Biography

*****Upcoming Gigs******

19th November 2008

Kulture Klub
at Leo Soloman Gallery, Art Dept, Hopwood Hall College, St. Mary’s Gate OL12 6RY -
6.30pm
I'm co-ordinating this one and putting on the buffet yum yum. You may also get to see me perform too.


Every 3rd Sunday of the month - Olde Boars Head, Middleton - 8pm-10pm
Performing & Event Co-Ordinator (please contact me should you need any advice/details/encouragement).



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I graduated in 2007 from the University of Bolton with a 2:1 in BA (Hons) Creative Writing and Writing For Stage, Screen and Radio and again in 2008 with a PGDE in Adult Literacy.

I'm based in Bury and am the organiser of the LitaBury festival, a yearly event aimed at promoting reading, writing and learning in an enjoyable and inclusive way to the people of Bury. I am an elected trustee, fundraiser, drama teacher (and other random jobs as required) for Streetwise2000, a Bury-based young people's charity.

I have performed my poetry at various venues across the North West (including pubs, schools and colleges, libraries, theatres and festivals), and have been published in some magazines. I also write and perform in various drama productions and run various writing, drama and/ or singing workshops, (including at festivals, theatres, youth groups and in schools).

I am one half of Dirty Normans (the singing half)! A live recording of one of our songs 'Who We Are' can be downloaded for nowt at: http://www.supload.com/sound_confirm.php?get=1096526413.wma

I have written one and illustrated two Romany children's books and created the accompanying plush characters. I am currently working on a third and a series of other childrens' books with plush characters. As a part of my PGDE, I wrote and illustrated two corresponding Dyslexia, Dyspraxia and Dyscalculia diagnostic books for tutors and learners. These are already being used by several other tutors in a variety of settings.

I am a Write Out Loud committee member and Middleton night co-ordinator. I have performed in Bordeaux for two years running and had two of my poems translated into French.




‘Litabury was amazing, you created a wonderful, unique and friendly word-based family event.’ (Moxy Cassimir).

‘Gemma O’Neill somehow managed, amongst all of the other pressures of the day, to step up and do her usual stonking good set.’ (Paul Blackburn).

‘Gemma did good, the day was a success and I enjoyed our session…I was greatly inspired by the afternoon’ (Val Cook).

'A great performance and a very moving song...you sure can sing. Well done.' (Seamus Kelly).

‘Gemma was impressive as usual with a good all round performance.’ (Don Parry).

Samples

My Grandma painted her eyebrows on
And lived in a palace full of gold
She had a turret just like Rapunzel
And maybe a horse and carriage

My Grandma painted her eyebrows on
And looked like a lady from a black and white film
She had gowns and beads and long, long gloves
And grew special purple hair

My Grandma painted her eyebrows on
And never made me drink flat lemonade
Sometimes she had to breathe into a special machine
But she was never too tired to play

My Grandma painted her eyebrows on
She would have won all the glamorous gran competitions hands down
Other Grandmas just sat knitting and drinking tea
Not mine
My Grandma painted her eyebrows on




Magic Words

My Dad spoke magic words
To us at home
Our very own
Four walls
Four wheels
And well-worn route
Spinning, spitting centuries old
Dust into tidy roadside piles
Travelling to
Number one atchen tan
Rows of guitars’ static strings
Unsung music wedged between
Gleaming discs on tambourines
Pitchless forks and violins
Stacks of wood and wind and pipe
Picks and reeds and polished brass
Then we moved to mortar and brick
Three up, three down
A permanent pitch
Lean-to facing
Flagged out back
Well equipped with patch of grass
And primary coloured vardo
That were never built to last
But we listened whilst it rotted
‘Cause it told us about the past
At our last stopping place
It felt like we’ve arrived
Betterware and Tupperware
And three-births pitched up drives
Encapsulated plastic
Repeatedly discarded neatly
A million bits and pieces
In tidy roadside piles
And my Dad still speaks in magic words
Jallin the drom for magic words
To us it felt like miles




