doing was important, that it mattered.

And Satpal is there, sitting quietly in the audience, watching the film. The film of what happened to him. The film that tells how he inspired people to take a stand for him. As we all leave, I shake his hand, wish him well.

And I drive home marvelling at the incredible things humans can achieve when we work together for something good.

1.

Speaking to the press outside Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, Mrs Chlamydia Tonks (83) says of her good fortune “I only went in for the All You Can Hate For A Fiver afternoon tea, but then the bingo started. I’ve always loved a flutter, so I thought I’d give it a go. At first it was the usual balls – woke, windmills, our patriotic duty to huff hydrocarbons – but by the time he pulled out ‘Islamist conspiracies’ and ‘men of fighting age’, I knew I was in with a shot. Boats, cancel culture, and a final ‘you can’t say anything any more’, and that was it. HOUSE!” She beams. “I won a polyester Union Jack (used) made in China, and a can of warm Carling. I just had time to look into his dead, soulless eyes and shake his strangely clammy hand before he slapped me on the arse and told me to get back in the kitchen where I belong. I’ve never been happier.”

(this report hewn by your correspondent from the Coalface of Truth using only a Swiss Army knife and the light of a dying star)

2.

Standing outside Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, a florid Constipation Arkwright (77) tells your humble correspondent “I’ve been enjoying two and a half pounds of bacon – pounds, mark you, none of your kilogram nonsense here – two and a half pounds of bacon fried in lard every morning since we won back the Falklands. Every last morsel eaten in stalwart defence of our noble Judaeo-Christian culture, whatever that is. The quack says my salt levels are off the scale, but danger’s nothing to me, I was a Marine.” He pauses. “Well, I lived next door to a chap who knew a bloke who snogged a Marine once, and that’s more or less the same, isn’t it? Now, call an ambulance, I beg you, I think I’ve blown a gasket.”

(this report sifted by your correspondent from the Shifting Sands of Truth with the aid of a fish slice and a pair of irretrievably salt-stained loafers)

3.

Stumbling out into the evening gloom from Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™ after an all-day session on gin and bitter lemon, Miss Wisteria Fox (52) sobs “My therapist tells me I’ve a fixation on unattainable father figures, rogues who will only ever treat me badly, and god knows she’s right, but have you ever smelt him? I mean, really smelt him? That unmistakable aroma of entitlement, casual bigotry, and stale Bensons leaves me all of a flutter. I’m unspeakably moist, and unable to answer for my actions, but will he ever deign to look at a wretch like me? No. Never. And that’s no more than I deserve.” And with this, she smooths down her dishevelled suit jacket, adjusts her pearl necklace, and staggers off into the night.

(this report picked from the Haemorrhoids of Truth by this correspondent using nothing but dexterity, bare hands, and an incomparable gag reflex)

4.

Standing on the door of Crooked Nigel’s Emporium of Broken Nostalgia™, Furious Bellwether (49) rolls his shoulders and holds forth. “His skill, of course, is in telling me exactly what I want to hear. Which is that all my disappointments in life – patchy employment record, brushes with the law, failures with women – are the fault of people in dinghies who I’ve never met. It’s scapegoating par excellence, and yes, it’s nonsense, of course it is, but you can see the appeal.” Something akin to a smile flickers, momentarily, across his face. “He’s also promised to rescind the restraining order my ex-wife took out, which is music to my ears. Wagner, Ride of the Valkyries, if you were wondering. Real alpha male energy there, not that you’d understand. Now I suggest you move along, sir. I feel an act of gratuitous violence coming on.”

(this report forged by your correspondent in the searing heat of the Blast Furnace of Truth from the rusted remains of an Austin Allegro, a set of brass knuckledusters, and a buggered Scalextric)

/ENDS

Their nonsense isn’t what I want to write about. Not today, anyway. Today is about having a little celebration amongst the end-of-empire madness. Today is International Workers’ Day*, and to mark that event Culture Matters have published an anthology of poems commemorating both the centenary of the General Strike (1926) and the acts of solidarity, resistance, and collective action which have taken place across workplaces and communities since then.

