There were words and music and glee and
delight
At Spring Bank Arts centre on a Friday night
With Luke Carver Goss and the Bard of Barnsley
That's Ian McMillan between you and me
On a dark December evening, we ventured out
To finally see Mister M about that have no
doubt
I've followed his feed on Twitter for quite
some time
To get to see him in person was an idea quite
sublime
I’ve read about these gigs - they always sound
such fun
Could not imagine that I would ever get to
actually see one
No one who would get me out ever comes round
here
Looking at the listings that Bard never comes
that near
Hold on, though
- on his website - what is this I see…?
There’s an
event in December just up the road from me
Emails were
exchanged and precious tickets were reserved
Would the
universe intervene in a manner quite absurd?
Arriving bang
on seven, my soggy rain-soaked cap
Was admired in
the doorway by a white haired chap
Though it’s
that sort of season, this was not some festive elf
I was rather
surprised to see that it was the Bard himself
We settled in
our seats and bought some glasses of wine
Not yet quite
sure how this night would fill our time
The whole thing
was a joy; we shouldn’t have had doubts
Because that
boy McMillan is an enthusiasm powerhouse
There are comic
introductions and introductions introduce
Mesmeric
haunting tunes only an accordion can produce
Tales of signs
and Barnsley folk; songs of drinks machines
A beautiful
song about work’s end made folk quite serene
The whole room
finds it’s singing about that mystery door
Now the whole
world knows where the coffee float is stored
We’ve all
learned it’s an ambry, not a cupboard, or a niche
But it’s not
the sort of place you’d want to store your quiche
In the interval
I’m outed as a loyal Twitter follower
And getting
that signed book’s a bargain for a fiver
Some people say
that it’s better not to meet admired folk
But Ian and
Luke do seem to be a lovely pair of blokes
The second half
then starts off just as delightfully mad
There’s a
beautiful performance of that poem about his dad
Boiled eggs and
science clubs then contribute, as they might
To some
astonishing Improv based on Saturday night fights
The night came
to a close with a song about Trainspotting
It’s a catchy
little number and got the whole room singing
An evening too
soon over, I’m still glad I shook Ian’s hand
We headed out
into the night thinking “Ee, that were grand!”
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