Introduction of Ben Nitt by Ben Nitt
I was having breakfast with Mother, Twinings Breakfast Blend with a slice of Hovis toast liberally spread with thick cut marmalade. I rather enjoy thick cut marmalade except for the peel. Yesterday I picked out the peel and arranged them to look like a piss stained Stonehenge but today I felt more abstract and just put them in a builder’s back yard pile of yellow brick rubble. A poignant reflection of my crumbling life I thought. I was just about to pour my second cup from the pot, I was going to be mother, when the phone rang.
My first thought was: who could that be at this time of the morning? I considered that it could be the police about my missing umbrella I had foolishly left on the 273 to Scarborough when I went there four weeks ago as a nice little day treat of a trip to take in the sea air, and as it turns out it was exceptionally foolish as it rained cats and dogs all afternoon, the worst of which was being stuck in a promenade shelter for forty minutes with this dear looking old lady. But first impressions are always so deceitful as she then, when the cucumber sandwiches had all been consumed, droned on about her corns and bunions killing her feet and crusty carbuncles on her fanny. It’s such a shame corns and bunions only kill feet. After, when the rain had eased, I took a stroll but must have turned left when I should have turned right because a tour of the fish gutting sheds was certainly not intended. All in all it was a ghastly day and I should have stayed at home to hand wash Mother’s gussets.
Another thought was that it could be the library enquiring about the overdue copy of the Catherine Cookson I was reading to Mother. Mother really doesn’t care much for Catherine Cookson and much prefers her literary sexual encounters to be less heaving bosoms and a bit more drag me through a puddle and take me in the back alley: “a cock’s a cock so why fuck around with throbbing members” she would say, and to be honest I couldn’t agree more.
“Is that Mr Nitt?” asked this voice. She sounded a little young, but then they do that these days don’t they? I mean they use the phone from a very early age. No fear of wrong numbers, you see. I, on the other hand, suffered the fate of pushing button A and instead of Mr Crumpton from the Boy’s Scouts that I had expected, I was talking to Annette from Fifi’s Massage Parlour, and it was far too late to push button B. No turning back. That sort of thing scars a young lad.
“Yes. Speaking.”
“Good morning Mr Nitt, I’m Charlotte from the Clueless Collective, and we would like to discuss a proposition.”
Well, I’ve never had a proposition from someone called Charlotte before, Mother would never have liked it you see. Never would have approved. I was interested. Intrigued really so naturally I asked what sort of proposition this would likely be, I mean was this to be about double glazing, a discounted subscription for Heat Magazine, or even, god forbid, a sexual proposition. You can never tell these days by the voice. She could easily have been one of these call girls I keep noticing mention of in the Sunday papers. Mind you, I’ve also noticed that these call girls seem to congregate around politicians, so called celebrities, and footballers, so perhaps I’m safe. She assured me there was nothing sexual about this, and if I’m honest, I wasn’t too disappointed.
To keep matters brief she had suggested I meet with her and some of the other members of this Collective, and she asked if I would like to come down to London. I’ve been to London, once, and can’t say that I particularly enjoyed experience, so I kindly turned down the offer of a day trip to London making the excuse that I no longer possessed an umbrella and suggested that if they were determined to proposition me then they would have to do it up here. These London types seem to have some kind of allergy when it comes to travelling north of Potters Bar. I’m sure they believe they will break out in hives, develop a passion for eating raw lard and have uncontrollable desires to befriend whippets. I tried to befriend a whippet when I was a young lad, but the fucking thing almost bit my nob off.
I suggested that we all met up in Betty Snodhampton’s Tea Rooms on Grinder’s Lane, the one with the double fronted bay windows opposite the Whore’s Purse pub which is run by the local Botherhopes Brewery. I sometimes pop in there for a small dry sherry and some salty nuts. The pub that is, they don’t serve sherry in the tea rooms although I have heard mention that the baker does have rather salty nuts, must be the heat from them bread ovens, and of course Betty Snodhampton is no longer with us, god rest her soul, so the tea rooms have been run by her niece since Betty’s demise about twenty five years ago. She was killed by a German bomber in Rochdale, the tragedy being that war was long since over but she was run down by a drunk driver who was a bomber pilot for the Lufttwaffe during the last war. He claimed that he wasn’t used to the strength of Botherhopes ale and got slightly confused as to which side of the road he should be driving on, he pleaded with the judge that he was only following the orders of his wife. He got seven years in Strangeways and one can’t help but think he might have faired better at Nuremberg.
