Chance encounters with heroes can be tricky, but bumping into John Cooper Clarke outside the Festival Hall late one evening last week proved pleasurable beyond all expectation.
Clarke looked the bomb, naturally in dark glasses as midnight approached, his frame draped in a coat worn across the shoulders gangster-style with white silk scarf hanging loose. Charm personified, he returned my compliments with words of praise with which I’m still coming to terms.
It hasn’t taken much to versify them into this lame appropriation of Clarke’s rat-a-tat style:
“I know your work,
I’ve got The Look,
I was first on our block with that book.”