SATURDAY NIGHT AT

THE CROWN POSADA

aka

MEN

Michael Blackburn
The poem was written for a collaboration with international book artist Les Bicknell. It formed
part of his exhibition, The Ordinary Made Extraordinary, at Essex University in February 1994.
The poem was performed at the opening of the exhibition. The resulting book was produced in
a limited edition of 10 copies signed and numbered by both poet and artist .

The original title was Saturday Night at the Crown Posada. This was changed to Men for the
exhibition. The Crown Posada is a pub near the quayside in Newcastle upon Tyne.

This is the first appearance of the poem in print (2009).

no sooner in than

oh no it's
George again
I'd know that loud
voice anywhere
stammering to a
to a punchline

we'll listen to your tunes George

but spare us
the jokes

(wrapped in a yellow
duster his shining
mouth organ)

George, Gatherer of Pots, Not-So-Surreptitious Swiller-of-the-Not-Quite-Empty Pints, Gadgie

of the Quayside Pubs, Dispenser of Crap Jokes, Stammer Guardian of the Sacred Tongue of
Geordie, Scatterer of the Gloomy Spirit, Collector of the Fallen Coin, Eternal Friend of the
Lonely Drinker, Unfixed Star in the Saturday Night Firmament, Character Designate of the
Student Classes, Film-Extra, Good Fellow, George...but purra sock in it willya man

PRACTISE THE RITUALS PROPER MY FRIEND

(it's my guardian angel, tugging my sleeve)

Observe, he says, the queue at the bar:

see how yon lass down there is serving
her mates and regulars first. Note
how the lad up this end is harassed and new
at the job, how this skunk-faced marra beside you
waves his sticky glass in the air
as if he were about to sprinkle its fragments
in bitter anointment on anyone close enough.

Ah but see there's a gap where the lass

turns to look at you as she slams the till
shut, and behold her smile. Up, my lad,
and proffer the cash and the words that
unlock the pumps. TWO PINTS OF SCOTCH PLEASE.

Ah bliss. Her brown eyes. The brown liquid.

The promise. The music. The cool glasses.
The tinkle of (not much) change.
You can, of course, decide to stand.
But we decide to sit. There, not here.
Back to the wall, with a pure view
of bar, door and window.
Wild west stuff. You see them coming in.
You see them going out.

And here's a little overhearing

just to my right. Two blokes talk
about old mates. And here's the English gist.

On the Absent Johnny Mottram:

some are born thick

but Johnny Mottram worked at it.

At thirteen demonstrated
the motions of sexual intercourse
between the desks,
explained the meaning
of the word prostitute.

He married young and played around

till his wife caught him out
with his bit on the side.

As she came in the door

he went out the window,
botching his jump
with two broken arms.

Twenty years on
in the same pub.

And he's still a moron.

Oh look, there's Fat Henry just come in. Positions his arse to the left of the bar. That's HIS
standpoint, you see. Nods to the lass, but she's too far away so he stares at the new lad, flustered
still and trying to sort himself out. See Henry's own tankard hanging behind the bar. See the
barely-legible inscription on its dull pewter greyness. He nods to the lad, explains. Training, it's
called. Soon as you see me come in this bar, take that down and fill it with Scotch. I stand here,
lad, nowhere else. Henry, that's me, that's my jar. Soon as you even think I'm coming in you fill
that jar. Henry. That's me.

They're all in tonight: George, Fat Henry, Don Dickhead The Mogadon Man, Frank the Fantasy
Man...oh Christ here he comes
did I ever tell you about the time I drank
2000 cans of Special Brew in one day
and then drove across Europe in a blue Maserati
without being breathalysed or stopping for a piss
well sometimes I'd smoke so many Camels I thought
my head would explode but I still had my health
no kid I used to play football every Sunday
go swimming at lunch and you know I could swim
300 lengths underwater without taking a breath
top scorer in the Sunday League twelve years running
I almost had a trial for Sheffield Wednesday but
by then I was a schoolboy millionaire from my first
platinum disk at thirteen with my own band
we called ourselves Pigs on Acid it was my idea
by the time I was eight I could play banjo
piano guitar violin harpsichord and flute
they wanted me to join the London Philharmonic
Orchestra but I had to think about the offer
from Jesus College Oxford because I was
brilliant at Maths but I wanted a real education
so I dropped out of the whole thing
and travelled around the world five times
and when I came back I wrote a book about it
and there were ten publishers fighting for it
but that was when I entered my poetry phase
and I won a big competition and everyone
thought I was the next Ted Hughes
and Faber and Faber were on their knees to me
but I said stuff it mate I think your covers
are crap and really I wasn't bothered because
I was into films by then and dating
Meryl Streep on the side but she got
too serious by half and I had to dump her
I just couldn't walk down the street without
some woman throwing herself at me I'm not joking
once you've had sex with 50 different women every day
since before you reached the age of puberty
you appreciate having a little time on your own
to play the violin or write your twentieth book
or start up a trout farm in the Highlands
with your uncle who's a good friend of one of
those ancient sixties rockstars
so nowadays I take it a bit slower like
I've cut down the fags to 500 a day low tar
and 60 bottles of bourbon neat and 10
new cars a year and sex only
40 times a minute but I can still swim
a mile underwater without a breath
and I bet you I can beat everyone in this room
at Scrabble and poker