Shoulder to Shoulder features work from over sixty poets, and I’m delighted to have two pieces in it. If you fancy treating yourself to a copy (and supporting the great work which Culture Matters does in championing working-class and radical voices) you can order one here. I’ll be sharing both my pieces in public – for the first time – at this evening’s May Day celebrations in Wolverhampton. This is a free event, with stalls, food, entertainment, and more. Get yourself down there if you can.

If you’d like a sneaky look at one of the poems I’ve got in Shoulder to Shoulder, you’re in luck. he has, he says, three rules (click on the poem title to read it) is a poem drawing on my work in the music business, and it’s a true story. I hope you enjoy it.

*it’s also Beltane, which is another good reason for looking forward in hope and celebration

It. Is. Phenomenal.

There’s no way that a show which looks at colonialism, resistance, and the Palestinians’ loss of their homeland should even begin to be the slightest bit funny, but Sami has created a one-hour piece of theatre which is informative, unflinching, and laugh-out-loud hilarious. It’s beautifully produced, impeccably delivered, Sami’s energy levels never drop, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Any show which starts with the artist walking onstage to Chumbawamba’s acapella song The Day the Nazi Died is off to a very good start in my book, and what followed more than lived up to that.

Do yourself a favour. Go and watch this show. My amateurish trawling of the internet reveals that Sami is taking it to Basingstoke, Bristol, and Birmingham before moving on to other letters of the alphabet and visiting Ipswich, Lowestoft, and Cambridge. He may be going to other places too. I hope so.

Don’t take my word for how good this show is. Check out reviews of Peace de Resistance – and buy your tickets to see it – here: https://www.britishtheatreguide.info/listings/7074

Sometimes, it’s a joy to point folk towards artists who excel at what they do. This is one of those times.

See the show, people. And thank me later.

Here is a thing. It is open.
You need the thing to be open, but

you do not like the people who keep
the thing open. You also need

an urgent distraction. You know
a man. Like you, this man does not like

the people who keep the thing open
(this man does not like many people)

(truth be told, this man does not like you)
and the two of you resolve that it is time

for the people who keep the thing open
to be someone else, someone different,

time for them to be other people
the two of you approve of.

The man says this will be easy. It will
be a walk in the park. You will replace

the people who keep the thing open
with new people to keep the thing open

and everyone will love you. Even
the ones who love you already

will love you more. More than
anyone has ever been loved.

You will win prizes. You see statues
of you, triumphant, golden, raised

in countless cities all across the world.
You say, bring it on.

Thirty-five days later you are still lost
in the same park. The people who keep

the thing open are not different people.
The people who keep the thing open,

the thing you need to be open,
these people have shut the thing.

The thing is shut.
Shut. The thing is shut.

What can you do?
The thing is shut.

Steve Pottinger. 4 Apr 2026

The book – battered and worn, its covers just about hanging on – still sits in my bookshelves. Last night I pulled it out and searched for a piece of writing within it which made a huge impression on me when I first read it. It’s a piece which resonates more than ever today, when the world seems to be led by governments which revel in war and in state-sanctioned murder. I couldn’t find it online, so I’ve typed out the second half of the piece here. In these dark times, I think it’s something worth sharing.

[note: I’ve taken the liberty of making one small change throughout the text, which is to change he/him to they/them. This reflects the fact that the victims of war – as we’ve seen in Gaza and are now seeing in Lebanon and Iran – are often women and children, either deliberately targeted, or considered acceptable ‘collateral damage’ by the soldiers who kill them.]

Here’s the piece. Feel free to share it.

“…I would like to see every government in the world held accountable to the United Nations for every human being it kills, either in war or in peace. I don’t just mean a statistic published in a secret report. I mean that all the newspapers of the country responsible should carry the name of the person killed, their photograph, address, number of their dependants and the reason why they were killed. (We often do as much for the victims of plane crashes.)

