Saturday Night at the Crown Posada

8/14/2019 Saturday Night at the Crown Posada

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SATURDAY NIGHT AT

THE CROWN POSADAaka

MEN

Michael Blackburn


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The poem was written for a collaboration with international book artist Les Bicknell. It formed

part of his exhibition, The Ordinary Made Extraordinary, at Essex University in February 1994.

The poem was performed at the opening of the exhibition. The resulting book was produced ina limited edition of 10 copies signed and numbered by both poet and artist .

The original title was Saturday Night at the Crown Posada. This was changed to Menfor the

exhibition. The Crown Posada is a pub near the quayside in Newcastle upon Tyne.

This is the first appearance of the poem in print (2009).


3/8

no sooner in than

oh no it's

George again

I'd know that loud

voice anywherestammering to a

to a punchline

we'll listen to your tunes George

but spare us

the jokes

(wrapped in a yellow

duster his shining

mouth organ)

George, Gatherer of Pots, Not-So-Surreptitious Swiller-of-the-Not-Quite-Empty Pints, Gadgie

of the Quayside Pubs, Dispenser of Crap Jokes, Stammer Guardian of the Sacred Tongue of

Geordie, Scatterer of the Gloomy Spirit, Collector of the Fallen Coin, Eternal Friend of the

Lonely Drinker, Unfixed Star in the Saturday Night Firmament, Character Designate of the

Student Classes, Film-Extra, Good Fellow, George...but purra sock in it willya man

PRACTISE THE RITUALS PROPER MY FRIEND

(it's my guardian angel, tugging my sleeve)

Observe, he says, the queue at the bar:

see how yon lass down there is serving

her mates and regulars first. Note

how the lad up this end is harassed and new

at the job, how this skunk-faced marra beside you

waves his sticky glass in the air

as if he were about to sprinkle its fragments

in bitter anointment on anyone close enough.

Ah but see there's a gap where the lass

turns to look at you as she slams the till

shut, and behold her smile. Up, my lad,

and proffer the cash and the words that

unlock the pumps. TWO PINTS OF SCOTCH PLEASE.

Ah bliss. Her brown eyes. The brown liquid.

The promise. The music. The cool glasses.The tinkle of (not much) change.


4/8

You can, of course, decide to stand.

But we decide to sit. There, not here.

Back to the wall, with a pure view

of bar, door and window.

Wild west stuff. You see them coming in.

You see them going out.

And here's a little overhearing

just to my right. Two blokes talk

about old mates. And here's the English gist.

On the Absent Johnny Mottram:

some are born thick

but Johnny Mottram worked at it.

At thirteen demonstrated

the motions of sexual intercourse

between the desks,

explained the meaning

of the word prostitute.

He married young and played around

till his wife caught him out

with his bit on the side.

As she came in the door

he went out the window,

botching his jump

with two broken arms.

Twenty years on

in the same pub.

And he's still a moron.

Oh look, there's Fat Henry just come in. Positions his arse to the left of the bar. That's HIS

standpoint, you see. Nods to the lass, but she's too far away so he stares at the new lad, flustered

still and trying to sort himself out. See Henry's own tankard hanging behind the bar. See the

barely-legible inscription on its dull pewter greyness. He nods to the lad, explains. Training, it's

called. Soon as you see me come in this bar, take that down and fill it with Scotch. I stand here,

lad, nowhere else. Henry, that's me, that's my jar. Soon as you even think I'm coming in you fill

that jar. Henry. That's me.

They're all in tonight: George, Fat Henry, Don Dickhead The Mogadon Man, Frank the Fantasy

Man...oh Christ here he comes


5/8

did I ever tell you about the time I drank

2000 cans of Special Brew in one day

and then drove across Europe in a blue Maserati

without being breathalysed or stopping for a piss

well sometimes I'd smoke so many Camels I thoughtmy head would explode but I still had my health

no kid I used to play football every Sunday

go swimming at lunch and you know I could swim

300 lengths underwater without taking a breath

top scorer in the Sunday League twelve years running

I almost had a trial for Sheffield Wednesday but

by then I was a schoolboy millionaire from my first

platinum disk at thirteen with my own band

we called ourselves Pigs on Acid it was my idea

by the time I was eight I could play banjo

piano guitar violin harpsichord and flute

they wanted me to join the London Philharmonic

Orchestra but I had to think about the offer

from Jesus College Oxford because I was

brilliant at Maths but I wanted a real education

so I dropped out of the whole thing

and travelled around the world five times

and when I came back I wrote a book about it

and there were ten publishers fighting for itbut that was when I entered my poetry phase

