Untapped Resources

 by Ashley Lister 

 As has been mentioned this week, the theme of green often addresses the subject of being environmentally responsible. To this end we associate "green issues" with recycling - to extend an object’s perceived usefulness.

Consequently, I present below, a list of things that have never been used and could potentially be developed as untapped resources.

David Cameron’s conscience

Nick Clegg’s balls

The EDL’s brain cells

Cuadrilla’s sense of moral responsibility

Just Bieber’s singing talent

A Frenchman’s toothbrush

William Hague’s hair dryer

A BBC comedy writer’s sense of humour

Blackpool Council’s understanding of the phrase ‘road works’ 

The salad bar in an American McDonalds

The royal family’s usefulness (untapped for centuries)

UKIP’s racial tolerance

An ASDA shopper’s deodorant

Please add your own to this list in the comments box below. Together, I’m sure, we can help recycle some of the above.

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Winter Blues

 by Ashley Lister

 Is it me or is the news getting more depressing?

Over the past few weeks there’ve been some heart-breaking and tragic stories in the news. We’ve had the posthumous allegations against Jimmy Savile. Whether these stories are true or not, all the news coverage is still a sickening reminder of the fashions that people openly wore in the 70s. We’ve had all those stories from the Tory party conference about what Darth Cameron intends to do if he is allowed to continue his apocalyptic reign of doom. It’s good to know we’ll be allowed to beat the shit out of burglars if they break into our homes. It’s just a shame that, under the current government, no one will be able to afford their own home before much longer.

As winter draws closer, the news will invariably become grimmer. Fuel bills will increase; sunlight hours will decrease; the weather, generally, will grow more unpleasant and, worst of all, everyone will be talking about football.

To that end, I suggest we should try and introduce some counter measures against the impending hiemal depression. I’ve been scouring the internet for ways to beat the winter blues and I’ve stumbled on five potential ideas that might be of use.

1) Express your creativity: You’ve come to the right place for this one. Write a poem and share it with us here at the Dead Good Blog.

2) Walk a dog: This one involves fresh air and the companionship of something furry with the ability to lick its own nether regions. Who could ask for more?

3) Talk with friends: And I mean talk! None of this txt msg wnk or tweeting or chat-room bollocks. Face-to-face talking where you can smell your friend’s nasty breath. (NB – don’t tell your friends that they have nasty breath).

4) Do something different: such as visiting a poetry event, like the one that will be occurring at the No. 5 Café on Friday October 26^th. It’s an Open Mic event with a theme of Ghostly Goings-On. Poetry begins at 6:00pm and it should be a great night’s entertainment.

5) Stay away from weirdoes like Dead Jimmy Savile and Darth Cameron. This, I feel, is self explanatory. It also helps to stay away from weirdoes who enjoy talking about football although, on this blog, that’s sometimes unavoidable.

If you have any personal suggestions for how to beat the winter blues, please share them in the comments box below.

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How I remember it

By Ashley Lister

The first time the Dead Good Poets got together was in a college classroom on 29^th January 2009.  I was there. I’ve written down the way things happened exactly so that there’s no danger of these recollections being affected by fading memory.

INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.

ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are talking in the corridor. Both are holding flyers for a Dead Good Poets event. Both are wearing bikinis and their skin glistens with crystal-like raindrops from a recent downpour.

Eliza Dushku

[Holding up a flyer]

Hello, Hermione Granger. I’m looking for the room where Ashley is reading one of his wonderful poems.

Hermione Granger

[Glancing at the doorway for THE CLASSROOM. We see a glint in her eye that says, ‘If I can’t have him, then no one can have him.’

She pushes her own flyer behind her back so that ELIZA DUSHKU cannot see what she is holding.]

I do not know of any poetry reading or any wonderful, sexy poets called Ashley. But I’d heard they were doing a reading on the other side of Blackpool. He might be there.

Eliza Dushku

I do not believe you, Hermione Granger, and I think we should wrestle in custard until one of us proves to be the victorious winner of a girl-on-girl fight.

Hermione Granger

Very well, Eliza Dushku, although I should warn you that I intend to tear off your bikini before…

CUT TO:INT. DAY: Inside THE CLASSROOM.

The scene is busy and packed like Wembley Stadium ready for a JLS concert or a Nickleback concert or even a football match with lots and lots of fans. There are also some sandwiches.

