Welcome to the Post Grad Party

'Best days of your life at University. But enjoy it while it lasts. Come the post-grad party, the bank start gluing the Black Spot to your statements.' - Adam Mackie

On the last night of Temp/Casual, I enjoyed a reunion with some old university friends plus our Theatre Studies lecturer. From left, Chris Meredith, Andy Cupples, me, Richard Oberg, Julian Morris. In fact, one of the highlights of my life was acting in a production of August Strindberg's totally bonkers but brilliant play To Damascus, directed by Chris and starring the other three. Over 15 years ago. Big blast from the past. Chris paid me the ultimate compliment by saying he had walked out of the Royal Exchange's recent Five at Fifty saying it was bloody awful. Temp/Casual he loved. Thanks Chris!


Already the production of Temp/Casual feels a long time ago; five performances is not much really, particularly for the actors who are just hitting their stride and then it's all over. But given the acclaim the play has received, hopefully it will return at a later date somewhere else. Watch. This. Space.


As for me, I have to return to the real world. This I find difficult. No, impossible. Actress Julie Chapman-Lavelle said I had a poet's soul. This is true but in the harsh modern world, there isn't much call for poets and dreamers. I've been dismissed from several jobs over the years, and the same thing looks like it's happening again. The criticism I keep hearing is this: 'Steve, you live in your own world.' Yes, and it's a damn sight better than the one everybody else lives in. Creativity is the umbilical which keeps me alive. But sadly, I can't swap poetry for fruit, veg or bus tickets (though in my head, that sort of thing happens every day).


Come the inevitable Re-Start interview, I will certainly be asked the question 'What sort of work are you willing to accept?' Not what sort of work are you looking for? Because under the Con-Dems, choice has been photo-shopped out of the equation. If Tom Paulin was on his uppers, the DSS would simply stop his benefits if he refused to accept that gig stamping invoices in a drain-pipe factory. End of. Which reminds me: I was on holiday in Italy several years ago, and a bar tender - upon discovering I was English - asked the question - 'You English ... why do you work so hard?' I didn't have an answer


But I have a dream. Several actually but this one is uppermost at the moment. That one day, being bored shitless will be sufficient grounds for medical retirement. Yes! Or admitting that some jobs are 'injurious to the soul' will be accepted with an agreeable smile rather than an arched, dismissive eyebrow. As George Formby sang - 'You Can't Stop Me From Dreaming.'    


Interestingly, a lot of people responded to the poem 'Temporary' (supposedly written by the character Martin Coverdale) that features throughout the play, and said they would love a copy - presumably to stick on the fridge door. Well, here it is. Thanks for listening.




TEMPORARY  
After the matey snaps, warm handshakes   

and Harvey’s Cream reception

comes the mourning.

The bright robes of academia

exchanged for sackcloth and ashes.

And warm memories

of daytime soaps and lectures

viewed through hazy, alcohol heavy eyes,

fade like burnt diary pages.

Ambition folds in on itself

like a collapsed star.

Drudgery becomes our buzz word,

a smoking tattoo, iron branded

onto our once hungry skins.

But there is unity in disillusionment.

We are Godzilla, they are Japan.

They’ll never win.

Not as long as we have the mind to daydream,

And the breath to tell them - ‘Shove it.’