When I was five I wore dungarees
Except on Sundays
When God said wear a dress instead
And holey socks tugged up to cover
Over the plasters on my knees
Me and my gang of boys
Climbed trees, made dens
And fought with HeMan toys
I wasn’t welcome in the group of girls
Who stumbled along
The Back Breightling cobbles
In their Mum’s white stilettos
Net curtains covering rag-rolled curls
They wore old table cloths
Fashioned into gowns
With multi-coloured pegs
Chubby hands clasping plastic posies
Heels scraping pavements
Trying not to fall down

When I was thirteen I joined in
With the swooning groups of girls
Surrounding locker doors
And bedroom wall shrines
To the pop stars of the time
I practiced signing
My first name with their last
In inky letters on the back
Of my Maths book
My left hand propping up my head
As I stared through the black board
Ignoring the teacher
And daydreaming instead
For the entire time it took
For my pop magazines
To publish a new pin-up

When I was eighteen I fell in love
And it’s not the kind of love
That encourages kids to kiss on the bus
Or twentysomethings
With arms entwined
To parade through town
Their latest love bite
Proudly displayed above collar line
Or that makes some women fixate
On gowns and rings and all the things
They see on the front covers
Of the bridal magazines in Smith’s
He doesn’t have the looks
Of a pop mag pin-up
But with him
I can live that maths class dream
And one day try not to stumble
While walking in high heels
And wearing a real white dress
The kind that isn’t fastened
With multi-coloured plastic pegs




Blackpool Rock

“Welcome to Lancashire,
Where everyone matters”
That’s the sign
We weren’t looking at
As we left it behind, speeding past
Both desperate to be the first
To spot the sea and the tower
Strung up with lights
Illuminating the night sky
Above Blackpool’s brilliant front
But just a few streets back
Where pissed-up stags fight and
Stagger spilling their kebabs
Shouting at passing stretch limos
Stuffed with screeching hens
“Get yer tits out for the lads!”
Some girls oblige
It’s not a nice show
Out the limo window
That’s where the paint peels
From the façades
And the cracks grow deeper
Each season from the corners
Of once grand guest houses
No longer crammed with
Day-trippers or holiday-makers
But pasty-faced babies
Pushed up and down the streets
By Mams on the Social
They don’t get to leave
After their two weeks
Of candy floss and broken rock
Nowt to do but feed the slots
From a fat pot of two p’s
Quickly spent up with well-practiced,
Successive flicks of the wrist
Punctuated by the odd jackpot
They always put the lot back in
Forever chasing a bigger win
Even though everyone knows
That never happens
“Welcome to Lancashire,
Where everyone matters”
That’s the sign
We weren’t looking at
As we slowly drove past
Our holiday over
Bag of rock in my lap
Both desperate to be
The first to spot our flat





Location, Location, Location

Everyone knows my street
‘Cause it’s ‘round the back of Aldi
In easy reach of the chippy
And the newsie who sells booze gone midnight
Even the cabbies who run red lights
Know they can’t get away with clocking up extra miles
‘Cause everyone knows my street
And the route that saves you 20p
To put towards your fags and your leccy
Tots with exotic-sounding, fabricated names
Are dragged by wrist or reigns
Down my street
“What a shame” the old dears tut
As they fold their handbags into their bust
Then return to discussing the rain
And moaning that the bus is late again
They’re waiting to be taken away
Far away from my street
Behind the shelter, lads do brazen business
Buying and selling and smoking
And stubbing their cigs out on the floor
Only stopping to scrawl on the wall
That they woz ere on my street
A pit-bull tugs his owner
Past the corner pub
“It cost five tonne you know”
That’s where the money goes on my street
A middle-aged, mini-skirted lush
Staggers in to beat the breakfast rush
‘Cause twenty-four hour drinking
Will never be enough on my street
You always know where you are
From abandoned sofa to jacked-up car
Walking on shit-stained slabs
Barely anchored to the ground
Seeing the sights and hearing the sounds
Of black eyes and not knowing right from wrong
And that endless drum ‘n’ base that reverberates
Right through the bricks and mortar
And those oblongs of dirt
The Council calls our gardens
You soon learn that’s all you’re worth
You soon learn that’s where you belong
When you live on my street.




