Review : The Fringe is an Utter! experience

From here on in - it's all going to be Edinburgh reviews - to kick start here is an interview with Richard Tyrone Jones who is running the Utter! Spoken word nights

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ThreeWeeks has a word with the ringmaster of Spoken word

‘Utter!’

Roll up, watch poets

Read, drink, then eat their words, free-

flow, fall-down comets!

Comedy, musicals, dance, opera and street acts are all performance arts that the average Fringe adventurer might expect to see in abundance. However, one art form - like a nervous marmoset - who has rarely tested it’s popular appeal by elongating its spindly paw into the bright roaring jungle of festival madness, has stayed in the dark. But now, one man - who is so unnerved about being popular that in his own words he “is as proud to be a ginger as any other ethnic minority should be of their heritage” has dared to snare the marmosetian art form and unleash it - in all its glory - under the scorching heat of the Fringe audience. This scarce and endangered medium is spoken word, and its ring-master is Richard Tyrone Jones and his varied show Utter!

Having successfully run Utter! on the London circuit for the last five years, Jones has decided to bring his show to “one of the most poetic countries in the world” to “reach a wider, non-London audience and tap into the talent of Scotland”. And tapped he has, hosting a variety of different shows such as: “Utter! Scots on Tuesday, August 12th,” simply “because often Scots feel like us Sassenachs are invading for a month so we’re showcasing talented local bards”, “Donut Night on Saturday 15th, featuring the recently published works of John Hegley, Tim Wells and Tim Turnbull from Donut press collections” accompanied by “a Cool Hand Luke-style donut eating competition” which is “open to all” and “Utter!’ Dead poets & puppets society on Friday 21st” where the man himself will “channel the spirit of Ted Hughes for ‘The Sylvia Plath story: in puppets” promising us that it is in “not as poor taste as you might imagine!”

But why now? After years of poetic dehydration, why will a spoken word show quench the thirst of Edinburgh’s eloquent elite? Is it enjoying a revival due to the acceptance of Carol Ann Duffy to Poet Laureate-ship and a few well placed shows on BBC 4? Jones believes the former to be true, but not due to the copious amounts of sherry that have become available to Duffy, explaining “the quality’s always been there but now it’s getting press thanks to lively nights like: ‘Utter!’, Luke Wright and his Latitude festival stage, and acts like Scroobius Pip, PoeJazzi and MC Dockers, some of whom have beards, but don’t mumble into them.” He adds that “festivals are open-minded enough to put poets on alongside top name comedians, authors and musical acts, and so am I. In ten years, I’ll fill Wembley with spoken word acts. Wembley Social club, that is.”

He also rightly suggests Edinburgh is the perfect pitching ground for less-mainstream performance types due to the “open-mindedness” of the audience; “An Edinburgh audience is up for comedy, music, cabaret, puppetry, all in one day, and at ‘Utter!’ they’ll get a bit of each in one hour, in poetic form, often from the same act.

It seems then, that if your bore of the usual Fringe safari and fancy a real adventure off the beaten track, to see the rare and the beautiful, you should venture down to the dark recesses of Fingers Piano Bar because, as Jones states, “Edinburgh should expect the unexpected from us,” and be rewarded with “poetry with a good sense of humour and humour with a poetic sensibility”

Utter! Spoken Word, Utter!/PBH’s Free Fringe, Fingers Piano Bar, 8-29 August, 17.30(18.30), Free Non-ticketed, fpp 108

Tom Peel

Poetry : Your insistent disregard for my blatant sexual desire for you, has left me bored of life and equally unfulfilled at the prospect of death

Through grimy back door pubs,

Through lonely time-stopped queues,

Through dour, drab taxi ranks,

I still couldn't find you.

Through green growing hills,

Through the layered dog poo,

Through rotten, starving live stock,

I still couldn't find you.

Through towns without a home,

Through greyscale avenues

Through tenants housed to die,

I still couldn't find you.

Through slave driven commodities,

Through a tongue-scorching brew,

Through worn, cracked china plates

I still couldn't find you.

Through the latest playground fad,

Through middle-class fondue,

Through kids mixing in adult games,

I still couldn't find you.

Through the shoes of the crocodile,

Through the meals on kangaroo,

Through piano's played by elephants,

I still couldn't find you.

