Educated somewhere in between school lessons up North anduniversity lectures down South, Fergus McGonigal decided tocompromise by moving to the Midlands, where he spent twenty-one years teaching drama and English. This came to an end in2013, when he became a full-time performance poet and writer.Fergus is the public face of Worcestershire’s LitFest and Fringe,hosting their monthly spoken word night, the entertaining andpopular Worcester SpeakEasy. He was recently appointedWorcestershire Poet Laureate. The obligatory ‘multiple-slamwinner’ epithet applies, although these days he’s more likely tohost slams than take part in them. The Failed Idealist’s Guide to theTatty Truth is his frst collection of poetry, and hopefully not hislast.

The Failed Idealist’s Guide to

The Tatty Truth

Fergus McGonigal

Burning Eye

Copyright © 2014 Fergus McGonigal

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designsand Patents Act 1988 to be identifed as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in anyform or by any means without the prior written consent of theauthor, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding orcover other than that in which it is published and without a

similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This edition published by Burning Eye Books 2014

www.burningeye.co.uk

@burningeye

Burning Eye Books

15 West Hill, Portishead, BS20 6LG

ISBN 978 1 90913 640 3

What’s in a Word?

Pity the person who eschews the long word,For fear of appearing a geek, freak or nerd.Their words will be short, never sesquipedalian,The polysyllabic to them is quite alien.Their lines never stretch; they are taut, not elastic.They’ll never enjoy being iconoclastic,Rumbustious, exceptional, verisimilitudinous,Perspicacious, effcacious, or even platitudinous.Long words make them sick, but sick, and not bilious.They like to be right, but that’s right, not punctilious.They don’t talk a lot (they’re afraid of loquacity),Those who only trust words of limited capacity.

Which is all very well, but…

A word’s just a word, whatever its size,And sometimes ‘stupefaction’ works better than ‘surprise’.Long words don’t always spell out obfuscation,And it’s fun to indulge in long-word-fascination.A sesquipedalianist’s simply inquisitive,Semantically broad, verbally acquisitive.So let’s lead a euphoric, cock-a-hoop celebration,And make this a sesquipedalian nation.We’ll start with some floccinaucinihilipilifcation.

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The Other Half Is Figurative

Oh, where are you going, my petal, With such an original hat?

When I asked you to put on the kettle, I wasn’t envisaging that.

I know that you like to be daring, But people might openly laugh

If you do so insist upon wearing A kettle to go with your scarf.

Oh, where are you off to so late, Looking all hip and night-clubbish?

I didn’t mean go on a date, When I asked you to take out the rubbish.

I know that you like to snub fashion, But people might think that it’s rash

To engage in a throwaway passion With a bin-liner full of our trash.

Oh, why are you screaming, my poppet?By and large, you’re of much fner fettle.

Open your hand. And now drop it. Oh, my word – you were grasping a nettle?

Look, I know you’re a fool for precision, But it makes you take things the wrong way,

So in future please make the decision To ignore half of all that I say.

13

The Poem Which You’ve Heard a Thousand Times Before

How’s it going? Nice to see ya! Who ate all the pies?Start from scratch. Because you’re worth it. What a nice surprise!Talk the hind legs off a donkey. Someone’s for the chop.Get behind me, Satan! Who’s the daddy? Don’t talk shop.

The truth will out. I’ve started so I’ll fnish. What’s the score?Read my lips. The lady’s not for turning. This means war.The odds were stacked against us. It’s a race against the clock.Quit while you’re ahead. I’m sorry. Where’s my other sock?

How about a refll? Put the gun down. What’s for tea?I tawt I taw a puddy tat. To be or not to be.Give a dog a bad name. Where’s the car? It could be you!Money makes the world go round. You’re joking! Peek-a-boo!

Ladies frst. I beg your pardon. Don't be shy. You're on.Look at what the cat dragged in. Say cheese! The magic's gone.On yer bike. Forget I even said it. Watch this space.Turn left at the traffc lights. Mañana. Just in case.

Wait a sec. Don't be a hero. Bad luck comes in threes.Global warming. Turn the lights off. Run for cover. Freeze!Take no prisoners. Call the cops. Put both hands in the air.I'm a little teapot. Leave this instant. It's not fair!

Dig for victory! Last man standing. Feel the love. Get lost!Be with you in a minute. What’s the story? Count the cost.Face the music. Get a life. Excuse my French! You what?Strength in depth. No time to lose. The End(-ish). Dot, dot, dot…

22

Scale

Some clever people in this world,with too much time but little sense,can carve the Gettysburg Addressinto a tiny grain of rice.

I had a go at this myself,but chose a more familiar pieceto begin my carving career:the sixth track from The Queen Is Dead.

And things went pretty well, at frst:I bought my tools, I bought my rice,then checked the lyrics just in caseI'd misremembered any lines.

But then I started on the carving,and this is where my scheme collapsed,not once, but every single timeI hit the chisel with my hammer.

The rice would snap, or sometimes crack,and thirty-seven minutes inI had my carving revelation:embrace defeat; at least you've earned it.

I threw away my bluntish tools,I swept up all the broken rice,and wrote Bigmouth Strikes Againacross the sky, with my fnger.

23

It Could Have Been Worse

The kids are a pain in the arse all day long,Your job is a trial, the house is a mess,

You feel that the choices you made were all wrong,If somebody asked you, you’d have to confessThat, right at this minute, you couldn’t care less.

Still – you’ve yet to be taken away in a hearse,So, all things considered, it could have been worse.

Your friends have all turned into middle-aged farts,Who talk about school fees, investments and pensions,

As soon as one’s fnished, another one starts,Complaints fll the air, and everyone mentionsTheir grievances, worries and failed good intentions.

Still – you haven’t yet needed a palliative nurse,So cheer up, you bastard, it could have been worse.

You’ve more than one chin, and your hair’s turning grey,Your waistline’s expanded, your clothes are too tight.

You enter a room, but why? You can’t say.To read you need glasses and plenty of light,And you have to get up for a piss every night.

Still – at least you have most of your wits on your person,So laugh at the bad things, for one day they’ll worsen.

The sun will not shine every day of your life,And it’s true that the wicked man often prevails,

While suffering besets the whole world and his wife.So what? Nothing’s perfect and everyone fails.Too soon you will have no more trials or travails.

So greet every day with a smile and a curse,And always remember: it could have been worse.

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