New Location

They’re regenerating my town centre
The uniform mall’s going to grow
And swallow up the last remaining row
Of independent shops around
If you really want to
You can study computer-generated stills
Of the scores of copy-cat stores
About to be set in neat and tidy lines
Designed to attract new shoppers
New people, neat people
But they don’t know
That ‘round here they don’t exist
They’ll get the same old clusters
Of bunking-off kids
Young lips smeared with nicked lipsticks
Stuffed into pockets in Boots’
Running and giggling
Avoiding patrolling community coppers
Pulling chewy in long strands
From between clenched teeth
Mistaking the grotesque for sexiness
Rolled-up skirts flashing their young flesh
To gangs of bored hoodies
Whose time is all spent
Spitting on the pavement
And puffing on communal ciggies
Modelling outside the chippy
Hundreds of pounds of the latest gear
Their mams can scant afford
And bragging about the sheer amount
Of beer and birds and hits and fights
They can manage to fit into one night out
Past them the crowds of mummies
Push babes shoved into buggies
Sucking on sausage roll dummies
Or drag disinterested toddlers
Clutching the yellow handles
Of their Happy Meal boxes
These are the little girls and boys
Who only ever play with Maccies toys
Their mums avoid the lonely old dears
Who spend all day sitting
On benches outside the church
Their tan stockings sagging into ill-fitting shoes
Wearing a heavy coat every summer
And every winter getting thinner
Clasping re-usable Mark And Sparks’ bags
Full of God-knows-what and waiting
For some unsuspecting person
To sit down to their dinner
To pounce and snatch snippets
Of company and conversation from them
Before sloping off to the station
To wait for a bus to take them home
Sat alone amongst the drinkers
Chugging lurid alco-pops
Snogging, shouting, swearing
Feet rocking more buggies
Shoving bottles into skriking babies
Formula dotted on once-stitched wrists
‘Round here it’s not bricks and mortar
That drags us all down
New shops, clean lines
Won’t make new people, clean people
Won’t change people
They can’t change people
By regenerating buildings
By only changing the scenery
By adding more reasons to waste
Our money and time and lives away
It’ll stay exactly the same
In the centre of our town




Dirty Norman’s

Back in the days when us kids was allowed
To eat our fish and chips
From newspaper misprints
Bought cheap from the local mill
Some lucky kids getting a glimpse
Of comic or tits printed in triplicate
In blue, pink and yellow inks
A challenge to read screwed up
Beneath chips dripping with grease
Our chippy of choice was
Norman’s on the High Street
Saloon-style doors separated his two shops:
One flogging sweets and the other fried fish
On each side expectant kids queued
Standing on tip toes for 20p mix-ups
Or hanging their heads out the door
To catch shouted supper orders
From the hoards of Mams outside the Shell
“Your Dad wants ten penny scraps
And don’t you forget to get mine pea-wet!”
Norman would swagger through the swinging doors
Wiping his grubby paws on the seat of his pants
Or through his manky combed-over locks
Then stand, legs parted, hands on hips
The Sheriff of lollypops
Choccy bars and cones of chips
Sticky finger-printed glass cases
Chip-fat oil slicks, over-flowing bins
Grime splashed sink backs
His soap-lacking hands gone black
And that fly zapper in the corner
Buzzing yet another bug to death
The Sheriff’s face would twist into a grimace so sour
The Mams would always say:
“If the wind ever changes, he’ll get stuck that way!”
Surveying the lines of kids clutching sweaty fivers
He hated our guts, always shouting for us to
“Hurry up, I ain’t got all day!”
And as soon as we’d paid up
“Will you all just go away?”
We idolised him, wouldn’t leave him alone
All pictured our own future home above
A sweetie, fish and chip shop combined
Greasy feasts any time, pop on tap
Running amok amongst endless treats
I drove past the other week
Its long-since shut, windows papered, boarded up
So I guess that puts paid to our childhood dreams
Of being a Dirty Norman when we grew up