Through all the different mindsets,

Through each day being your debut,

Through different reactions to mundane things,

I still couldn't find you.

Through spelling your name with an S,

Through getting a tattoo,

Through realising your name was spelt with a C,

I still couldn't find you.

Through finding different cultures,

Through escapades in Peru,

Through finding culture all the same,

I still couldn't find you

Through smothered in my bed all day,

Through catching my final flu,

Through realising t'was but a cold,

I still couldn't find you

Through waking up for twenty years,

Has faded life to blue

And death's as exciting as tea at nans

So I just don't know what to do.

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Dog Walking

The reeds welcome us on avenues.

They wave their tiny heads.

We walk long trodden paths.

My infant footprints more your size now.

I imagine we used to rest here.

You naming the trees and hills.

I standing precariously on trig point.

The wind battling me for the peak.

They scattered you down, glen-side.

You overlook the brook on flat tamed ground.

You're bored and cramped by inner city tourists.

They have days out on accessible moorland.

You should be here, on highest moor top.

The four foot marble pillar, your testament.

You orchestrating the elements.

People on pilgrimages to your point.

I only have other peoples memories.

I invent one here for you and me.

We are sat together, Grandpa and Grandson.

Appreciating the frozen bite on our nose tips.

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Tommy's Asylum

How proud I felt, sat there, gazing in my

mirror, as purple gel swept through my scalp,

braking the silk feel as I massaged my

hair in circular motion into hard spikes.

I drew my face into equinous shapes

as I applied moisturiser with heavy

hands, gouging my skin into a youthful

face. Donning my violet shirt, I ventured out.

With the rain flashing in puddles like snakes,

sky-blue, writhing in a pit, the fifteen

minute walk, was drenched out of my lazy mind.

I took out my phone and called for a taxi.

"Fifteen minutes" they said. Ironic, but

I would be warm and dry. Twenty minutes

later a car pulled into my street, with

Goat's Taxis emblazoned on the door side.

I arrived at the Asylum, standing

among the hordes, pushing and jostling

as we entered the shadowed hall - the light

attracted us to the bar like moths.

"Five squashed frogs" was the generic order.

Sickly yellow shots, burning like hot oil,

as one by one we pushed them down our throats,

while our greedy eyes gurned and searched for more.

An as the poisoned-drink, hit our bellies

an then our eyes, I saw you there, a cow

on the dance floor. In an bluey dress, pushing

up your tits, right inyuh face, you looked nice.

My insides was fiery with brimstone as

I lustfully watched and sumat twiched down

there, yuh-no. I leaned to my mate an said

"She definitely wants one from Tommy!"

"Not if that cunt has ought tahdo wid it!"

He sez, as some lad who thinking that hes

tha dogs bollocks, starts getting off with you

an slips one of is finguhs inyuh bra.

"Youse lookin green pal" ma mate sezta me

"Go furah chunda!" Threw the toilet daws

ah spilled ontuh duh sink where ah splashed

some icey water inmeh fuggin face

"Looks like you've had one too many!" I ears

I lugs upinduh fayse of duh cunt who

was pullin you (slag) "Fugof" ah shouts an

swing fuh him, but the fugin cunt doghis

Es got me in a bear-hug an smashes

me onduh mirra. i sees vuh red stuffs

triglundun mafayse as he threttens tuh

brake alohme lugs and alohmeams

I get he schort ted owt of Aslyum

Sos ontuh Primea tuh get sum Ratmeet

ina pitta layed owt in one ofvem

litul oringch bockses an ex ter ra cheeps

Fuggin hav a bur gur too justabe

shaw wasa cunt itsgundunmehshurt Fuc

Sit on vis parkbench an wipe it aroff

ah vink parcbencheese are undahrighted

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : My first Hai-kiss

The girl that is sexy,

Is the one that with a glance

Turns her back to me

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : An Idiots Guide to the Death of Human Beings by a Literate Fly on a Variety of Walls

A human "being" is a curious name for

a species who spend half of their lives

lying in the dark competing with each other,

to see who can silently imitate their deaths.

Yet, when they have mastered this art

they are tested in the purest buildings

to see how many blips are left in a

machine connected to their soul.

The victor receives a glorious ceremony,

where it rains (without clouds) on the faces of the herd.

