8266/21185
The mysterious Hitchin stoner poet struck again today. I was walking the dog this evening, after a bit of a fractious and annoying day when he appeared out of nowhere and asked for Wolfie's name. He sat beside me and offered me another poem and it would be rude to say no. Also there's a 10% chance he might kill me if I did. "Fucking listen then!" he shouted, before laughing and saying he was only kidding. He's a nice guy and I like him a lot. But still, 10%.
He stopped to light up a cigarette that I suspect might have been illegal. I wondered what I'd do if he offered me a puff - that stuff makes me too paranoid, but also I was about to go home and hang out with my family. I decided I'd politely decline and hope that didn't enrage him. Luckily he never offered.
It was starting to rain and as the poet began to speak a passing middle-aged man stopped and shouted at him, laughing, saying that the poet was definitely to blame for the change in the weather. We all laughed. The man went on his way. The poet said that he fucking loved Hitchin. He is certainly not the most eccentric man here. Maybe third out of the three of us that were on or around that bench just then.
He's in his 40s now but wrote the poem he recited from memory 18 years ago and it was very prescient, about the government trying to drive a wedge between us all and why we should be coming together not drifting apart. It was a spell binding performance and he's genuinely very talented with language. He then did a short funny poem about weed and his mum and I said I had to get home for my dinner. I asked him his name. He's called John.
He did know who I was and said he'd seen me on 8 out of 10 Cats Do Countdown - he was wrong about that, as I have never been on, though he's right, I should have been. He said his dream was to do his poems in DIctionary Corner. I said I couldn't help him as I couldn't get on the show myself, though I would love to see how Jimmy Carr and the other comics deal with this unpredictable slice of reality, if drug-infused reality. John is definitely funny enough.
I thought of taking a photo of us together to accompany this inevitable blog, but there's a 10% chance it would turn up in the media labelled, Herring with his killer. And also John's anonymity is (sadly for his dreams of TV fame) what makes him so remarkable. He's a poet who appears anywhere as if by magic, not on TV at a time listed by the Radio Times. And there has to be a gossamer threat of danger hanging in the air as you listen to the beautiful, funny and passionate words. Jimmy Carr wouldn't dare take the risk. I'm going to tell myself that that's why the producers won't have me on either.
I'd been in a funk of exhaustion and grumpiness all day, but my surprise performance by John had lifted my spirits. I felt happy and remembered that life is fun and unpredictable and art exists in unexpected places and every human heart is full of love and emotion and quite a few human blood streams are full of drugs.
Like John, I fucking love Hitchin (though I imagine it's better if you're stoned).
Badgers and substack paid subs - two more guests announced in your secret area/behind today's paywall. I also recorded this month's Ask Me Anything and bonus Emergency Questions podcast today. They will be with you soon badgers. And the Ask Me Anything one is
behind today's Substack paywall. Or
become a badger here.
Ask me anything by emailing
arichardherringa@gmail.com. If your question is included in the podcast we will send you that episode for FREE even if you don’t subscribe!
