That's what I'm writing about, kooks. Deal with it!
'Haven't you got any PR emails, boss?'
Yeah, loads, Voice. Loads!
Actually, I received three emails from LSEG Lipper yesterday, all about the same thing. Corrections, I think.
'Ha! Was that Nsikan again?'
No, no. It was someone else.
'Oh.'
Never mind.
Maybe I'll take a look at that email next Monday. Today though ... ... ... I'm just writing about stuff.
'What stuff, boss?'
Well ... I walked to Richmond and back yesterday, as is my wont.
'Because you wanted to.'
Exactly. In Richmond, I bumped into Roy Hodgson, the former England football manager.
'Oh.'
Yeah. I didn't know who he was at first, but I thought to myself: That guy has got a football face.
'Ha! What on earth is a football face?!'
Voice, a football face is the face of a person who is involved in football in some capacity.
'Oh.'
I mean, you can just tell.
Anyway, I'm not into football at all really, so I Googled "England Football managers" and I discovered it was Roy.
'Nice one!'
Yeah, I suppose. But the thing is, on the way back home, I was walking up the steps from the river to Kew Bridge, and who else did I bump into?
'Alan Shearer.'
Don't be ridiculous. No. Ian Brown from The Stone Roses.
'What, again?!'
Yeah, again. He lives in Chiswick, you see. He was with a couple of friends, and talking in his Manchester accent, as is his wont.
'Because he wanted to.'
Yes.
'Did you ask him for his autograph this time?'
No.
'Why not?!'
I'm not into music any more, Voice. You know that.
'Shame.'
I'm into poetry. Which brings me to T. S. Eliot.
'Oh! You didn't bump into him as well, did you? I mean, his ghost, wandering by the bridge, like.'
Ha! What, like ... Richmond and Kew undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees supine on the floor of a narrow canoe ... ???
'Yeah.'
No.
'Oh.'
No, I've just been thinking about free verse, man. Apparently, Eliot wrote Journey of the Magi in forty-five minutes while drinking half a bottle of gin. That's more or less proof that there's nothing going on in the poem that's too technical ... like you get with traditional poetry, you know? There wasn't enough time for that, even if he was sober. Listen! With free verse, you've just got to control every line and make it as interesting and full of vitality as you possibly can. And that's why I don't like Four Quartets. The vitality isn't there, and the poem is boring.
And with blank verse ... as long as you know all about iambic pentameter ... there's not much difference.
So ... [drum roll] ...
I'm coming to the conclusion that it's a mug's game being like Auden and Mahon, you dig?
'I dig.'
Just keep the technical side of things simple, and concentrate on what the poem is actually saying.
'Nice one, Mikey!'
Yes, it's very nice, Voice.
Anyway ...
Uh ...
'Anything else? Any more ... stuff?'
I don't know.
Stuff, stuff, stuff.
Words, words, words.
Ah, that's it.
ENDS
ENDS
ENDS
Laters, kooks!
'Bye!'