The human "resting" is then either, stored away

in the basement, gravely marked for later use,

or digested by grabbing orange spear-heads

until they are baked in a ceramic pot filled to the

brim with colourless sand and taken to

a cliff, trig point or mantle piece

to be disposed of, as the herd huddles

together against the wind and the weather

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry :The Overdressed Whore

Among the strobes and the beer-stuck floor,

You will find my protagonist, the overdressed whore,

Wearing loose clothes, which she left at the bar,

Unless she came out wearing just knickers and bra.

She spins like a whirligig, twirling her head,

Whilst the lads, for a bet, will take her to bed.

She's the last resort, the three am vice,

If you've had a barren night, she will suffice.

You can see her every morning, walking back at eight,

A degraded reflection of an amorous night,

Panda-run eyes, stilettos in hand,

A false number on her arm, blurred and signed

"I should find out the name of the overdressed whore,"

I think, as she slips shyly out of my door

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Walking Home

Out of the street, swarmed a hive of hoods

Stalking me with their gauze-like faces

Shoving and skulking, snarling they said,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

And as I meandered I met a

Beautician, with make up three men used

Who, muzzled and marked, mumbled and moaned

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

Covering my tracks, I was caught by a

Camper, carrying his kerbside crap.

Clutching and crutching, he coughed a clause,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

With my wife wrapped in my arms, I thought,

"How lonely does it feel to be you?"

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated

Poetry : Who knew that hair could weigh so much?

It shows a picture, hung in a hollow home,

Without windows or lights, but countless mirrors

Reflecting the cruelty, but hiding its form

As you try to catch it with a broken net

I don't know who I waste my time on more,

Me or you, you or me, me or me?

I get lost in my hungover mind,

And plan the ways in which you plot to hurt me.

Your distant noise means nothing

To me, I mean nothing to me

Tom Peel

Feedback appreciated...

Opinion : Glass Ceilings

I hate the term glass ceiling, it is pointless, ambiguous, more outdated than a beige floral motif and makes an irritable insatiable tapping noise when hit by rain. My 6th form centre (Yes, we had a whole centre, because I am one of those statistics who went to private school, even though it was in inner city Bradford - which has a lovely reputation for schools) thought itself useful to install an actual glass ceiling - reinforcing the thought in our compressed minds that although we were paying for our education, it, being from Bradford wouldn't give us too much of an advantage in the real world.

Oh and by the way, before we properly start, the subject which has led me to opening this blog by talking about glass ceilings, is of course the latest scare-mongering report on social mobility or lack there-off, written by those who mistakenly believe we are living now, under the same three class tier system as we were in the '70's

The problem with these reports is that they spout percentages and statistics in as much abundance as the Niagara Falls spouts water of the top of its chilly edge. These are then picked up by the media and taken out of context, go un-compared and get so twisted that they resemble the original statistic as much as Jacko resembles his original face. For those who are forgetful or ignorant, here is a statistic from myself:

"Jobs in the service industries have increased by 45 percent, from 14.8 million in 1978 to 21.5 million in 2005, while those in manufacturing have fallen 54 percent from 6.9 million to 3.2 million over the same period"

Just for clarification, service sector jobs are typically those ones which employ the middle class, i.e: media, education, health care, real estate, legal practice etc. While manufacturing are obviously jobs which involve manual labour commonly associated with the working class.

Now it doesn't take much to see that today the manufacturing sector is employing approximately 5% of UK's population, showing a reduction if not eradication of the standard class system. Famously, on the topic an unnamed union leader declared "No longer can I call on my comrades, who now have a mortgage, two cars and an annual holiday, to march for better conditions". It appears that the middle class and working class have merged - typical working class jobs such as plumbers earn more than teachers who were of course the stalwart of middle class sensibility:

"John Major in 1996 argued that “we are all middle class now” – in other words working class living standards have risen to such a degree that the difference with middle class people have become blurred."

