Pop Quiz... You want to interview someone, but they are unreachable. No phone, internet, anything. You even suspect they're "of no fixed address." what do you do?
Tony Chestnut (or how he refers to himself, pointing to each appendage - Toe, Knee, Chest, Nut) is the self styled peoples poet of Liverpool. You won't find him in open mic or revue nights, nor on a soap box or speakers corner. Tony's chosen forum is the pub. His medium the napkin.
Anyone familiar with South Liverpool may know whom I am referring to. Tony will wander into a bar or cafe, survey his stage and then set about making his living. For just a couple of quid or a pint you give him a topic, a few challenge words to rhyme, and ten minutes later He'll return with a beer mat covered in his undecipherable prose. You get to keep your poem, but the real value is Tony's virgin performance of his work to you and your mates.
with another successful recital under his belt, Tony then pinches one of your fags and moves onto the next table, and the next sonnet of his ouvre!
So far I've managed to find an
"No he isn't, bar hanging around in the streets of Liverpool and eventually bumping into him. is the preferred method."
So, with a pitch due Monday and a fantastically eccentric poet hiding from me 200 miles away I've set about phoning all the pubs, wine bars and vegan cafe's I've encountered the "People's Poet" in the past, leaving a phone number and email address.
"Hi, This is a bit random but I'm a journalist trying to track down one of your regulars."
"Err, go on then."
"His names Tony Chestnut, he's a poet"
"Scruffy head? Dirty coat?"
"That's him."
"Sorry Luv, we don't let him in anymore."
If I can pull this off I'm as much of a Legend as oddball Tony!
On another note,
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5 comments:
He was in the pilgrim this evening.
Tony Chestnut is a fraud. His so-called 'poetry' is a big steaming pile of camel dung. We do not like sardines or Tony's somewhat annoying habit of conjuring up a literary 'masterpiece' then relieving your person of cigarettes thereafter. His 'poetry' is tantamount to GBH of the ears of revellers of Lark Lane,Liverpool in the county of Merseyside.
P.S The hereinbefore mentioned'peoples' poet' is actually named Gordon Knox.
Gordon Knox, the apparent 'People's poet' has the flair and creativity of a hand-me-down sock. I am outraged to discover that this reprebate has been gracing Merseyside public houses soiling our lives with his profanities (poems). Here is a poem for him:
He calls himself Chestnut when his name is Gordon Knox
He thinks that he's a poet but obviously he's not
He smells of mouldy cabbage and he stole my Marlboro light
Gordon we all know you are a pile of s*ite!
Like his 'poetry', Tony's sideburns are fake.
You're off your head you Gordon la!
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