did I ever tell you about the time I beat

Bobby Fischer at chess?

BUT I THINK WE CAN DO WITHOUT THIS AT THE MOMENT

and there's Larry and Mick, and Jojo and Scumbag back from Saudi, and Harry the Bastard
shouting about London and Fred the Car and Jake the Camra Man...

but my angel is telling me to look

at the less than a pint of liquid in my
officially one pint glass
but everyone likes a good head on their ale
says Jake, swinging his belly past my ear
tradition, he says, like watered-down beer;

insist, he says, insist on your rights

(and get yersel barred, says Harry).

Meanwhile in the corner by himself

Denis the Duffer, trying to catch
anyone's eye: his category
The Someone Who's Always Worse Off Than Yourself.
The bloke who never hits it off with the lads
and makes himself sick
trying to keep up with their drinking
who talks too loud when he should be quiet
and mumbles when he should shout
whose clothes are always just
ten years out of date
who drops hints as big as bricks
about girls and big deals
that no one picks up
the bloke with the unerring eye
for a bad bargain for the clapped-out
and the duff that everyone
sees coming whose personality is
attractive as armpits whose
banter's exciting as Lloyds Register
whose life would make
a saint weep thinking
thank God I'm not like him
who battles against all odds
for a good job and the respect
of his peers and fails
with boring consistency
every time.

And just across the way from him, sitting at the cramped table, sneakily staring at the figures of
the two girls who sit sideways to him, ignoring him through their smoke and talk, Sam the
Unpublished Poet, dressed in black. How serious he looks, how deep in obscure profundities
and reams of erudition, how lost in raptures of heart-bursting emotion, how bitter at society's
beery disdain for the sensitive, the fragile, the cultured, the...etc. He's penning a new poem in
his (black) notebook. It's all to do with love and eternity and how they're both like drugs and
how life turns round and kicks you in the crutch and he really fancies the girl on the right and
is sure he's seen her on the mystical 41 bus in the last week and should he ask her something
serious to get her interested...

But over there, louder than he should be to a friend, look, says my angel, the Flaunter of Secrets
himself, flapping a text in front of him

This book, you see, this here book,

this book contains all the rules,
all the regulations, like,
that the members must abide by.
Contravention is a serious matter,
it's no joke, mate, no laughing game.
No, you can't have a look.
It's against the rules
to let you see the rules.
Because you aren't a member, like,
you aren't One of Us.
Not anyone can join, you know,
it's not for any old TomDick&Harry
(Harry in his far corner shouts
an' I wouldn't fucking want ta join!)
Not that it's exclusive, though,
not like one of them posh gentlemen's clubs
or the poncey bloody golf club.
Not one of them anyone for a
gameset&match with Amanda and Charlie clubs.
Nothing like that, but special, all the same.
But you've got to be accepted.
One black ball and wallop you're out.
But don't go thinking we're a secret society
like the masons, with their funny handshakes
and little aprons and all that daft stuff.
No, but we do a lot for charity. We have
a bloody good laugh.
You never know, mate, one of these days,
if you play your cards right...
but no, you can't have a look in the book.

I'm not so sure if he gets on my nerves as much as this fellow over here, the one we call

THE LUCKY BASTARD

you know
the guy that everyone likes
the one that
scores the goals
gets the girls
the exams
the scholarships
the lucky breaks
the good job
the inheritance
from a long-forgotten
uncle in Madagascar

I don't know about you (says Harry)

but I hate bastards like that

....