Home House

I spent last night getting drunk with artistic types.

I should probably clarify that this isn't usually the type of thing I do on a Monday night; it's not usually the type of thing I do any night. Well getting drunk is a not irregular occurrence and many of my friends could be described as fairly artistic but the arty-ness of the attendees of Home House's Poetry Salon was of a level that myself and some friends in a quiet Buckinghamshire pub could never hope to attain.

I'm not exactly sure why the four of us - dressed as a geography teacher (myself), an estate agent (Mylz), that kid who always gets bullied in school (George), and Marilyn Monroe (Alexis, the only one who seemed to treat the night with the gravitas that it evidently merited) - were invited to share the space with fashion designers, visual artists and a man who collected cravats. Nevertheless they were wonderfully hospitable, served excellent wine and soon we were on a balcony discussing Reiki and star signs as though spiritualism wasn't completely fucking retarded.

I soon started structuring my drinking around cliches:
"I think science is really only one way of looking at the world" I took a sip
"I have my own version of faith taken from all over the world" I took a sip
"Feng shui's been around for thousands of years, it can't be all nonsense" I took a sip
"You always know when you have a spiritual connection with people, it's like souls" I took a sip
"I think in eastern countries they have a much more holistic world view." I finished my glass and returned to the bar for another.

Outside of the musings on the theme of 'reality is subjective' the conversation had a rather flamboyant feel. All greetings were enthusiastic, all compliments effusive, and all criticisms had multiple layers of meaning. The dialogue could have been scripted by Hollinghurst.

After one of the world's most famous hat designers, a man who was only a Sea of Fog away from being the subject of a Friedrich painting, had paid complement to our host in the form of a poem he had written called 'Don't Bet Your Money on a Disco Bunny' (one in which Simon, the host and enthusiastic cravat collector, was killed by a falling mirror ball - this poem incidentally was one of the few of the night that at least had the decency to rhyme), it was our turn to recite.

My poem was rather warmly received so I'm including it here for posterity.

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I Hate Students

You boast of your post-sexuality,

Your craven carnality, your gender duality,

Your great versatility, your great self-discovery,

Your “creative facility”, your spiritual alacrity.

You recollect some great voyage when you were guided by fate,

You were leading the world to a far greater state;

Fought for Palestinians in Pakistan, sued for peace in Uganda

Although, from your continued existence, I gather

You did both while straight.

You bear the great burden of being born middle class,

With your moral duplicity and internalised fallacies

You don’t sense any antipathy for your cross-cultural farce.

How does one travel the world with one’s head up one’s arse?

Strictly out of interest, please sate my curiosity

What exactly the fuck is pan-sexuality?

What makes you not bi, straight or gay?

Do you fuck furniture or beasts of the forest?

Yes you worked as a florist and once wore a dress

Neither’s courageous, neither outrageous

The former’s a job and the latter is clothing

Though I can’t help but noting that you carried it quite well

You’ll be a gorgeous young woman when your breasts finally swell.

You talked about Tennyson, opined on Dickinson

While, as is my habit, I gave your bookshelf a scan

And you read aloud Tony Harrison as we sat in your garrison

Two hundred students and twats to a man

Occidental Philology sits with Oriental Philosophy

Not one title under a century old

The dust, while aesthetically pleasing, is very revealing

Cracked spines of red leather and I’m wondering whether

You’ve read between a single fold.

No, to your credit (with my complete condescension)

You’ve read Siddhattha and Veda without comprehension.

You hold some ludicrous notion of a great Eastern School

Get thee to an ashram; you know nothing at all!

But you know what I hate, what I really despise?

Your universal empathy and all that belies

You’ve done persecution, poverty, faced eviction and starved

You’re a public schoolboy, that gap year must have been hard.

You’ve been terribly oppressed you complain without fail,

Oh how awful it is to be white, straight and male.