Stuart Campbell's Blog
Group confession
I’m not certain if a blogspot is the best place for a confession. In this secular age it may have to do as an alternative to kneeling in the dark before some old priest and intoning ‘Bless me father for I have sinned’… ‘On your own or with others my son?’.. ‘On my own father but there were others watching, and I have done it in several places.’
The first occasion was a book group in a posh part of Edinburgh. The sin was secretly enjoying being the centre of attention and being treated with a deference scarcely merited as I willingly played the part of being an AUTHOR. The thing is, the groups invariably consist of women of a certain vintage. It’s problematic father, I had inappropriate lustful thoughts. I know that some of them were even older than me, but 60 is a difficult age…
The fact that I thought I was the centre of attention may have been a delusion, perhaps this whole adventure is no more than a delusional figment, the ostensibly interested matrons may have been part of the multi disciplinary care package carefully put together to nourish me and keep me safe. Anyway it worked. I felt utterly nourished and appreciated. And what’s more they all bought a copy of RLS in Love at the end.
And then my sin really took a hold on my soul. I wanted more. I craved the admiration of those faded matrons desperate to catch the odd literary thong tossed into their midst by a bald Lothario, gagging for every thrusting metaphor and double entendre. A geriatric Chippendale strutting his stuff.
It occurred to me that I should be careful what I wish for as I stood in a carpet of bat droppings outside of a large suburban mansion on the outskirts of Edinburgh. I was expecting to be invited in by Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Show. The gothic trappings were sufficient to frighten a man half my age. The flesh eating witches I had anticipated turned out again to be demure respectable women with a passion for love poetry and I suspected much else, especially if it moved. But this is the deluded ego speaking again. More wine, more cakes, more discreet dedications, and on to the next gig.
I thought the genie was having a laugh as he polished his lamp and thrust me back into 1960s Glasgow. When the patchouli fug dispersed I could make out the silhouettes of seraglio furniture, and most shocking of all, young people. What do they know about love for goodness sake? The only drink available was a bizarre Austrian infusion sucked through a blow pipe. The venue was the Russian cafe in Otago Lane. Mine Host was David, a man totally committed to poetry, live events and, inexplicably, young people. He exuded passion and spoke encouragingly to each young nervous student as they read their work to their peers. There was one very funny piece about condoms. If there is a grass root this was it. And then an old bastard was called upon to read some poems written by an even older bastard called Stevenson. I was listened to with a deference normally reserved for the terminally ill. The audience melted into the night shaking their heads.
As I stood in the cavernous hall of Leith Central Library I was tempted to address the seven seated folk with ‘I’m Stuart Campbell and I’m an author.’ In my mind’s eye I could hear the muttered responses, ‘Aye, right, dream on pal.’ And to be honest I don’t want to be cured, I don’t want to embrace any seven steps that might deprive me of this pleasure, and indeed privilege. It was raining hard outside, it was cold and yet these few people had given up their evening to listen to poetry. I owed it to them to give of my best.