Searching the web for a shop that sells the <a href="http://www.librarygiftshop.com/porofwritfin.html">Alan Bennett chocolates</a>, I find one which also peddles <a href="http://www.librarygiftshop.com/viwomape.html">Virginia Woolf finger puppets</a>. The blurb is as follows:

"Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) was a distinguished novelist, essayist, and critic and a central figure in the Bloomsbury group. Her writing explores concepts of time, memory, and inner consciousness, and is remarkable for its humanity and depth of perception. Suffering from frequent bouts of depression, Woolf drowned herself in the River Ouse in 1941. This finger puppet can also be used as a refrigerator magnet."

Alan Bennett's 70th birthday today. For someone who is arguably England's greatest living writer in terms of acclaim and public profile, the media seems to be keeping this strangely quiet. But perhaps it's at Mr Bennett's own request. As someone who's turned down knighthoods and CBEs, he doesn't like a lot of fuss made over the achievement of being Not Dead Yet. "If you live to be 90 in England and can still eat a boiled egg, they think you deserve the Nobel Prize."

There was one time where he did acknowledge an award, in order to refuse it. It was an honorary doctorate from Oxford University, which he declined publicly in protest over them naming a Chair Of Communication in honour of Rupert Murdoch.

Last Autumn, I went to a festival of Alan Bennett's screen works at the National Film Theatre. The tickets revealed it to be part of a larger TV festival, sponsored by Sky Plus. Which is owned by Mr Murdoch, of course. He'll always get you somehow.

Some Bennett quotes buzzing around my mind.

From Prick Up Your Ears. Kenneth Halliwell on Paul McCartney:

"He's my favourite Beatle. I've always liked him. The others are too… <i>instinctive.</i>"

From A Visit From Miss Prothero. The narrator:

"Miss Prothero didn't laugh. She vaguely flinched. She was one of those people who only saw jokes by appointment."

From A Lady Of Letters. Miss Ruddock:

"I sometimes catch myself thinking it'll be better the second time round. But this is it. This has been my go."

Last Tuesday – to The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden. I've been there before, to see musical performances, to play board games with sensitive indie music fans, to get a drink and leaf through the cafe's books, but this is my first visit to actually hear some poetry. Including my own. It's an "open mic" event called Poetry Unplugged, where anyone can foist their attempts at verse upon a room of people. Naturally, such an audience is likely to suffer the worst doggerel in the world, but they might also witness something magical in embryo, and be able to tell the performer they would like to hear more sometime. Mercifully for all concerned, a slot lasts no more than five minutes.

In theory, it'd be better to go on earlier rather than later, before other speakers vanish after their own spots conclude. But then, even though they're watching, their thoughts may be too focussed on their own imminent performance to take in anyone else. I know mine were.

I was accompanied and emotionally supported by Ms Angel Dahouk, who works at the Poetry Society and who kindly bought me rather a lot of wine. Dutch courage is one thing, but in this case I just went from nervous to nervous and drunk. Still, I blurted out a couple of efforts, both of which had really been written that afternoon. Typically for me, I arranged the appearance first, then worried about what I was going to do later. Oh, I had ideas, all right. The ten per cent inspiration is never a problem. It's that other 90% I'm not so good at.

To ensure I got the work done, I went to the British Museum Reading Room in the centre of its Great Court, with the self-deluding notion that the ghosts of all those great writers who had sat and created masterpieces in that hallowed dome over the years would be channelled and funnelled through me. The reading room is now open to absolutely anyone, as long as they follow the rules – absolute silence, no food or drink, respect the studying of others. No membership or elitist application hoop-jumping necessary. Which is something that's always put me off applying for a British Library ticket – it's as if they're saying "How dare you want to LEARN? What, YOU? Prove you're not wasting OUR time. These books belong to the nation. So we don't want just anyone reading them."

Incredibly, at the British Museum, it's quite easy to find an empty desk. I think it must be the ban on noise and mobile phones. I'd extend this to people who wear trainers. Just for aesthetic reasons. Vote Dickon – guess what I'll ban first. There goes that deposit.

The place is, I imagine, noisier than the proper reading rooms at the St Pancras British Library, given that visitors to the rest of British Museum keep coming in and out to take a look (the space by the doors is technically part of the museum), and one can just hear the tourist hubbub of the Great Court outside reduced to a background Babel burble. But it's still admirably conducive to writing, when one thinks of its assets: none of the New British Library intimidation, and all of the Old British Library history.

Anyone whose mobile phone goes off is, I hope, ritually disembowelled on the spot. Silently. I find the tap-tap-tapping of the man with the laptop behind me slightly annoying. They should be banned too. Get one of those courtroom laptops with a silent keyboard if you're planning to word-process in public.

But I get the poems done, and the Poetry Cafe is the first to hear them. One piece, "Alibi", features me finally putting a stock phrase of mine to creative use. "Sex is the PE of adult life / and I've got a note from my mother". That's the opening line. Afterwards, someone comes up to me and says that's one of the best opening lines they've ever heard at "one of these sort of things".

