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You'll find another near

And wherever you find two poets

You'll find they're drinking beer.

On the opening of the Waterman's Arts Centre, an affair almost as memorable as Hugo Rune's reading of Hymn to Frying Pan, although few there are, with the possible exception of Old Pete, who would remember it today, there hadn't been a Brentford Poets.

There had only been a Writer in Residence.

And this the long-forgotten author.

The long-forgotten author had been given quite a remit. Found a poets' group, it said. The long-forgotten author, bereft as ever of ideas (he was the kind of author who specialized in an homage) put an advert in the Brentford Mercury:

Poets wanted to perform at a weekly poets' get-together at the Waterman's Arts Centre. A free pint from the bar for everyone who reads an original poem.

The bar ran dry the first night. It was remarkable just how many drinking men of Brentford felt the muse so suddenly arise in them.

But the reviewer from Time Out, who happened by chance to be there for the Busby Berkeley Retrospective [7] showing in the Arts Centre cinema, was so impressed by the enormous turnout (he never even got close to the bar himself) that he gave the event a write-up.

Numbers began to drop off a bit when the Writer in Residence decreed that pints should only be awarded to poets reading original poems which had some degree of artistic merit and ran to more than two lines inevitably terminating with the words, 'Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen and mine's a pint of large, please.' Many thirsty minimalist poets left the Arts Centre, bitterly complaining as they did so.

It finally worked its way down to a hard core of dedicated poets. They self-published a monthly magazine, The Shorter Brentford Book of Verse, early copies of which are now believed to be collector's items. And the event remained. Wednesday night at Waterman's was the Brentford Poets night.

And as tonight was Wednesday, this was what it was.

Kelly saw Derek waving to her from the bar. She threaded her way between the poets and the appreciators of poets and those who had come along just to see what was going on and those groups of pimply young men who always turn up to such events, because a mate of theirs told them that poetesses were easy lays and they'd actually been daft enough to believe him.

'I got you a glass of red wine in,' said Derek. 'I hope that's OK.'

'It's OK,' said Kelly. 'Thanks. It's pretty crowded in here. Do you always come to listen?'

'Listen?' said Derek. 'I come to perform. That's a stunning frock by the way. What kind of fabric is that?'

'It's a polyvinylsynthacottonlatexsuedosilk mix.'

'Nice,' said Derek. 'And I love those shoes too. They make you seem…'

'Taller,' said Kelly. 'They're the latest Doveston holistic footwear. Triple-heeled with chromium love-turrets and inlaid frog-mullions. Each rivet hand-driven in by a vestal virgin at the temple of Runeology.'

'You're having a laugh,' said Derek.

'Derek,' said Kelly. 'Fashion is no laughing matter.'

'No,' said Derek. 'I mean, no, but you are, perhaps, and I mean no offence by this, slighdy overdressed for the occasion.'

It is another fact well known to those who know it well, that poets are very seldom fashion-conscious.

When talking of poets' attire the words scruffy, wretched and downright foul are oft-times brought into usage.

Only very few poets have ever cut a dash, as they say, clothes-wise. Amongst these must rank Sir Johnny Betjeman, stripey-blazered and all-round eccentric wearer of the old straw hat. And John Cooper Clarke, [8] whose dress code, although natty, sadly owed an homage to a chap called Bob Dylan.

Kelly gave those round and about a cursory glancing-over. 'Well,' she said. 'They are a scruffy, wretched and downright foul-looking bunch. But I didn't have time to change. I've been up west.'

'Chiswick?' said Derek, mightily impressed.

'The West End,' said Kelly. The head office of Mute Corp.'

'You didn't actually get to see old man Mute?'

'No,' said Kelly. 'Sadly not. Apparently he lives upon a luxury yacht, the location of which is only known to a select elite. I don't think an interview with him is on the cards. But I do have a bit of news for you and I don't know how you'll take it.'

'Go on,' said Derek.

'I'm leaving Brentford,' said Kelly. 'Tomorrow.'

'What?' said Derek. 'Already? But you've only been here a couple of days.'

Kelly sipped at her red wine. 'I've been offered a job at Mute Corp. I took the liberty of taking my CV up with me when I went. A very nice man called Mr Pokey, who wore a beautiful orange suit and who couldn't take his eyes off my breasts, offered me a job.'

'Oh,' said Derek and a sadness came out all over his face. 'I suppose he would. I suppose any man would.'

'Don't be downcast,' said Kelly, finishing her •wine. 'I only wanted to get inside the organization. We'll still be working together on the investigation.'

'Ah yes,' said Derek. 'The investigation. I've been thinking about that.'

'Thinking what?' said Kelly.

'Well, it's just that with Mr Shields banged up in the hospital, he seems to be in a bit of a coma by the way. The doctor said something about repeated blows to the head. With him in hospital, I have been put in charge of running the Mercury and head office has sent me all these memos about co- operating with the representatives of Mute Corp over the Suburbia World Plc business.'

'What?' said Kelly, startling several poets, a lover of poetry and a pimply young man who'd been taking a lively interest in her breasts. 'You Judas!'

'I'm not,' said Derek, crossing his heart. 'I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I don't want to see the borough turned into a theme park, but what can I do?'

'You could refuse,' said Kelly.

'They'll sack me,' said Derek.

'Then you can do the decent thing.'

'Resign? No way.'

'Not resign. Do what you told me the people of Brentford do, practise inertia. Appear to co-operate, but don't actually do anything.'

'Just do what I always do.'

'You're very good at doing it.'

'Fair enough,' said Derek. 'Another glass of wine?'

'It's my round, I think.'

'Oh yes, it is.'

'But don't let that put you off'. Buy me another glass of wine.'

'Oh, all right,' said Derek. 'Any crisps?'

'Do they serve bar snacks?'

Derek chewed upon his lip. 'There is a menu,' he said sadly. 'I think they do the surf and turf.'

'That will be fine then, I'll have one of those.'

Derek sighed. 'Well,' he said. 'As it is your last night here.'