This merge has given rise to a new three-tier class system, in turn introducing a new social class - the underclass. The underclass is easily personified in chav form - apparently they live on the dole, take drugs, procreate another baby in tandem with every cigarette they smoke on their 30-a-day habit and generally mug/vandalise/burgle and occasionally rape 83 year old women and lock their kids under the bed of their local, convicted child-sex-offender weirdo of a relative. Basically the kind you find on Jeremy Kyle

Moving on, it is not surprising then, what with the rise in affluence of the working class and the emergence of the disastrously degenerate under-class who are infinitely more poor than the old working class, that there has been a rise in the number of families with an above average income. This then shows why there has been a rise in the amount of people coming from above-average incomes in industries such as media and accountancy. The fact that there is a larger number of more-affluent families shows that social mobility is happening, take my families example for instance:

My paternal grandparents hail from a mill-town called Low Moor and lived in a small terraced house without indoor toilets - a typical working class family of the time. My father was born in the '60s hitting the job market in the '80s. Having not gone to college or anything like that, he decided to become a salesman, and after a variety of jobs settled in selling computers. He worked his way up as the industry boomed and now is living in a detached house in the more middle-class area of Baildon and drives an Audi TT. Similarly, after having their second child my grand-parents realised they needed a larger house, so my grandmother decided to get a job as a typist and they both worked until they could afford to buy a nice semi-detached house in the middle-class suburb of Baildon. This goes to prove that social mobility is extremely accesses able - if you put in the work.

To finish, as I am getting horribley bored by such a dull subject, where I might just be talking a load of shit, here is another quote concerning John Major:

"We have a country in which a former circus manager's son, John Major, became prime minister - don't talk about glass ceilings."

And a concluding sentance on statistics - just remember you probably have an above average number of legs!

Reading:

www.bbc.co.uk/news

http://www.isj.org.uk/?id=293

Opinion : I made war on Indie as a joke - it just got Personal: an attack on Skint and Demoralised

Disclaimer: This post is long, angry and has a tendency to ramble, for a clear concise and short summary on the article scroll to the bottom and read the footnote marked '**'

Ladies and Gentlemen, you find me in a distressed mood.

Not even mad, or angry or pissed off... I am distressed. I am more distressed than I was when Jacko's untimely (I say untimely because it was a long time coming) death eclipsed the Iranian situation and when Mrs Goody managed to pull off the biggest scam (dwarfing the one by Bernard Madoff ) by fooling the more gullible citizens of our great nation, that by exploiting her death for money, she was providing for her kids, rather than being the press-hungry, attention seeking ladette she always had been. In fact I am even more distressed than the time when my Mother threw my last Cadbury's Cream Egg out of the window, which I had been saving for two months because I wouldn't let her have a bite.

Before fully indulging in my distress, allow me to dangle the rope above your feline claws and explain about my oscillating relationship with Indie. Just like RnB, I love Indie. For me Indie started when the Kinks provided a fresh alternative to those who despised the brainless gene-carriers who screamed after the Beatles, and who in time reproduced children and grand-children who would one day sympathise with the aforementioned Goody and her plight. The genre experimented on a broad spectrum in various ways, entertaining the likes of Velvet Underground, the Clash and perhaps even Pink Flloyd in it's alternative umbrella before finally deciding to settle down in the mind of a well read boy with a prominent chin residing in the streets of Hulme, Manchester who went under the moniker of Steven Patrick Morrissey at the exact point when a young upstart rebel by the name of Marr simultaneously knocked on his door suggesting that they make music together. This duo, then decided to go against the current trend of over-complicated band names such as Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark and settled on an ordinary name of The Smiths. And as history would have it, Morrissey and Marr, joined by Rourke and Joyce, went on to create modern indie as we know it, influencing the likes of The Stone Roses, Oasis, Pulp, Libertines, Arctic Monkeys etc. Then it all became a little bit commercial and the offspring of those who had been listening to ABBA in the late 70's, decided to step into a different pair of jeans with drastically thinner legs and form bands such as The Cribs, The Holloways, The Guilemotts, The Fratellies etc etc who all have three things in common with each other:

a) their names begin in 'The'

b) At any one time on stage the following items of clothing will be sported; skinny jeans, horizontally striped shirts - probably in back and white or red and white - checkered shirts, Converse trainers, some sort of hat and/or RayBan's

c) they all have no artistic integrity.

Similarly RnB produced some wonderful music back in the day, which has now ultimately cumulated in a shit formula that Flobots have down to a cue - thusly take a repetitive 80's hit and add:

1) distortion,

2) scantily clad girls,

3)bling,

4) a muscular black guy who when rapping looks like he's having a stroke entirely centred down his right arm, *

5) high pitched women singers who certainly aren't the scantily clad 6 stone, small boy resembling, rib protruding walking vagina's prancing around upstage who were mentioned in number two,

and finally, rap over it.

