I'll be sending personal invitations to Steven Gerrard, Leighton Baines, and Wayne Rooney for the next live poetry event I hold in Liverpool.
The reason? I think attending poetry nights will help those gentlemen become more articulate.
And I want to help them. So that I won't have to endure them saying stuff like "errmm, you know ... the lads are all, errrm, all positive, you know, errmmm" with such tedious regularity on City Talk 105.9 FM.
We turned up in plenty of time to run The Liver Bards - our live poetry night at the Ship & Mitre in Dale Street, Liverpool, this Monday evening just gone.
The statue of Queen Mary on the ramparts of the nearby tunnel exit winked at us - a warning, as it turns out.
Because on arrival at the pub the poet Roger Cliff-Thompson and I noticed that the stairway leading to our regular performance space - the large Art Deco-style 'higher room' - had already been unlocked.
Very bad things can and do can happen. Sometimes.
In Warrington town centre in March 1993 two bombs exploded. Two boys lost their lives and dozens of people were injured. What happened in the aftermath is told in a NEW PLAY to be given a public first reading at the Melrose Hall, Melrose Avenue, Hoylake, Wirral, CH47 3BU, tonight, Monday 8 July, starting 7.30pm.
Scales fall from teary-weary eyes. Bridges burn over salted water.
Poets march to the end of the territory, where words of beauty, truth, justice, satire, politics, spiritual questing, empathy and humour (never forget that most human of qualities, humour) will be spoken. Yes!
Fine writing will be celebrated orally and aurally at the BARDS open floor poetry this coming MONDAY 10 JUNE, 7.50pm start, at the ancient Magazine pub, Magazine Row, CH45 1HP, in the magic realism resort of New Brighton.
The city fathers and taxpayer-funded culture industry in Liverpool must stop banging on about The Beatles!
And they should cease hiring sad Mop Top tribute acts.
Yes, the Beatles were good. VERY good.
I grew up with them in the 1960s and loved them. They transformed Britain; made us feel happy and good about ourselves.
I went to New Brighton's new and only Wetherspoon pub for the first time recently.
It was a late doors visit, following a long shift at work then having to go home, make dinner and have a shower. Got into the Spoons at 10.45pm.
Good cheap wine. Spoons are very good for wine-drinkers, compared to the crap selection most pubs stock.
I am currently ashamed to be British. The continuing determination of quite large numbers of people to 'celebrate' the death of Margaret Thatcher has made me feel this way.
I was NEVER a supporter of Mrs Thatcher, by the way. But the widespread willingness to celebrate her death indicates that a big loss of compassion and humanity has occurred, and a weakening of moral discernment, among people of the Left in politics.
Vast amounts of mediocrity and bullcrap come our way in this age of digitally-powered drivel.
So, I've been trying to reconnect with real people a bit more in recent days. It's worked. Nuggets of magic still exist, I've discovered.
My fightback started after I walked out of a pretentious art gallery in Liverpool where a woman was caterwauling while a man played what appeared to be a glass jar. Every member of the audience stroked their goatee bears (real and metaphorical) while this racket went on.
By 5.45pm on a bitter January day 2013, following a call to the car mechanic, I'd had enough.
New furry hat on (thanks, Oonagh) then up the hill I went to the MASSIVE Ss Peter and Paul Church, New Brighton, Wirral (well, if you're gonna do the Church Triumphant you might as well do it New Brighton-style).
Six o'clock and I'm on my knees at the shrine of St Philomena the Wonder Worker - in there saying the special words provided and inserting my 'special intentions' at the relevant points. She was an early martyr of the Church, and my mum in Wigan carries her name. Powerful stuff indeed, whichever way you cut it.
Had a long dark night of the soul last night in New Brighton as I worked to extend my epic poem 'Thirteen weeks of gut-wrenching misery in Goole'.
The poem in its original form and length (259 lines) was published last year in the internationally acclaimed literary mag The Scunny Onion - run by Scunthorpe Council.
But last night I added sequences based on my time in Hull, and a most poignant prologue about the horrid experience of growing up in Wigan. I was a foundling, discovered on the steps of the Tudor Hotel on a bleak midwinter morn in 1957.