Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 - Summer Comedy Festival - Jo Brand

Episode Date: July 31, 2020

Expect a summer festival with a difference as some of the nation's favourite comics turn curators and host a virtual festival featuring their favourite performers from the worlds of comedy, literature and spoken word. They'll be in control of everything (even the weather) as we're taken along for the ride to not only hear some great performances but also to get an insight into the cultural radars of our celebrity hosts.In episode 2 it's Jo Brand's turn as chief curator as she brings together all her favourite festival ingredients for a celebration of poetry. She's joined by performance poets Nafeesa Hamid and Hollie McNish as well as the impressionist Lewis MacLeod and the comedy poet, John Hegley. Producer: Richard Morris Production co-ordinator: Caroline Barlow Sound: Chris McLean A BBC Studios Production

This is the BBC. This podcast is supported by advertising outside the UK. BBC Sounds. Music, radio, podcasts. Hi, I'm Joe Wicks and I'm just popping up to tell you about my brand new podcast with BBC Radio 4. It's extraordinary. It almost turbocharges you. I'm really interested in the links between physical and mental health and what kind of ordinary everyday activities people do to keep on top of things. I keep fit because it's relaxing, because it absolutely relaxes my mind.

And that's so important. So in this podcast, I'm having a chat with some of my favourite people to find out their tips and tricks to staying healthy and happy. For me, it's a full body experience and and it's a total game-changer. I think you're going to love it. Hit subscribe on the Joe Wicks podcast on BBC Sounds. Let's do this. When I went to Glastonbury last year with my friends Em and Betty,

we ended up really near to the front of the stage in quite a big space and we were so pleased with ourselves. We were stood next to a bit of blue tarpaulin and at one point I thought, oh, let's just see what's through that hole there and it turned out to be the men's urinals and there were some honourable members actually in the act of decanting.

And of course it dawned on us, so that's why we were on our own at the front of the stage. But what if festivals didn't have to be like that? What if I could design my own festival without the grim bits and with lots more of the good bits, like churro stalls, fringe performers and churro stalls. Well, Radio 4 have kindly given me the opportunity to do just that and I've chosen to throw a celebration of an art form

normally found in the side tents, but today it's taking to the main stage. So, come this way and step into Joe Brand's Fantasy Festival of Poetry! Just what did I get into? A hero walking on this floor

I thought it started as a daydream, but I'm not dreaming anymore Come in! Come in! Once you've got your free entrance churro, visitors are required to sit down for a minute and please put all your fitness watches into the blender in the corner. Anyone who tries to spring into action the moment they arrive

will be asked to leave. So make your way over to one of the emergency sofas you'll see dotted about the place and I'll give you your site maps. We're currently here between the quiet contemplation tent and the Jabberwocky experience which essentially involves being chased on a Segway by Michael Rosen dressed up as a Jub Jub bird. It's good fun but if he you, he does get a bit bitey. He just gets so into character. Seeing as this is my fantasy festival and I make the rules, you may also bump into a number of poets from the past, brought into 2020 because no celebration of

the form would be complete without them. and also because 2020 has been a bit rubbish so far and could do with it quite frankly look there's emily bronte playing whack-a-mole and who's that she's with oh it's her sister um the one who who isn't charlotte right follow me down through the field of daffodils, which unfortunately we've had to rope off because somebody kept wandering lonely as a cloud among them. And we come to the food court area. And over there is where Dr Johnson sits. He hasn't moved from that spot since he discovered pulled pork.

If you ever need to find your way back here, just follow your nose. Though actually, that smell of crackling might just be me slowly cooking in the sun. Isn't it lovely? I think poetry should be fun. So if the words of Dorothy Parker's poem detailing all the different ways you can kill yourself drift into your head, then this isn't for you. So enjoy. We're just about to meet my first guest. So here we are in the Celebrity Poetry Reading Tent, where I'm joined by Lewis MacLeod, who's the curator in charge here. Lewis, how are you enjoying this particular festival so far? This is fantastic. Hello, Jo. Well, I've only been to one festival. It was Retrofest, which was an 80s music festival.

