Fast Fiction: The Poet
Richard Mallinson tells a tale which leaves you thinking that certain poets would be best advised not to attend award ceremonies.
At the awards ceremony for the Hedley Bigge Prize third place had already gone to Effie Grene for her poem Naked Motion and second to Ken Fruff for Larkin About.
‘Pass the brandy,' I hissed to the others at our table.
'And now,' said the smiling hired celeb, 'we come to the big or indeed the Bigge moment and I can tell you, ladies and gents, that the judges are unanimous and this year's Hedley Bigge Prize for the best new poem goes to -'
Well, I was on my feet at once, ready to approach the podium to receive the winner's cheque. For who else could it possibly go to?
'- Lydia V Trilley for her wonderfully evocative effort, Wife.'
I stared. I pointed. I probably went crimson.
'It's a travesty,' I shouted, 'she's never even been married, not to a man anyway, she's a total and utter lesb -'
Urgent hands pulled me down into my seat and there I sat, breathing heavily, while a tv camera nosed its way inexorably towards me.
'... as a newt,' I heard somebody say.
*
When my first volume, Great Treats, came out, it was reviewed in Vanguard by Lydia V Trilley, who found it 'laddish', 'boorish' and 'pedestrian.'
Furious, I wrote to the editor of Vanguard saying that unless I received an apology in the next edition I would cancel my subscription.
'Dear So-called Poet,' came the reply, 'I see no cause for an apology. Signed Lydia V Trilley, Editor. PS: cancel and be damned!'
Now even more incensed, I wrote to the publisher of Vanguard, enclosing a copy of Lydia V Triiley's 'insulting and insufferable' letter and asking what he intended to do about it.
'Dear Useless Poet,' came the reply, 'Bugger all. Signed Hedley Bigge, Publisher.'
Sometimes I wonder. I really do.
