The Official Website for Michael Knighton
Here they are again, the deadbeat circuit poets , the writers, the lovvies of the literary world.
At all the festival sites. They are there – taking centre stage. You see them there all the time;
At Hay, the great bastion of them all. Here they throng in their hundreds and are boisterous.
At Windermere – anywhere where they can ply their hubris and massage their monumental ego.
At Cheltenham , here they strut their stuff. The ubiquitous in-crowd with their circuit groupies.
At Althorpe, lording it. A silly, pompous but literary toff is master here. He dreams of spinning money.
A tale here , a yarn there. And , of course, yet another aristo loving dolly-trinket, clinging ever-so tightly.
At Durham , too , same old, same old. But at least the castle and the cathedral are truly, blissful poetry.
The majesty of these ancient magnificent monuments rise high above it all. Standing unaffected by the
Mutterings of Fry, Bragg, Toynbee, Armitage, McGough, et al. “Oh where is Bede?” I scream. And stare
At Durham’s poetic buildings. These stones, these walls, these towers, they will see the luvvies off the Green.
They’ve seen history and time unfold . They have seen it all before. The luvvies fail to impress. They fail
To sell their wares. Their story does not register. It does not even mean but a blink of the eye.