I thought it more prudent to arrange for this meeting in the tea rooms given that I couldn’t really invite them round here. Mother is smelling incredibly bad of late, and becoming increasingly antagonistic towards strangers ‘cluttering up the place’ as she so delicately puts it and wearing out the parlour carpet that’s served so well for forty six years. Not to be too unkind, she tends to be a little embarrassing steering the conversation around to how grumpy I can be if I don’t have dippy egg with soldiers when I’m feeling under the weather and how inept I am, even after all these years, at washing the cheesy gunk out of my foreskin, the way that mothers, god bless ‘em, tend to do.
Wanting to make the right kind of impression I had decided to wear Mother’s lucky summer frock for this meeting. She had always insisted it was lucky after she had bought it the Oxfam shop, the one on Pie Street, in 1979 for 7s 6d. It was at the back of the shop tucked away still with a pre-decimal price tag, and Mother had insisted on paying for it in old money that she always kept in her purse precisely for such an occurrence. She’s a bit clairvoyant is Mother. Has the gift. Of course it hadn’t really occurred to her that it was hidden at the back of the shop on account of it being, at that time, hideously out of fashion with sweat stained armpits that have only gotten worse with time. She wore it one evening at bingo and had won £3.50p, hence it forever being referred to as the lucky frock.
To my surprise these people turned up on time. I met a very attractive young lass called Drew, although it has to be said that she could have worn a few more clothes. So much flesh on view is rather sluttish in my opinion. There was also this chap in a wheelchair. I hate it when folks is too darn lazy to use the legs god gave ‘em, but he was a pleasant enough chap and I’m sure he has a very good reason for not bothering to walk, maybe some phobia about tripping over his shoe laces and grazing his knees. Charlotte wasn’t there, although they assured me she was present in spirit. The chap on wheels and myself ordered tea and freshly baked scones, Drew ordered some fizzy pop and a sticky bun. Apparently I had come to their attention after they had read my rhyming letter to the editor of the Daily Northern Star complaining about the noise the bin men make every Wednesday morning. Then they had subsequently discovered other letters in a similar vein and on the strength of that they decided they want me to write a column for their magazine. They’ve promised me an readership of at least six people, which in all probability is two more than the Daily Northern Star. I said yes there and then. Reckless I know. They did pay for the tea so it seemed the least I could do.
I shall, of course, be writing about the world of poetry and even be running a critical eye over the poetical works that appear in the magazine. Or the shit, as I’ve come to recognise it as. I will also be operating a poetry surgery where you, the reader, can write in with all of your poetry problems and I will as rudely as Mother would allow me, resolve your issues. Just send your poetry problems to me and I shall write a you a personal prescription with no need to book an appointment or registrar or pay for a poetry health care plan. It’s all free.
Consider the poetry surgery now open at: email Ben Nitt here
Cath likes this.
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Terry likes this.
reply from Dick & Tom
| DICK - Oi yer northern twat we were gonna do a poetry surgery. TOM - Yeah we were gonna that. |
reply from Cath Attar
| Calm down boys, play nice with our new member or I’ll feed you two to the shredder. |
Charlotte likes this.
Drew likes this.
reply from Dick & Tom
| DICK - We all know how you like to play with members yer sour faced old cow. TOM - Easy Dick that’s our editor. DICK - Nah fuck it Tom! They come down ‘ere steal our poetry pages. Fucking northern monkeys nick all our bestest lines. I’m joining the ANPP. TOM - So am I. What is the ANPP exactly Dick? DICK - Against Northern Poets Party. TOM - Will we get jelly and ice cream? DICK - It’s not that sort of party Tom. TOM - It’s not drugs again. It’s another drugs party ain’t it? DICK - Fuck off Tom. I’ve got the ‘ump. I’m fucking off home. |
reply from Ben Nitt
| I’m truly sorry Dick, I’ve no wish to tread on anyone’s toes. Cath pitched the idea to me and I’ve been in love with the written word ever since Mother caught me masturbating in the local library. I hope we can work together. |
reply from Cath Attar
| Dick, darling, your in-depth investigations are vital to the Collective, and I can’t imagine how we would manage without Tom’s counting skills. As such I don’t want you two to get distracted and over burdened with too much. It’s true, I suggested to Ben about the Poetry Surgery but as a compromise how about you, because you’re such a poetry genius, being a special consultant? |
reply from Dick & Tom
| DICK - OK. That sounds cool. TOM - So we’re not going to the party now and there’ll be no jelly and ice cream? DICK - We’ll join the party when no one is looking Tom. TOM - Yay! |
reply from Tom
| Mr Ben, do you wear pink socks? |
BEN NITT’S POETRY SURGERY IS NOW OPEN
special consultant DICK (poetry genius)
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email Ben
enclose work preferably in the body of the e-mail
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