Luke Wright

We hadn't ventured into the Poetry Tent before, mainly because the noise from it has sounded a bit right on and we're feeling more middling to unbothered. Milkshakes are bolstering though, and fortified by a chocolate orange effort we head in. And oh look, one of the only poets we actually know of is onstage, Aisle 16's Luke Wright, who is compering the tent despite looking young enough to join the Cubs. We had a drunken birthday dinner with him once. Namedropping: we can do it too ladies and gentlemen. He introduces Rhian Edwards, a vaguely Welsh, more London poet who proceeds to rip apart Clapham girls, banks and boys with wonderfully skilled acerbic wit. She also does an amazing Dorothy Parker style poem in her voice too. Nice. The lovely Nathan Penlington follows this with snook permanently cocked at poets who think they're rock n roll, learning Welsh and Sylvia Plath with some dry magic pertaining to the predictability of printed poetry. Oh God, we've just used the word pertaining. We'd better get out before we start writing in haiku.