Silhouetted against cold and darkening skies the vast Victorian monolith known as Brooklyn threw open its weathered creaking doors to a small band of foolhardy poets brave enough to enter.

The nervous throng of poets and musical wannabes were invited into what was once the master’s sumptuous bedchambers, sadly long neglected. Forgiving the backdrop of attic trivia and old bikes, one could not ignore the supernatural chill, a chill that pervaded everywhere whilst still able to keep the beer warm.

Our guest compare for the evening was the inimitable Rob Goodier, he was as welcoming as he was charming as only Rob can be on these occasions , but sadly he will after Sunday night, in my opinion, need many, many, years of therapy.  Lovely Rob is as Mad as a Hatter, and long may he continue to be, I only wish he could be given a contract for the forthcoming season at Dracula’s Palace of Variety’s. Those of us who know him well accept his own very rare and special variation to ‘off the cuff repartee’, and seamless adlibs not to mention his boundless energy and crisp command of an audience.

At best the event was a curate’s egg, an evening of forgotten lines and lost chords, and an awful lot of strumming and twanging, however there were notable exceptions the very tall stories of Scott Devon and the usual high notes of Dave Morgan’s monkey business. Petrova  Fairhurst  sadly was lost for words during  her special guest headline appearance  momentarily  dazzled perhaps by  the spotlight of celebrity, or perhaps just a little too much to fit into such a tight slot.  

Alan Gray, (Gordon Zola) whose distinctive singing voice is very much an acquired taste, gave us a wonderful rendition singing an excerpt from Bland sings Bland and on be awoken I immediately set about purchasing any available CD’s

Andy N caressed out whispered words relating to all things Merseyside whilst  the accompanying Jefferama, WOL’s own Brian May, ever in a world of his own, strummed his guitar passionately, his fingers hurtling up and down the frets like demented maggots. The sad consequence of which, was that he drowned out all the good bits, ahh me, ahh my, there will always be a next time.

The next time I believe is a Sunday in the merry month of May, thank the Lord that the longer evenings will be with us and there will be little chance of being dogged by vampires or ghouls that I’m certain frequent the inner sanctums of Brooklyn. Mind you there was, now I come to think of it, a very strong smell of garlic pervading the gents toilets, or at least that’s what I put it down to.