I feel I just got a little carried away... back to Indie music

Now, I didn't mind about these new (or should that be nu - one should always strive to be street) Indie kids cashing in on a lucrative market. I was only mildly annoyed when frequenting my local night club to brave the waves of modern Indie in the vain hope of an odd Joy Division or Cure song, that I saw a dance floor full of identical looking teenagers in which my first thoughts were that there had been a huge fancy dress kerfuffle and everybody had came in the same lumberjack-meets-hair mousse costume - after all how could I be angry when I still had my Smiths (thanks Mark Ronson) sweetly serenading me.

But now, Indie has gone too far. And reader, it honestly pains me to carry on. Because, as you can tell, by these short, fragmented utterances, I am distressed. Very distressed.

And what worries me more is that I know that when I mention the name of this... (well, lets say the word cunt doesn't give him justice), some of you will look him up on Youtube or whatever, inadvertently making his hit rates higher and hence making him look more popular. Can I implore you to counter this by hurling abuse and rating 0 stars on this foul satanous beast? Because, Ladies and Gentleman, because, this excuse for a Northerner, has taken modern Indie, yeah fucking modern Indie, cupped that squirming gelatinous beast - and I'm currently shaking while typing - in his two grubby fucking stumps on the end of his slave-made Topman clothed arms, and unleashed it, on what I regard as the most innocently devastating form of literature... yes, that's right - poetry. He has done in three minutes what Keats took a lifetime to do - he made accessible poetry shit.

The offending creature, Matt Abbott, from the group Skint & Demoralised, has apparently stumbled upon what was his primary school book of poetry and made it into a spoken word song. So you don't have to waste any precious time or effort on this suicidal inducing paedophile of poetry, here are the lyrics from his song Red Lipstick

I like things that don´t make sense
No need for lies no false pretence
No pop-up dolls or pasted pictures
Dreams of fame or chasing riches
I like girls who like their friends
Not chasing blokes or fashion trends
She doesn´t care if she´s looking daft
That kind of girl always makes me laugh

Oh really girl I must confess
Yeah really girl I´m quite impressed

She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Alright

And I don´t mind when I look a fool
When I try being nice try and stick to the rule
Your face goes blank like you´re trying to test us
And I´ve used my bank of romantic gestures
I don´t mind when you laugh at all of my lines
I´ve tried to impress you a million times
You brush them off but you still looked flattered
My minds gone blank and my brains are scattered all over all over
And then you win be back with a look of affection
Your timing was done to real perfection

Oh really girl I must confess
Yeah really girl I´m quite impressed

She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside
Red lipstick fish and chips
Oh this girl does things for me
Alright
She likes red lipstick fish and chips
Orange juice and trips to the seaside

Let me reiterate, this person proclaims or has been proclaimed as a spoken word poet. Now for me a poet who makes forays into the musical world has to be extremely gifted - if he uses rhymes he has to be inventive, imaginative and exciting, he has to have good rhythm and his lyrics, as he would usually speak them, have to have a powerful meaning. Let us spend a minute dissecting Mr Abbott's song..yup it's still shit and reads like a twelve year old's love poem. If you don't believe me, listen to it... it's still shit. If even then, you are some self-pitying pig who cannot come to your own opinions without listening to Luke from the Kooks and goes to a gig to stand around on the peripheries, as not to mess up your bed head hair-do and are the kind of person who will get offended at that last sentence please take some time to listen to Mr Abbotts contemporaries. The first two who come to mind, as they are my personal favorites, are Mr Johnny Cooper Clarke and Mr Scroobius Pip.

The difference is, that in JCC's case, he is devastatingly witty and although prone to some poor rhyming he pulls it off in a cheeky manner and more than makes up for it in his rhythm and style of most of his poems, which are among the most imaginative poems I have ever read/listened to. Similarly Mr Pip, while having Dan le Sac to give an added touch of flare, sees beauty in the most obsolete places, tells harrowing parables and rhymes five syllable words that I never knew existed. Compare them now again with this wanker - I like girls who like their friends/Not chasing blokes or fashion trends - my dog writes better, it goes Woof/Woof. In fact I have decided to write a quick verse in the style of this poe... po... p... poat - Apologies reader, I can not bring myself to describe him as a poet.