So the poetry there was... Her name was Rio and Karma, Karma, Karma, Chameleon. So, really, I'm very excited to have prose be the star attraction and not funky hairdos and big shoes. Do you actually do any impressions of any poets? That would be a bit weird if you did, but you might. Well, I guess John Cooper Clarke was one that I did. You know, dead ringers, you know.

Well, there you go. He sounds like a formula word. John Cooper Clarke! And, yeah, but I think that's about it, really. I haven't got a canon of them, but songwriters, you could argue, like Macca, you know, he's a bit of a poet, you know. Oh, he is. Absolutely, absolutely.

What's your favourite poem? Have you got a favourite poem? Well, because, of course, being Scottish, you're reared on Rabbie Burns, and I was actually booked in to play Boris Johnson at a Burns supper, which was quite a lot of fun. So I had to go on as, you know, Boris with the wig. And read Burns. And we had Trump as well doing it.

Burns was a terrible man. The way he treated Homer Simpson was appalling. And some of his ones. Who would be your top choice to read you a bit of Burns, then? Well, do they have to be Scottish? Lulu. Lulu! Well!

Why not? Well, I mean, Billy's great. You know, it's a very weird thing. Wee Cur and Timorous Beastie, or Neil Oliver. That's very much all about the history. And you could have Alex Salmond that, well, there you are. Of course.

You know, I don't know. I mean, I think they're all, they all sort of bring something different to it. Now, what about romantic poetry? Have you ever been a fan? Again, you know, Burns was quite romantic, I think. Who do you like?

The sonnets are beautiful. Well, I think Shakespeare's a bit of an acquired taste, isn't he? Because when you're at school and you have to, like, read poems out loud, or you have to read Shakespeare out loud, you don't really get the sense of it, do you? Because you're just going...

Like that, as if it's just kind of throw away half a dozen eggs and a bottle of beer. Well, darling, that is where you need McKellen on speed dial. I'm here, Joe, to make your worries go away. I'm your very own portable Shakespeare authority. And... Do you want to have a crack at Shakespeare's Sonnet 18?

Because I'd like to hear Jeremy Vine having a crack at that, if possible. Today on the programme, it's not COVID-19, it's Sonnet 18. And there may be some words here you won't understand, and if you are under 18, please get an Ian McKellen to tell you what the answers are.

Thank you, Jeremy. Shall I compare thee to at summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed, and every fair from fair sometimes declines

by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed. That's marvellous. And we'll be interviewing the ghost of William Shakespeare later on in the programme. Thank you. I appreciate it so much having you join us. Thank you for asking me to the festival, Joe. Absolute pleasure.

And, well, I'll see you around the back of a poetry tent at the Custard Tarts at some point, maybe. That's the poetry VIP pass I've got then. Indeed. That entitles you to 14 custard tarts and a Ribena. I'll see you there. On the way to our next tent, you'll see a replica Burning Man statue.

Any resemblance to Dominic Cummings is purely coincidental. As we carry on up the path, I'll just fill you in on the dress code. Yes, there is a strict dress code, I'm afraid. For men, if what you've got on your bottom half is more colourful than what you've got on your top half, you ain't coming in. Try and think to yourself, what would Michael Portillo wear? And then don't wear it. For women, just be comfortable.

Though anyone spotted with a flower wreath on their head will have it thrown onto the flaming Cummings. I mean, anonymous mannequin. Now it's time for the next performer at my poetry festival. She's here on our stage. Welcome, I'm joined by Holly McNish. Hi, Holly. Hiya, how you doing. Welcome. I'm joined by Holly McNish. Hi, Holly. Hiya. How are you doing?

Well, I'm good, thanks. Now, I'm probably not really meant to like you because I think you're kind of much younger and you're hip, whereas I'm kind of an extremely old woman and I'm more sort of hip replacement. But how are you enjoying the festival do you like a festival i feel like i'm definitely not really hit but now that you've said that i should say yes that i love a festival but i've got i've got a wee bit of a love and a hate relationship with them i think i had a a kid when i was in my 20s so for me the festivals I went to are mainly spent in the sandpit, while all the other poets I was friends with were like, are you coming to watch this band? And I was like, no, I'm still in the sandpit.

