Dear Sir and/or Madam
Imagine my horror upon once more entering the City’s Screen Basement, for the first time since my last encounter with the below-level venue, after swearing I would never return after experiencing a shockingly abysmally shocking Anti-Slam. And what did I therein discover? Why, yet another abysmally shocking abomination: The 2nd York Anti-Slam.
First up it seems Mr Raby and Mr Freestone’s act is that they haven’t got their act together, starting the night in a shambles and setting the tone firmly shambolic. Mr Freestone's choice of music reminded me of a mid-00s emo kid from Grantham, something I thought I'd never hear so long as I saw people with purple laptops.
I’m welcoming of any Nationality, especially white ones, but can someone please send the slacker Canadian, Ford Mulligan, back home?
MC Patri-NAH-chy was a perfect example of feminism-too-far. If you want emancipation for women, my dear, you’re going to have to be a little less loud and a little more accommodating of my Man Ears.
Arthur Fisher’s poetry was much more traditional, and much more welcome. I’d happily welcome him into my home, and happily take a meal with him and his welcome, clutching, grasping, shaking foppish safe hands. What a gent.
Becky must have been one of these Gender Kids I’ve heard about, parading their nipples like this is some 1960s ‘love in’. Well I loved it not, go back to your Tumble-ers!
Honey Brown’s performance left a lot to be desired, mainly the desire for erotic passion. I’ve had more sexual stirrings from the kitchen cabinet than her bland brown unboisterous tale.
My nephew is a huge fan of Dan Galeforce, he owns CDs, hats, t-shirts and bed sheets all with the grime Artist’s face on. I can’t see the appeal personally, give me a good old-fashioned pop tune than this modern ‘grime’, the bane of the wide nation.
Grisilda Wilderbeak’s performance reminded me why I don’t like geese. Quackers!
Paul Kerr started off very wrong, but then got very right by channelling President Trump. God bless him, and all who sail in him.
My suspicions were raised when Rosalie Gardner’s poetry was very human. Almost too human.
Finally, I’ve known some Orcs in my time, I’m no Orc-ist, but, like I always say, No Blacks, No Irish, No Greens. Sorry Gilbert o'Groat, you can take the Orc out of the Waaagh, but you can’t take the Waaagh out of the Orc.
The judges were no better, Mr Dan Simpson taking up space with his beardy privilege, a mysterious ‘Andy’ proving poetry is being overrun with dim-witted working classness and Ms. Monica Offlebaum who’s spiritualism caused me to spit-ualism. The scorekeeper looked the role, if only he’d not chosen Lederhosen.
Thank goodness Mr Raby kept everything together. Good man, that.
A T Slam