Matt Abbot you are shit

If i saw you I would hit

yeah

Your face into a brick

alright

Then i would take out my tit

And force you to suckle on it

Now I realise this is slightly unfair, as I have used a two syllable word, something Mr Abbott is still striving to accomplish, but let me tell you, I wrote that without pausing and it is infinitely better than anything I have heard from the mouth of that penis-faced-cunt-tit-wanker. I plead with him to put his pen down, leave Poetry alone and return to Sheffield to make silver spoons.

* Apologies to anybody who has been affected by a victim of a stroke, a truly horrendous infliction. I can't think of anything which could be worse apart from the continuation of modern RnB

** Summary: Whilst Skint and Demoralised can create catchy music their self-proclaimed spoken word poet frontman, Matt Abbot creates the worst lyrics I have ever read. He seems to be on a vendetta to destroy poetry by making it shit - which angers me

Opinion : Politics - a farce written by egotistical meglomaniacs

I used to love politics.

As a developing young adolescent, staying up with my friends and discussing broad political issues after polishing off our shared bottles of White Lightning, Bacardi Breezers or other such intoxication's which, the friend with her sister's passport bought us through sweaty, deceitful, SPAR transactions, was my favorite activity behind; self loathing, self pity and trying to justify both of these through having sex in any place I could get it - which wasn't many.

Although most of our newly formed policies were either filtered from our fathers beliefs (the Conservatives group of my friends) or as a rebellion against them (the Communist group -no one supported Labour - why would they? They were in government) we still argued and debated with vigour, never once changing the other persons view - but more importantly respecting each others right to believe (however misguided we thought each other were) what they wanted.

This is why I decided to take Politics at A-Level, my first grasp for independence. I didn't want to be classed a Tory for nothing: I wanted to be able to defend myself when accused with those murderous eyes that one uses in accusing someone of something political, I wanted to understand why my father votes Conservative, but most importantly I wanted to craft my own views on the political spectrum.

Three years later I still haven't

But there is a good reason for this; now as a university student, when I look at politics, whether it be at PMQ's amongst politicians or in the pub amongst friends (especially, now I am in a more radical environment - well slightly more) all I am reminded of is my childhood, where my brother and I would constantly squabble on the most infantile issues.

Politics is a farce. The more important it becomes, the more farcical it is. The higher it is at a national level, the more farcical it is. But most importantly the more people look at it, the more farcical it becomes to them. It's like a Micheal Frayn play - all that is missing is the plates of sardines.

And politicians wonder why there is low voter turnout?

The parties spend so much time squabbling that they lose focus of real issues, common sense, and tragically, popular interest. Even at a university level - a nursery for people to mould and perfect their political values - the politics is so farcical that it is misrepresenting its union's students both locally and nationally. Half the students of this country believe that NUS is just a McDonald's discount shop, but the other half hold the common view that it is weak, cracked and fundamentally flawed. Week after week, it wastes money supporting those who don't need it's support, time on issues that are not relevant and effort internally squabbling which could be used to extend there McDonald's discounts to Burger King.

We are supposedly going through the worst economic period since the Great Depression. A time when people are desperate, a time when people feel trapped and a time crucially of discontent. All throughout history, at times such as these, the arts flourish - in theatre Meyerhold, Brecht and even Orton, in music the whole punk movement, The Smiths and the Jam to name a few, in comedy Charlie Chaplin, and art - well if I knew anything about art I guess I would be able to make the same connections. The point being is in time of crisis and failing politics - artists react politically. But what have we seen as of yet from the art world since the recession? Nothing of note. For me, this is a devistating sign showing how people are disenchanted with Politics

I would like to see someone stand up in politics for me - I don't care about his policies. Just a straight-talker who takes no nonsense. Somebody who is clever enough to engineer himself out of traps set by the opposition, someone who can encourage the public to be less fickle, someone who is courageous enough to go against the trend because he believes it's the right thing to do. In short I want a leader, someone who will set an example to the 646 politicians sat in the House of Commons who, although being different colours, lie in the same jelly mode labeled; 'what a politician should be'.

In short, after the next general election I want to turn on the politics channel and see 'Batman MP'