MARK THOMAS AT THE WEST END CENTRE 4 DECEMBER 2008

He came on stage with a cup of tea looking

like a younger Stanley Holloway ready with stories

about early heroes, free speech, Coke (the sort

you drink) and the toffs and sad ladies of Norfolk.

Mark's first love were these strange comedians

whose jokes were the landmine that killed Di,

performance artists like the one at the ICA

who stuck a yam up her bum while reciting

feminist poetry (which reminds me of the time

I saw a video there of a black man masturbating

into a pool of water and John Ashberry reciting

an interminable monologue that had something

to do with ghosts). To stop Donald Haw protesting

outside Parliament a law was bought in so you

had to tell the police where, why and when

before permission was granted. The area extended

around Parliament like the arms of a delirious Aunt

who want to kiss and crush the life out of you.

A self confessed bully harassing Coke

(the sort you drink) because of, well, you can read it

in his fucking book (Belching Out The Devil £11.99)

which he took to the Cheltenham Literary festival

and people slobbered their chops, shook their earrings

and shouted above their Times or Torygraph

“you're talking poppycock” while Mark screamed

“and you're a load of fucking bankers.” Afterwards

I thought I should ask Mark for a permit before

writing a poem but no doubt he'd only say

you have the right to protest, even against me,

and write a shitty little poem that doesn't rhyme.