The Fleetby International Poetry Festival

In the heart of the Lincolnshire Wolds, where the rolling hills cradled the picturesque town of Fleetby, three gentlemen gathered at their favourite cafe which was tucked away up a tiny alley called Stinky Gowt for their weekly breakfast outing. A small brunch and a gallon of tea being the order of the day. Stinky Gowt was just off the town’s Main Street and in years gone by was a throughway to various tanneries that had once existed here. Nowadays it was full of little shops selling glittery crap and other stuff which served no practical purpose but which seemed to attract buyers nevertheless. 

Anselm’s Cafe, was something of a wart amongst the glittery windows. It was one of the finest examples of 1950’s industrial town greasy spoon. Complete with tin chairs, dirty tea towels and running, yellow condensation on the windows. The perfect venue for a good, sensibly priced breakfast. It even had suitably sticky and sauce-encrusted plastic tomato-shaped ketchup dispensers on almost every table and a vast jar of pickled eggs on the counter, next to the vintage till. All three of the gentlemen were somewhat past the crest of their middle years, in fact some, less charitable types, might have referred to them as ‘ those three miserable old gits’. The gentlemen, for some reason, had decided upon giving up a lifetime in commerce, to settle for the pecuniary limitations of the old age pension and become poets, poetry being a very broad church indeed.

Reginald Pritchard, with his wiry beard and round spectacles, leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Gentlemen,” he said, whilst wrangling a bit of bacon past his false teeth, “I propose a bit of poetry-induced mayhem. I have,” he paused for dramatic effect and took a slurp of tea, “a plan.”

Harold Baxter, the tallest among them, scratched his head under his flat cap and gave a low  and somehow scurrilous sounding chuckle.

“Count me in. Reggie. ‘Bout time something happened around here. Something, anything’s got to be better than watching the pigeons crap on Mildred’s shopping trolley in the town square. It’ll give me something to write about.”

Albert Macintosh, his one bloodshot eye twinkling, belched and then nodded in agreement.

"Aye, wake the bloody place up a bit,” he thought for a moment and then: “ Fleetby, Cradle of The Wolds, Jewel in the Crown of Lincolnshire, Home of the Unexpected. I can see it now,” he said gesticulating street sign shapes and knocking a long dead spider plant off the window ledge. “So what’s the plan?”

“The Fleetby International Poetry Festival,” said Reggie, “It’s bound to be a hit. 

And so a literary festival, to rival some of the greatest in the World was born.

Their first target was the town signs around the main roads in. They all grew an extra board, which seemed to spring up like magic in the dead of night, announcing the Great Fleetby International Poetry Festival. These boards were cunningly fashioned from recycled pizza boxes, varnished to keep the rain off and looked a lot like they might be the real, expensive Brown Signs. Well, from a distance and passing at speed, they did. Closer inspection was a bit more disappointing. 

Next up, the sleepy post office, where the rhythmic stamping of envelopes failed to set hearts aflutter. Armed with stencil and a spray can of lilac paint, which Albert had left over in his shed from fixing a dent on his Austin Maxi, they slapped a rude limerick on the wall by the door. It started with the unforgettable line:

‘Fleetby Post Office stinks, . . ‘ and went down hill from there.

Mrs. Jenkins, on unlocking for business the following morning was at first furious that someone had graffitted the post office, then she laughed out loud, her eyes widening at the unexpected rhymes. And then she was furious again.

"Well, I'll be…bugger me,” she said and then called the police, but gave up after six hours on hold.

The trio's hooting laughter echoed through the cobbled streets as they hobbled away.

Next in line, The Stagger Inn pub became their canvas. Starting with the inimitable ‘Stagger Inn and have a swally… ‘ The rhymes were this time stencilled in a, not in the least bit tasteful, puce-coloured spray paint.

The local drunks, loafing in the alley by the side of the pub, smoking roll-ups were all having a good laugh. The ladies from the local Resident’s Association were definitely not laughing. Not at all. Especially not Mabel Heatherington, who, for some reason, took umbrage about one of poems which contained the line: ‘who liked it a lot on a table…’

“You all just wait until my husband Jim hears about this,” she said, hoisting up her vast bosom and storming off like a particularly cross turkey. Her husband Jim, wisely, was keeping a low profile behind a copy of the Daily News in the public bar, sipping a pint of mild.

And on it went, lines like ‘A sweet little lass with a flute…’ and ‘A man went off to the coast …’ battled with ‘just as long as the squirrel stayed virile…’ and ‘A flea and a fly in a flue…’.

The grand finale unfolded at the Saturday market. A makeshift poetry booth appeared, with the trio at the helm, ready to craft verses on any topic.

"Step right up, everyone! Your thoughts turned to poetry, courtesy of Fleetby’s finest wordsmiths! Your wishes in rhyme!” Bawled Reggie.

“Any poem, a pound,” cried Albert.

A queue formed, people excitedly waiting for their personalised verses.

"I'd like one about my garden, please!”

"Leave it to us, sir. Your garden shall sing in verse,” said Harold, the line ‘. . .gave her marrows a jolly good squeeze. . ‘ getting him off to a flying start.

The day unfolded, and the three old gimmers wove rhymes of love, laughter, and local lore. All in all a very good day.

With the sun setting and the market winding down, the trio returned to Anselm’s Cafe.

"Gentlemen, we've given Fleetby a taste of the extraordinary. What a fine day!" said Reggie, blowing steam from the top of his tea cup.

"To poetry, mayhem, and the joy of shaking up the ordinary!" said Harold, looking worried as his rich tea biscuit disappeared under the surface of his tea.

"Aye, and to Fleetby International Poetry Festival next year. All we need are some people who can actually write poetry!” Said Albert, his one eye glimmering across the top of his slice of Victoria sponge.

“To poetry,” they all three cried, toasting each other’s tea cups.

“Hurry up you old todgers,” said Anselm, “we’re closing and I want to get off home.