and I won a big competition and everyone

thought I was the next Ted Hughes

and Faber and Faber were on their knees to me

but I said stuff it mate I think your covers

are crap and really I wasn't bothered because

I was into films by then and dating

Meryl Streep on the side but she got

too serious by half and I had to dump her

I just couldn't walk down the street without

some woman throwing herself at me I'm not joking

once you've had sex with 50 different women every day

since before you reached the age of puberty

you appreciate having a little time on your own

to play the violin or write your twentieth book

or start up a trout farm in the Highlands

with your uncle who's a good friend of one of

those ancient sixties rockstars

so nowadays I take it a bit slower likeI've cut down the fags to 500 a day low tar

and 60 bottles of bourbon neat and 10


6/8

new cars a year and sex only

40 times a minute but I can still swim

a mile underwater without a breath

and I bet you I can beat everyone in this room

at Scrabble and poker

did I ever tell you about the time I beat

Bobby Fischer at chess?

BUT I THINK WE CAN DO WITHOUT THIS AT THE MOMENT

and there's Larry and Mick, and Jojo and Scumbag back from Saudi, and Harry the Bastard

shouting about London and Fred the Car and Jake the Camra Man...

but my angel is telling me to look

at the less than a pint of liquid in my

officially one pint glass

but everyone likes a good head on their ale

says Jake, swinging his belly past my ear

tradition, he says, like watered-down beer;

insist, he says, insist on your rights

(and get yersel barred, says Harry).

Meanwhile in the corner by himselfDenis the Duffer, trying to catch

anyone's eye: his category

The Someone Who's Always Worse Off Than Yourself.

The bloke who never hits it off with the lads

and makes himself sick

trying to keep up with their drinking

who talks too loud when he should be quiet

and mumbles when he should shout

whose clothes are always just

ten years out of date

who drops hints as big as bricks

about girls and big deals

that no one picks up

the bloke with the unerring eye

for a bad bargain for the clapped-out

and the duff that everyone

sees coming whose personality is

attractive as armpits whose

banter's exciting as Lloyds Registerwhose life would make

a saint weep thinking


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thank God I'm not like him

who battles against all odds

for a good job and the respect

of his peers and fails

with boring consistency

every time.

And just across the way from him, sitting at the cramped table, sneakily staring at the figures of

the two girls who sit sideways to him, ignoring him through their smoke and talk, Sam the

Unpublished Poet, dressed in black. How serious he looks, how deep in obscure profundities

and reams of erudition, how lost in raptures of heart-bursting emotion, how bitter at society's

beery disdain for the sensitive, the fragile, the cultured, the...etc. He's penning a new poem in

his (black) notebook. It's all to do with love and eternity and how they're both like drugs and

how life turns round and kicks you in the crutch and he really fancies the girl on the right and

is sure he's seen her on the mystical 41 bus in the last week and should he ask her something

serious to get her interested...

But over there, louder than he should be to a friend, look, says my angel, the Flaunter of Secrets

himself, flapping a text in front of him

This book, you see, this here book,

this book contains all the rules,

all the regulations, like,

that the members must abide by.

Contravention is a serious matter,it's no joke, mate, no laughing game.

No, you can't have a look.

It's against the rules

to let you see the rules.

Because you aren't a member, like,

you aren't One of Us.

Not anyone can join, you know,

it's not for any old TomDick&Harry

(Harry in his far corner shouts

an' I wouldn't fucking want ta join!)

Not that it's exclusive, though,

not like one of them posh gentlemen's clubs

or the poncey bloody golf club.

Not one of them anyone for a

gameset&match with Amanda and Charlie clubs.

Nothing like that, but special, all the same.

But you've got to be accepted.

One black ball and wallop you're out.

But don't go thinking we're a secret societylike the masons, with their funny handshakes

and little aprons and all that daft stuff.


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No, but we do a lot for charity. We have

a bloody good laugh.

You never know, mate, one of these days,

if you play your cards right...

but no, you can't have a look in the book.

I'm not so sure if he gets on my nerves as much as this fellow over here, the one we call

THE LUCKY BASTARD

you know

the guy that everyone likes

the one that

scores the goals

gets the girls

the exams

the scholarships

the lucky breaks

the good job

the inheritance

from a long-forgotten

uncle in Madagascar

I don't know about you (says Harry)but I hate bastards like that

....

Documents

Saturday Night at the Crown Posada