I remember those days very well indeed. Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. So they've been lovely, but I don't have the big mad festival experience that maybe other people love. So maybe at this festival, you know, if we took you back a few years, we'd have such a brilliant crash that your children would go,

can you go away and watch a band, please, Mum? So what are you going to give us today? Maybe I'll do a wee short one that's relevant. I've got one about motherhood. So this poem is called What's My Name Again? And I wrote it when my daughter was one year and ten months old. What's my name again? I lost my name at toddler group.

From Holly or Holes or Hobbit or Holly McNish. I'm now known as so-and-so's mum. And I cannot complain because I'm just the same. I put the same label on everyone. I met Izzy's dad for a drink in the park. We bumped into Molly's gran, Tiana's and Mark's, and it's only when the stars are out and everything's dark that my name label creeps out from under the table

and I'm able to remember the person I am. With a hot cup of tea, book in my hand, a two-hour slot to remember my own plans before I turn off the light. Cinderella's clock strikes at midnight each time My clock strikes loudly at nine Now it's your time, it chimes And my name becomes Holly once more

Until she cries out for me, needs her next wee Shouts in her dreams, pleads for a fiftieth cuddle from me And the label shifts quickly to mum again To mum again From Holly to mum From Holly to mum Like a grandfather clock or a metronome run, a life-raising swing between structure and fun, but one word cannot sum up

the things we've all done, the way that we love, the stories we tell. Underpaid, overworked, us feeders, us nappy change divas, us breeders, us milk makers, milk strainers, cracked nipples, swell, painful, bottle-fed, guilt-ridden, time-giving, minds rid makers, milk strainers, cracked nipples, swell, painful, bottle fed, guilt ridden, time giving, minds riddled all day and night with their care. In a land where we are now known as so-and-so's dad or thingamese mum, a label that's filled with more love than I ever knew. Someone said mums are the rocks that never crumble. I don't think that's true, because I do. I cry hidden and lose. I scream alone in my car, and when I'm woken once more and desperate to sleep,

I weep watching the stars. And every parent I know says those moments are never so far. We are parents, but we are people. We are snot rags and we are dreamers. We are queens and we are cleaners. We are kissed and we are screamed at. We are sleep-deprived gardeners, cut hands hidden in gloves. We are rocks, crumbling sometimes in love that's so heavy.

We are storytelling experts and our stories are many. Well, thank you. That's great. And I actually think, you know, for a long time, mums were the kind of anonymous ones without a personality or an identity, weren't they? But in some ways it's good that it's changing and dads are like that as well, although it should be either of us really, but you know. Yeah, that is true. That's true actually. Thank you so much.

Thanks for having me. If you could go anywhere in this poetry festival now, where would you like to go and what sort of area would you like to be in? I would go to the cocktail bar. I'd get a porn star martini, as long as they had the Prosecco shot next to it, and then I'd take it into any lovely shaded poetry tent and listen to poets all day. Or if there was a swimming pool, I'd go there because I've really missed bombing into the water. You're making me jealous of my own festival which didn't exist. I'm just in the food court having a bag of crisps

while I wait for the next act to come on and I'm put in mind of one of my all-time favourite crisp stories and I've got a few. It's about the time Tyrell's ran a promotion for what they boasted were hand-cooked English crisps, inadvertently using an image of a man who turned out to be the late poet and fierce Welsh nationalist R.S. Thomas. A man who not only hated the English, but hated the kind of modern machinery used in the mass production of crisps. It would be like fronting a new Lynx anti-perspirant campaign with Prince Andrew. Still, at least it wasn't Walkers. They'd have done something like Salt and Lineker

or Cheese and Owen. Remember those? That would have been a final indignity, wouldn't it, being called RS Hummus? Now you find me backstage with the next performer at my poetry festival. It's Nafisa Hamid. Welcome, Nafisa. Oh, hello there. Hello. Nice to meet you.

