Cheltenham UK All Comers Slam 2004.

Saturday October 9th, 2004, saw the 10th UK Allcomers Slam. Beginning with the qualifiers in the afternoon where a list of 48 poets was whittled to 25 through competition, ill-health, fear and apathy and ending in the magnificent main room of Cheltenham Town Hall before an audience of several hundreds of people. It was all jolly good.

I was there wearing two hats, as it were, in my normal clothes as a performance poet wanting to take part in the UKs largest and most prestigious poetry slam but also as a journalist writing about the thing on behalf of the Festival of Literature's very own daily newspaper. So the fact that i didn't actually win and was knocked out in the Final wasn't a vast disappointment since I had my press pass and saw lots of other things as well making it quite a worthwhile weekend away. Although it would have been nice to win, of course.

In the typically generous AFH spirit I sat down at midnight in a pokey newspaper office at the back of the Town Hall and by half past midnight had handed in to the editor two completely different versions of my article, for him to choose between. One went out in the paper the next day and the other appeared on the the Stet Press website. I print them both here instead of writing anything else.

Article Version One.

There are three certainties in Poetry Slams that I've observed time and time again.

Firstly one poet gets a prize at the end of the evening and that's always nice to see, since poets tend to get little else. Secondly, another poet (sometimes more than one) nurses a bitter little twist in their stomach as they mutter to themselves on the trip home 'Damn it all, I was robbed.' And thirdly one poet loses out to another poet and doesn't mind all that much because the first poet thinks the second poet is actually really quite good and probably deserved to win. These three facts are as certain as rain in August and chocolate at any time of the day.

In this year's UK Allcomers Slam the winning poet, with the big pile of books to carry home (which quite frankly I couldn't have fitted into my bag anyway), was a dashing young man by the name of Elvis McGonagall, with designer stubble and beautifully typed poems pasted into a sturdy notebook. The losing (but happy to do so) poet was myself, the occassionally Yak-obsessed AF Harrold. Obviously there were other poets who lost too, and many of them were very good, but if you think I've got time or space enough to write their names down here, like a lyrical war memorial, you'd be wrong.

The real winner though, of any slam, is the audience, who got almost three hours of magic in the shape of a sampler of some of the finest performance poets to grace this land. They should be very happy.

Article Version Two.

Some things never change. For example, the UK All Comers Slam is fun.

That statement needs qualifying, and here comes the qualification. The Slam is fun for one set of people: everyone who is not me. It’s possible that it’s not fun for the other poets taking part either but they always look happy and smiling and confident so I don’t know.

I spend every Slam wondering just what the blazes I’m doing sat here again. I remember that I can’t actually remember any poems: not that I can’t remember the words to them, but that I can’t remember just what poems exist that I have written and could possibly whip out to dazzle the audience with. I think to myself maybe I ought to go have another wee. Sometimes it helps.

Forcing poets to compete in a competition is simply cruel. It’s like badger baiting but without the badgers and organized a bit better. God it’s a horrible thing.

But I understand why it’s necessary; it helps to keep the number of poets wandering the countryside down and really it’s much more humane than shooting them or letting them spout forth on street corners where they’re likely to get into trouble. But don’t let anyone tell you they enjoy it.

But the audience like it. And that’s the important thing because poetry is showbiz and no show is bigger than the UK Allcomers Slam. It’s a great big sampler-pack of the finest performance poets working in the country and it’s all collected together under one roof.

Oh, by the way I didn’t win, some man called McGonagall won and he was very handsome, rugged but intellectual. I don’t know if he was any good because I was worrying about what poem to read next. Ask the audience, after all that’s what they’re there for.

2004 © A F Harrold