This would mean that in some countries the press would be swamped with death reports and even mammoth death supplements. (Well, what about the advertisers?) But I want more.

I would like every death inflicted by any government to be the subject of a book published at the state’s expense. Each book would give an exhaustive biography of the corpse and would be illustrated by photographs from their family album if any, pictures they painted as a child and film stills of their last hours. In the back cover would be a long-playing disc of the victim talking to their friends, talking to their family and children and inteviewed by the men who killed them.

The text would examine their life, their tastes and interests, faults and virtues, without trying to make them any more villainous or heroic then they were. It would be prepared by a team of writers appointed by the United Nations. The final chapter would record the explanations of the government which killed them and a detailed account of the manner of their death, the amount of bleeding, the extent of burns, the decibel count of screams, the amount of time it took to die and the names of the men who killed them.

One book for every killing. I realise that this would take some planning. Each soldier would have to be accompanied by an interviewing, camera, and research team in order to record the details of any necessary victim.

Most factories would turn out printing presses, most graduates would automatically become biographers of the dead. Bombing could only take place after individual examination of every person to be bombed. The cost of killing would be raised to such a pitch that the smallest war would lead to bankruptcy and only the most merciful revolution could be afforded. Hit squarely in the exchequer – the only place where they feel emotion – chauvinist governments might be able to imagine for the first time, the true magnitude of the obscenity which they mass-produce.

This is no bloody whimsy. I want a real reason for every killing.”

Adrian Mitchell - Naming The Dead

A few years later, I had the pleasure of hearing Adrian read. At Burnley Mechanics, if memory serves, and he signed my copy of his book in his distinctive style.

Before I go any further, let’s put my cards on the table.

Do I like the poem? I can’t say I do. It’s not my cup of tea.

Would I have chosen it as the winner? No, I wouldn’t. But that’s irrelevant, as a) I wasn’t asked to judge the National, b) I’m unlikely ever to be asked to judge the National, and c) the people who were asked to judge the National, and who definitely know their poetic onions, did choose it as the winner.

Now, for the purposes of full disclosure, I entered some poems in this year’s competition. They may very well have fallen at the first hurdle; it’s also possible (but unlikely, ed) that they all lurked together just outside the longlist. Much as I’d like to believe they were grouped immediately below the cut-off point which would have offered some kind of validation of my work, the truth is I don’t know. The truth is also that it doesn’t matter. I enter competitions in hope, but – and here’s the important bit – I write poetry because I love it, because I enjoy playing with words, because poetry allows me to express myself as clearly and imaginatively as possible, because I sometimes surprise myself with what I write.

Now, poets do – generally – want people to like their work. We have, to varying degrees, a need for validation from the poetry community, but we aren’t all writing – or reading and enjoying – the same kind of poetry. Does that mean there’s nothing of worth in poems I don’t like? Not at all. It just means [drum roll] that I don’t like them. They don’t speak to me. And there’s no reason why they should. I don’t suppose the poem’s ever been written that is loved by everyone. Different people have different tastes. One man’s meat etc.

Poet Pat Edwards mused about this on Facebook earlier today, using the metaphor of food to explain her take. We don’t all like the same food, she pointed out. Nor should we. Our individual taste is unique to us. It’s complex. It may be contradictory. But the world’s a better place precisely because it is made up of millions of unique responses to food. I agree. We can celebrate bacon butties, tarka dhal, yorkshire puds, burritos, and veggie lasagne without having to eat every last one of them all the time.

Hmmm. That talk of food’s made me peckish. Time for a slice of toast and a cuppa.

Who knows? After that, I may even write a poem.

And when we finally took our turns on stage in front of a warm and appreciative audience, NOFB Pitt was on fire (metaphorically) and Emma Purshouse was outstanding. With our sets out of the way, we settled down to see the wonderful Diego Brown and the Good Fairy close the night with their brilliant, witty, and ever-so-slightly bonkers songs. They’re based in the Big Smoke, and we rarely get down there, so they were (for us) a delightful discovery. Catch ‘em if you can, folks. They’re definitely worth it.