Hi. Well, thank you so much for being here. It's a real pleasure to meet you. I'm very interested in how you became interested in poetry. Was it inspired in any way by a member of your family? In many ways, yes, but without them even knowing that. My family and our stories have inspired me to just write in the first place in order to just help me process joint experiences of being migrants to this country with hordes and hordes of stories to tell,

and those stories that still have not been told. Did you ever have to learn poems off by heart at school? Thank God, no. No, I didn't. But actually, on the other hand, though, as a kid, I went to Islamic school in the evenings, some madrassa, and I had to memorise a completely different kind of poetry there, which was memorising verses of the Qur'an.

And the thing is, I had no idea what I was memorising. I didn't understand Arabic. I still don't understand Arabic. But what I really loved at the time was the music, just the sound of it. I just loved the sound of what I was saying. Also, I think at the time I thought I was going to be some sort of shit-hot singer or something. Well, I for one, I'm really pleased that we didn't lose you to singing, because I think your poetry is just stunning.

We're now going to listen to your poem, B8 Branded, and I didn't choose it because it's got my name in. I'm sure people think I'm terribly vain. Oh, look, there's a poem with my name in. I'm having that. But it's, well, I'm really looking forward to hearing it read by you. So away you go. On the 14 bus, you might see the words Alam Thruk carved into the tacky blue plastic of the second seat

in the third row from the back. It means dirty. And I definitely have no idea who put it there. This is for the 14 bus. For Allum Rock Road, for KNK, Rajasthur, for Tinselman, for Sajid's Chippy and Sunday Night Takeaway. For the fact that Somali Park does actually exist. This is for the last standing Irish pub.

This is for the tension, for B8 postcode wars, for blood and vomit congealed drains down police cordoned roads, for men out late and girls in by eight. This is for the girl at Shore Hill Primary learning not to kick boys in the groin. For the ones hiding under tables in the English room to miss PE, for the bullies, the lunchtime hustlers selling fags for 50p, for the girl stuck in science who wants to be a dancer, for the bullies, the lunchtime hustlers selling fags for 50p, for the girl stuck in science who wants to be a dancer, for the boy who wants big guns, for the gym behind the furniture shop you wouldn't even know was there, for AK-47s lost down sides of sofas,

for Biggie the wee dealer, smokers in that part of the playground, and for the time you spat in that teacher's face for the head teacher who believed in eighth ninth and tenth chances this is for the girls who want to wear jeans not sylvaricumies the daughter trying to fit into her first pair of jeans at 13 for the secret boyfriends making out in warden Park, first love and the rouse when your parents found out. For we are not terrorists, we are love. For the students telling newspapers, no sir, we were not radicalised, we were not forced to do anything. This poem ain't afraid, man this poem is petrified, tell it ain't afraid. Man, this poem is petrified.

Tell it like it is. This poem is for Alam Throk. Carved into the tacky blue plastic of the 14 bus seats and I still have no idea who put it there, but if I did, I'd tell that person, this is not Alam Thrak because Thrak means dirt and we are not all disgusting around here we are so much more than we believe so much more than we were told so much more than the media bashing of our schools so this this, this is for us. This is for generations of migrants, troubled heads, fast tongues, gift of the gab, for the times me and Zara sat on the garden wall looking over Alum Rock's eid lights, for skipping school with your best friends to celebrate your 16th by

stealing the weighted balloons from Carphone Warehouse and feeling like the baddest bitches that ever did exist. This is for all those times we told our parents we were studying hard after school and for all the times they did not believe you. For disastrous family trips to Western Supermare or Blackpool or wherever else your dad's free day took you all. For the times you heard the TV trolley being rolled into class. For the teacher who introduced you to reading books you might actually want to read. For the gay boy in the bushes. For the girl who was told she was pretty for a black girl. For the girl who fainted during a sex ed video.

For the year nine girls discovering the horror of monobrows and moustaches. For the day your mum hands you your first box of Jolene. About time, says your best mate. This is for your migrant grandfather who worked the Birmingham factories in the 70s. For the glaring sunlight that came through the day Smith and nephew came tumbling down. For the grief of that day. But also hope.