I thought it would best suit a poem, partly as the line has a rhythm found more in poetry than song lyrics, but mostly because so many poets rattle on about their wretched lovers. Poets are notorious flirts, lotharios, nymphomaniacs. Far more interesting to write a poem about NOT wanting any of All That. Maybe it'll connect with people who have Dickon Edwards Phases. I have one of those. It's just lifelong. As ever, all I want to give to the world is something it can't get anywhere else. A sly smirk, some wry tears, joy on toast, pain on the rocks, Something Other, thank you and goodnight.

The piece wants to be described as pitched somewhere between Mr Larkin and Ms Stevie Smith, if I'm honest. Of which I prefer the latter. Ms Smith had better hair. And her brand of English Tragicomedy is more playful – there's more jokes. There should always be more jokes. As long as they're good jokes. When people go to see the most serious of plays, they still laugh at anything remotely jokey in the text. Not only does it give any serious message a more rounded form, it also is a good way of avoiding pretentiousness. If you must do something that teeters all too easily on the brink of pretentiousness, like spoken word, like poetry, for God's sake, use humour.

I don't prefer Mr Allen's early, funnier films. I prefer his later, funnier films. Because of the not funny bits.

So, a new experience for me. Hearing my words clear, not compromised by music or gig venue chatter. Strangers laughing at the funny bits – even if I wasn't entirely joking. Strangers shutting up and listening to what I'm saying. My appearance seems to make them think "my god, what's HE going to say…?". And so they listen. And not having to pack away a bloody guitar case at the end of it. I want to do this again.

<img src="http://www.fosca.com/spitz-340.jpg" alt="" align=left>
Here's the final MP3 single from the new <a href="http://www.scarletswell.co.uk/">Scarlet's Well</a> album. This song is called "Blubberhouses" and is written and sung by Bid. It's a prowling, Kurt Weill-esque portrait of the Mousseron butcher's shop. I rather like the line about "raw chicken… smelling like crocodile", inverting the cliché of unusual meat dishes (e.g. crocodile, or human meat) predictably described as tasting of chicken.

It also contains the origin of "Offal Manipulator", one of the higher ranks people can reach at the <a href="http://s6.invisionfree.com/Scarlets_Well/">Scarlet's Well Message Forum</a>, by posting regularly. Other ranks include "Scurvy Scum" and "Bilge Pumper".

Link: http://www.fosca.com/Scarlets-Well-Blubberhouses.mp3

<b>Blubberhouses</b>

<i>Down a greasy alley by the harbour
There's a foggy window in a bay
If you wipe away the dirt
With your filthy little shirt
Oh, you'll see what keeps the sailors all away
It's not the prices that sting
It's the look of the thing
Bright red, bright red, bright red mutton
Glowing in your hands
In a bowel-splattered apron by the counter
Lurks a tatty, gibber-ridden man
As he cackles in his beard
I try not to look weird
Thus, manipulate some offal in my hand
It's not the feel you mistrust
It's the mystical gust
Raw chicken, raw chicken
Smelling like crocodile
The sausages are standing to attention
On a chessboard made of little squares of silk
On the waxwork of a Prince
There's a wig of turkey mince
And some kidneys bobbing in a bowl of milk
And on a sign is writ neat
"Come to my garden of meat"
Give me, give me, give me your liver
Liver like it used to be</i>

If you like it, do investigate its excellent parent album, "The Dream Spider Of The Laughing Horse", out this week on Siesta Records. It's available to buy online from <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0001ZXOW0/ref=sr_aps_music_1_1/026-6467729-9354057">Amazon</a>, or <a href="http://www.siesta.es/pags/disco.asp?codigoSiesta=194">from Siesta themselves</a>.

There's a review in this weekend's Independent On Sunday newspaper, by Simon Price:

"Descended from Indian royalty (it's technically an offence for the Queen of England to step on his shadow), the man known only as Bid is minor indie royalty himself. The former leader of cult 80s heroes The Monochrome Set has been namechecked by the likes of Franz Ferdinand, whose Alex Kapranos is one collaborator on his new project, Scarlet's Well. With Bid's handsome croon alternating with Alice Healey's fragile tones, The Dream Spider Of The Laughing Horse draws on gypsy music, Francopop, showtunes, sitar psychedelia, and rolling indie-folk a la Belle and Sebastian. 3/5 stars."

All very good, but I should mention that the lovely Mr Kapranos's song in question, "The Spell", appears on the <i>first</i> Scarlet's Well album, "Strange Letters" (1999, Siesta). Still, for many that may as well be a new release too.

Tickets for the first Scarlet's Well London concert (May 26th, The Spitz) are available to buy online <a href="http://www.wegottickets.com/gig.asp?3025">here</a>.