David Cameron

[Shouting angrily at Ashley]

If you read that poem in front of these students, I shall leave here and form a government that screws over the country.

Ashley

[Heroically]

Don’t make me laugh, Cam-Moron. No one would vote for you.

David Cameron

[With obvious doubt]

Maybe not. But perhaps I’ll form a coalition government.

Ashley

[Suddenly worried – but still heroic and handsome]

You wouldn’t, would you?

CAMERON rushes from the room, chuckling maniacally and rubbing his hands together, and maybe stealing the pension book from an old person as he runs past them. And probably kicking a blind man’s guide dog.

ASHLEY looks like he is about to heroically pursue CAMERON and maybe do some bad-ass ninja moves on him.

Before ASHLEY can follow, DAVINA McCALL clutches ASHLEY’s arm and pushes a microphone in his face.

Davina McCall

Ashley – are we OK to have a quick chat with you live on camera before the inaugural event of the Dead Good Poets (who haven’t yet been named) begin their first reading?

Ashley

[Humbly]

Davina, whilst I’d love to chat with you about how brilliant I and the rest of the (as yet unnamed) poets are, don’t you want to do some interviews with Barack Obama, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Johnny Depp and all the other celebrity guests that we’ve got attending here for our inaugural event?

Davina McCall

[Looking disappointed]

You’re right, Ashley. And I hear the Pope and Jesus are about to enter the room with Michael Jackson (who is still alive because this is all happening in 2009) so I should go and have a chat with them.

Ashley

Very well, Davina. And I shall take a chair and sit with the other brilliant and wonderful poets who are going to change the face of North West poetry in the UK. And I shall wait for this event to begin. And then I shall contribute in a small and very humble way. And I’m not even slightly tempted to go outside and see what those two women are squealing about in the corridor.

CUT TO: INT. DAY: Corridor outside THE CLASSROOM.

ELIZA DUSHKU and HERMIONE GRANGER are wrestling in a vat of thick yellow custard.

FIN

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Strength in Numbers

Good evening readers.

This week, the theme for the blog is numbers. I decided to wait until almost 6pm, 12 hours after normal to post this, I figured more people would be home from work by now- and numbers are key.

In relating numbers to poetry then, I got to thinking just how many little sequences there actually are. Numbers are clearly a maths thing, not a words thing but when you can draw graphs of poems, label up rhyme schemes and count stanzas, stresses, syllables and such like, I think numbers certainly DO apply to poetry.

The plan for this evening was to encourage you all to write more. I feel a bit like a rebel tweeter in the middle east in asking you all to voice your opinions but, the harsh reality we face is that a silly pillock with no real grasp of everyday people’s values and the morals of a scab is charged with running the country. An even sadder fact is that a public school tosser has his hand up that man’s arse and is actually running the country- he knows the things people hold dear but frankly, couldn’t give a toss.

So, when it comes to making ourselves heard, a riot for an afternoon is tomorrow’s chip wrapper, a hashtag rant over #bbcQT or a public breakdown- complete with a shotgun and (later) a fishing rod  are probably not the ways to do anything lasting. What will be knocking around in thirty years though, is that old book of poems you wrote down and passed on. That book in the hands of your potentially unborn grandchildren will be a voice of reason in amongst historical notes about cost cutting saving or not saving the economy. That book, alongside your friend’s book and the books we go out and buy all the time- they are the truth. They are the history and what people should be remembering from these times, not the scaremongering headlines or rhetorical false promise speeches.

The emotional history of a period is, I would say, a more accurate reflection of the time and in order for that to happen, people need to write what they feel. I put it to you, dear reader, that a poet is a wild bird. We write our songs unnoticed and chirp away until our hearts are content, usually to a small audience of bystanders. Take away one of our voices, you may not notice at all. Stop all the birdsongs though, and the world is a much less spirited place.

On the flip side of that same coin,  just think of all the noise we could make if we all keep moving together.  Our regular events are nearly always standing room only for the latecomers now and, as a result, people like the mayor and library are having to notice the group. A couple of years ago, being somewhat frozen out of the Wordpool meetings, I’d have doubted that could happen. We’ve got strength in numbers people, and we need to keep our mass squawking going.

I had planned to share a poem with you all today. I took a special walk on my lunchtime to finish the thing off but, somehow being organised has let me down today- I’ve left it at work! I’m not about to do an 8 mile round trip for a first draft so, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading- that is all you’re having from me today.

Cheers for reading, S. 

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