This is for all of us. This poem ain't afraid. Man, this poem is petrified. Tell it like it is. You'll find me sat on the top deck at the back of the 14 bus, carving myself into the tacky blue plastic of the second seat

in the third row from the back. Be it branded, yeah, this is not Alam Throk because Throk means dirt and we are not disgusting around here. Thank you. Oh, Nafita, I thought that was absolutely indescribable. For me, although my kind of school life was obviously different from yours, it just counters up so many images that in a way kind of bring us together. But I also think what's fantastic about it is it's kind of uncompromising

it just sort of says oh balls to you you can listen to my version and I really like that I mean it must when you read it really take you back does it to sitting on that bus I've read this poem Waltz that on the number 14 and that's been a bizarre experience that has been quite I bet a lot overwhelmed with emotion it's just so brilliant to know there's people out there like you telling it how it is that's it tell it like it is it's learning the poem Jo you're quoting me poetry yeah absolutely thank you so much um for doing that for us and enjoy the festival thank you you too well it's got to that stage of the festival where everyone is crammed into the main field and absolutely buzzing for the headline act they've waited for long enough there's only

one thing they want now and that's to see a bespectacled man do some great poems and play a couple of chords on a mandolin. Please welcome John Hegley. Hi, John, and welcome to my festival. Hello, Jo. We've both been knocking around for quite a long time, John, even though it doesn't look it, Joe. of the time you'll finish with songs and I know that one thing you do a lot is you divide the audience in half into section A and section B so half the audience would sing one part of the song and the other half would sing the other then you would pick someone at the front one poor person

in the front row and they would have to be section C and I wouldn't have liked to do it. It could possibly be quite humiliating. But every time I saw it, Section C fantastically came up with something brilliant. Yeah. I think it's to do with the... I mean, everybody's behind them, aren't they? And they're almost, in a way, sort of harnessing the energy of the audience.

They're sort of like an aerial for the energy and they sort of, as you say, sparkle. They want to see Section C fly high, and it was just such a lovely moment always. You've got so many kind of different characters in your poetry. Who are your favourites? Well, of late, when we were doing the circuit days together, I didn't used to speak much about my father's Frenchness

and the French side, and I've sort of developed that more of late. And I really like the character Monsieur Robinet, who's a bit... He's a mixture, again, of various French people. But he's certainly eccentric. He sings the song... Sometimes when I'm at home, I wrap some sellotape around my hand and I go around the carpet picking up the hairs of the dog. So he's an unusual chap.

Right, John, now you're going to close the whole festival with a big number. What are you actually going to do for us? I'm going to sing Private, which I performed at the Glastonbury Festival with the Popticians many times. I'm going to do it just myself today with my mandolin. So I'm section A, the mandolin section, and Jo, if you'd be section C. Oh dear. So all you've got to do is sing Private after me. That's all you've got to do.

OK. You can lead all the listeners as well. OK. You can lead everybody with their Privates. Right. There's a notice in my drive It says private Private That's the way to stay alive In private

Private Don't look into my windows Don't look into me eyes I'm not a public enterprise I don't hold hands or give my heart I am one big private Private Part

And life apart is the life for me I want to live in privacy I want to be private Private Personal questions waste my time I want to be private. Private. Personal questions waste my time. It's none of your business if it's any of mine. Don't ask me if I've got the time.

Don't ask me if I've got a light. I might have, but then again I might not. What's it got to do with you? Nothing. When I grow up, I want to be P-R-I-V-A-T-E. I want to be private. Private. Very, very private.

Private. Trusting people doesn't pay. never have done so I'm okay If I am in the road and I'm about to die Here's what you do, just walk on by That's the kind of guy I am I'm a one man man I sometimes cry a tear or two But I find a toilet before I do.

It's the kind of thing that I always do in private. Private. I don't know why I'm telling you, because it's private. Private. Private. Thanks so much. Shall we finish by doing a stage dive? OK, here's me hand.

Come on, let's feel alive and dive. Woo! Woo! That was my Summer Comedy Festival, hosted by me, Jo Brand, and written with Simon Alcock. It featured Lewis MacLeod, Holly McNish, Nafisa Hamid and John Hegley. The producer was Richard Morris and it was a BBC Studios production. Gary Lineker here. The Match of the Day Top Ten podcast is back with me and Jermaine Genis. Thank you.