Although we were the best part of 100 miles from Wolverhampton, Lee’s night tied in with the event I’d been to in our city earlier in the week, where we celebrated fifty years of the Arena Theatre. Keeping a studio theatre running – and thriving – over five decades, in what is an increasingly difficult funding environment for artists and venues alike, is no mean feat, and theatre director Neil Reading took the opportunity to deliver a speech championing the power of small stages. (I’m sure people will already have told you this, Neil, but it was a belter – and now I’ve buttered you up, I’m going to quote from it extensively, because I believe what you said deserves repeating).

Here’s some of the closing section of the speech:

Small stages are not nostalgic relics. They’re not quaint holdovers from a pre-digital age. They’re not expendable luxuries we can cut when budgets are tight. They’re essential infrastructure for human flourishing.

When… people make the choice to be in that room, they’ll turn off their phones. They’ll sit in the dark with strangers. They’ll allow themselves to be moved, challenged, changed by proximity to something real.

And afterward, some of them will leave different than when they arrived. Not because they learned facts; though they might. Not because they were entertained; though they will be. But because they felt something true. Because they spent an hour in a room with strangers who also laughed and gasped and leaned forward at the same moments, and that shared attention created something that didn’t exist before.

Not because it reached millions, but because it reached them.

That’s the power of small stages.

Not in spite of their size, but because of it.

The small stage is where we remember: we are not metrics. We are not algorithms. We are not data points to be optimised. We are human beings. We are meaning-making animals who need to tell and hear stories in the presence of witnesses.

And sometimes; not always, not for everything; but sometimes; we need to be in a room together to remember what that means.

That’s what the Arena Theatre does so well. It’s what Lee’s night did yesterday evening. It’s what I hope for every time I get up at the mic to share my poems. It’s why and it’s how poetry and theatre quietly change lives.

Thanks to everyone who came along to the gig in Luton last night (especially the ones who were good enough to buy books), and a rare mention in dispatches to the Highways Agency for not – for once – closing every motorway on our route home. Credit where credit’s due. It was welcome and discombobulating in equal measure, gents, and I’m sure it was an administrative error which you’ll rectify next time we’re out, but thanks nevertheless.

I also had the privilege of watching the first ever public performance of Emma Purshouse’s one-woman show It’s Honorary, Bab in the delightful Heron Theatre in Beetham, Cumbria. It was stupendous. It was amazing. It was a show you should crawl over broken glass to see [note: that’s a metaphor – please don’t]. Lucky people in or near Wolverhampton will be able to enjoy a broken-glass-free performance of the show in the city’s Arena Theatre on April 16th, when there are two excellent shows on the same bill – Dave Pitt (the other pandemonialist) will be sharing his superb show A Battered Chip On My Shoulder too, and it’ll be a night to remember. For all the right reasons. Get your tickets for that here.

I shall be sitting in the audience that night, while my colleagues smash it out of the park, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. Before then, I’ll be running an online poetry workshop about the art of writing political poetry. That’s this Sunday, March 1st, at 11am. It’s a PAYF event, and all money raised will go to the charity Freedom from Torture, who do vitally important work. If you’d like to come along, drop me a line, and I’ll add you to the list. Writing those words is also a reminder to me to make sure I’ve fettled the workshop suitably, and I shall head off to do that now.

No rest for the wicked. Or poets, apparently.

So it goes.

The show is about how I fell into life in the music business and never quite got it together to fall back out again. It’s about growing up. It’s about what we want from life, and what we get. And it also looks at how a galloping lack of ambition and a dogged refusal to do the sensible thing can lead you to some interesting and unexpected places. Oh, and there’s some music, too, for the audience to tap their toes along to.