Home Is

They put me in a taxi
I wasn’t sad to leave
New Hall upon hall
Of pressure etched concrete faces
Eyes open on uncomfortably sprung beds
Sleeplessness encased in dubious sheets
Each and every wall ceaselessly penetrated
By midnight cries and threats of violence
“Get to sleep or you’ll get a crack ‘round the head!”
I needed a rest
The driver unloaded my life
A suitcase and a couple of carriers
Dumped on the pavement
Behind chained gates
Desperate for a rubber stamping
Interviewed, approved
And shown around by an old hand
Who unashamedly relayed his past
“Me Mam were on smack
Us kids were put in care
Oh, and that’s the phone over there.”
He pointed to where a girl sat on the floor
Matted hair and straight back
Her place against the wall
Laid constant claim to the cold receiver
Clammy hand cradling old plastic
From which declarations of absent love poured
A tower of ten p’s by her side
Each token buying a temporary
Release from loneliness
Stemming tears, saving cheeks
My new room was filthy with memory
Free to clean: I scrubbed
Every inch stripped of dirt and feeling
Inspected weekly, nowt ever found on me
Privacy and dignity swapped for bed and board
Those little luxuries we could scant afford
Bit of cash every Tuesday, skint by Friday
A cottage industry invented
For lads who couldn’t live without cigs
Smoke screen exchanges of grief
Hardened ears listening, hearing
Whilst well-practiced fingers emptied dimps
Into rinsed-out pie tins
Abandoned baccy
Found at bus stops, surrounding bins
Newly skinned, given a second chance
They put me in a taxi
A sweaty key imprinting into my palm
Empty walls, bare floors
And a new-found freedom to lock the doors
Behind me

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Last blog entry

Thank goodness the NHS can't keep to my pre-arranged appointment times!

Posted on Thursday 20th November 2008 3:56 pm

As I was waiting to see my blood specialist yesterday, I decided rather than read a four-year-old, half-eaten copy of Prima, I would write some poems instead and this is what I came up with:

 

Nine To Five To Kick Out Time

 

That’s it

It’s all over

The music’s stopped

The bar’s run dry

Once again the crowds spill out

Squinting and shouting as they stagger by streetlamps

To which the heaviest drinkers cling

Or push past the cloud of smokers

Crowding the doors

Puffing and stubbing and moaning

About the cold and the change in the law

It’s shoved them outside to contend with flocks

That break off and scatter

In twos and threes and fours

Lads like stags shoulder charge

And invite potential fights

The lass who spent the entire night

Crying and clutching on to the ladies’ sinks

Now blubbs on the curb

While her girls

Stumble in stilettos

And tell her ‘He ain’t worth it

And those mascara tears now smeared

On your new TopShop skirt

Will all come off

In a boil wash.’

Those at one with God

Stand on corners

Around their feet lies

A good night’s out detritus

Dimps and flyers and snapped off heels

And bottles from lagers shoved up sleeves

Their plaques remind sinners that they’ve sinned tonight

But they knew that

As they go home with some random bloke

Down a swift donner and puke in the street

That’s it

Fun’s over

Eyes run dry

Time to return

To life

To real life

To nine to five

To storing up reasons

To get pissed up and fight

To cheat down back streets

And to sleep soundly beneath a stranger’s filthy sheets

 

 

 

 

NEW SHOES

 

I’ll wear new shoes today

And stride a mile in another’s gait

My borrowed steps will be perfectly placed

On those yielding streets

I will stomp with a stole purpose

And swing arms no longer weighed down

By stony fists

But why stop there?

I could plasticate, sculpt and shape

Slap it on all over my face

Affect a foreign accent

And drape my frame in designer fakes

Create some exotic back story

I’m a writer after all

And walk tall

In my new form

I will walk tall

 

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