Poets on tour: hits on stage, own goals at home

Arriving in West Didsbury, where we’ll stay for an event in Bramhall, Cheshire, we pass an unusually huge funeral cortege approaching the cemetery. “Who are they burying?” wonders Imtiaz Dharker. “Our hopes,” says Gillian Clarke. She and I peel off from the group to stay at my house, round the corner from the hotel, and sit in the garden, drinking tea and enjoying the first deep silence of the tour. I warn her that I’ll be catching up on the football after the gig and she says that she’ll join me for a glass of wine but won’t necessarily watch.

At Ford’s Lane church, strawberries and flutes of Pimm’s glow on plain wooden tables and our guest poet is Michael Symmons Roberts. It’s a calm summer’s evening and, through the open doors, birdsong descants above the expectant murmur of the audience. I sit backstage as the makar (AKA Jackie Kay) closes the first half: “We closed the borders, folks, we nailed it.”. From here, the roars of laughter are trumped by a blackbird.

Back home, knackered, I settle down to watch England v Iceland. Gillian sips contentedly at her glass of wine, checking her emails and patting the dogs. Then …

GC: I told everyone at the gig that you didn’t want to know the result.
SELF: Absolutely not.
GC: Because you said it would spoil watching it.
SELF: Quite.
GC: Who would you like to win?
SELF: Iceland.
GC: Who’s that man?
SELF: Wayne Rooney.
GC: The Iceland players are more handsome.
SELF: Mmm.
GC: What’s Wayne Rooney doing?
SELF: (tetchily) Taking a penalty.
GC: (tenderly) I know the score, but I won’t say.

I press pause and swear loudly in Welsh. It takes 15 minutes for me to explain to her, citing both an early episode of The Likely Lads and Waiting for Godot, how she has given the game away. Still, I shrewdly had a tenner on Iceland. As we head to our beds – Carlisle is next – Roy Hodgson resigns.