With Saturday’s performance under my belt, I’m looking forward to sharing the piece with the good folk at Heron Theatre (Beetham, Cumbria) on Friday Feb 20th. I’ll be one half of a double-header of Fringe shows that night, as fellow pandemonialist Emma Purshouse will also be performing her show Poet Laureate in a Pandemic. Tickets are on sale here.

The following night, both of us are guest poets at Verbalise, in Kendal (open mic spots also available) and if you rewind to Wednesday Feb 18th, we’re doing two gigs a little closer to home. In the afternoon, we’re part of A Pocketful of Poets at the library in Newcastle-under-Lyme (2pm start, free entry, booking essential) after which we scoot across to the Poetry Pharmacy in Bishops Castle to be the feature poets at Verbatim. All the details for both these gigs are on the posters below. Gigging in February… at least I’ll get to see what rain looks like in different parts of the country. Snorkels and wetsuits optional.

Back then,

everybody had lines. My mom,
my dad, my gran – who was impossibly
old – and my grandad, who was older.
All the grown-ups had them.
Frown lines, worry lines, laughter
lines on the lucky few, but lines
nonetheless. Some of the ancients
on the bus – men with flat caps
and whiskers they’d missed with the razor,
women with headscarves and rollers –
could have given prunes a run
for their money, caught in the right light.
Bert, who kept his trousers up with
a length of gardening twine, was rumoured
to grow spuds in his crowfeet crevasses,
but I don’t know if that was true.
Lines were just part of life, like
whooping cough, or measles. Nits.
Or detention. Like breathing.

Sometimes, on Saturday afternoons,
sat goggle-eyed in front of the TV
while the rain teemed down, we’d gawp
at movie stars, princes, and queens
with faces smooth as babies’ bottoms.
Richer than creases, my mom said
admiringly, and we kids understood
for the first time what money was for,
that it could buy you a life without fret,
without lines.

© Steve Pottinger 3 Feb 2026

I write poetry about the world because the world fascinates me (how could it not?) and I write political poetry because politics is – first and foremost – about people. It’s about how we, as a society, decide how we structure our communities. It’s about who we help, how we do it, what happens to people who get left behind. It’s about you. It’s about me. It’s about connection, it’s about justice, it’s about humanity (and a whole lot more besides, but I’m sure you get the picture).

Right now [poet waves a languid arm at the binfire which is much of modern life] poets who write about politics certainly aren’t short of subject matter. But – if you’ve been itching to put pen to paper – how do you begin to write political poetry? How do you write good political poetry? Why bother writing it at all? Does it change anything? Are there pitfalls to avoid? Are there clichés to tiptoe carefully around? Must you wear a hairshirt while writing it? And where can you send it once it’s done?

So many questions. So many reasons not to pick up the pen. So let’s change that.

I’ll be running a poetry workshop on Zoom at 11am on Sunday March 1st. We’ll be looking at what political poetry is, and how writing it can be hugely empowering. Yes, I used the ‘e’ word. I’ve shocked myself. But writing poetry about what’s going on in the world can be a vital step in reminding yourself that you have a voice, that you’ve got something to say, that change/resistance/imagining a better world is indeed possible.

If you fancy coming along to this workshop, drop me a line. If you’ve got friends who might want to take part, tell them to get in touch. It’ll be a PAYF event because I don’t want anyone to be excluded because they’re skint, and any money raised will go to Freedom From Torture, who’ll do far more good with it than I can.

And in other news… last week I popped in to Wolverhampton Community Radio (WCR) to choose eight songs and talk about what they mean to me. It was a lot of fun, the hour flew by, and I had quite a bit to say. It’s not easy, distilling your taste in music down to just eight tracks, but I tried to put a few surprises in there, so that even people who know me well might go Strewth! I never expected that!

If you fancy having a listen, and deciding for yourself whether I succeeded, the show goes out this Tuesday evening at 6pm, and you can listen to it on www.wcrfm.com Or if you’re local to Wolves it’s on DAB/101.8FM. It’ll also stay on their catch up facility for two weeks.

And now, back to wandering round the house, muttering about politicians.