happiness is a tent in Glastonbury

Former Member

Every year I go to the comedy/cabaret tent at Glastonbury festival and watch Atilla the Stockbroker and this poem always fills me with so mych happiness….you have to read it all, read it outloud if you can!
Frogspawn Man versus the Boy Racers
Attila the Stockbroker.

Mid nineties.
March.
West Sussex.
I’ve been to a stream
Next to the A27
Looking for frogspawn
To populate our brand new garden pond.
I guess I first went there when I was about seven
And have been many times since.
The road is much wider now
The cars are faster
And most of the stream is gone
But one stubborn bit remains
Next to the concrete and the cars
And the frogs have obviously had
An orgy of Bacchanalian proportions.
I’ve found lots of spawn very quickly.
A glutinous, black-speckled mess
Fills my bucket.
It’s a beautiful spring day.
I’m very happy
Full of memories of my father
Seven years old again.
I stand by the side of the road
Next to the traffic lights
And wait for my lift home.

Suddenly I realise.
That an inarticulate–sounding man in his mid twenties
In some kind of penis extension car
Has wound down his window
And is shouting abuse at me.
The lights change –
The glans glides off.
Then another man makes a two fingered gesture at me.
A car full of Techno nerds
Turns down the Techno
And hurls a collective Techno insult.
The next time the light goes red
A middle aged, Middle class
Southwick zip up jumper husband
In a middle aged, middle class Southwick zip up jumper car
Draws up beside me
And glares at me with undisguised contempt.
He looks as though he would like to shout something
But no-one from Southwick talks to strangers
Let alone shouts at them
So he just glares at me.

I stare back.
I don’t Glare.
I just stare.
I am very puzzled.

I check my person.
I am fully clothed.
My flies are done up.
My mud splattered T-shirt bears the logo
Of an obscure folk band from Wigan.
Does everybody really hate the Tansads that much?

I am totally confused.
It’s a beautiful spring day
I am standing by the traffic lights
On a West Sussex A road
Holding a bucket of frogspawn
And suddenly everybody hates me!
Another car hurtles past –
Occupants screaming abuse.

Then the lights change again.
A car draws up beside me.
A very flashy, shiny one.
The boy racer inside is shaking his head.
He is gesturing to me
As though I am about to do something totally unacceptable
To something very important to him
And he really doesn’t want me to
I stand there.
I gaze at him in absolute bewilderment.

His window opens.
Then his mouth.
“Bloody Squeegee merchant. Don’t you touch my fucking
car. Piss off and get a fucking job!”

I look at him in astonishment.
What has he just said?

Then I realise.

I am standing by the traffic lights.
I am holding a bucket.

He thinks I am about to start cleaning his car windscreen.
Without his permission.

I walk over to the car.
I tip the bucket up slightly
And proffer the contents to him.
It is his turn to be confused.
He’s a boy racer.
His car has a Romford dealership sticker on the window.
He doesn’t exactly have a herpetologist’s soul.
He stares at the contents of my bucket.
He doesn’t know what it is.
However, I think he realises that I’m not going to start cleaning his windscreen with it.

The lights change.
He roars off.
I walk back to the side of the road
And laugh till the tears are running down my cheeks,
Till my sides are killing me
Till I pull a muscle.

· * * * * * * * *

It’s march
Eight years later
My pond is full of spawn –
The great great tadpoles of that original bucketful.
As I crouch to look at the developing specs
The memory comes back.
I start to shake
The tears run down my cheeks
I nearly overbalance into the pond.
I run inside.
I write this poem.
I feel so happy.