Global slamming

“Look how many aluminium milk bottle top lids I’ve collected.” I tell Carbonlite, showing him a vase full of shiny round buttons…“you know, I reckon I’ll have this planet saved by teatime.” But Carbonlite has been reading his scary climate change books again and he’s pessimistic that we’ll exist at all beyond next Christmas. “Well if everyone is doing their bit like me….” I argue. “But they’re not are they?” says Carbonlite gloomily. “…and even if you and I save up a bottle top mountain the size of Helvellyn, it’s still not enough. We’ve got to get out there and convince people to change their habits.” I tell my husband that standing on a recyclable soapbox in the village square isn’t my thing. “I’m a creative,” I announce, “And I’ve decided to become a poet.” Carbonlite picks up a bus timetable and a large collection of books. “Well, let’s hope your sonnets have the power to hold back rising sea levels and tsunamis,” he says as he packs his rucksack for a visit to the library.

When he returns, I’m halfway through my first masterpiece. He reads it over my shoulder. “You’re writing a poem about your weight?” he asks. I tell him I’ve decided to develop myself by entering the poetry slam at The Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. He looks blank. “It’s like Pop Idol for poets,” I explain, “Everyone is given three minutes to hog the microphone then the audience vote for the best two performance poets. They go through to another round, then the overall winner goes on to a regional final later in the year to compete for the title of ‘Slam Champion of Cumbria.” Suddenly Carbonlite is fully engaged, asking how many people turn up to enter and spectate, and whether there are any guidelines on subject matter. I go through the rules in further detail with my increasingly cheerful husband. “Fantastic,” he says, when I’ve finished. “You can be Cumbria’s first green poet, and I’ll come and cheer you on.”

The compere Marvin Cheeseman announces my name for the second time of the night and I walk into the pink stage lights accompanied by clapping and cheering. Half an hour earlier my poem about dieting went down a storm and landed me one of two places in the final. This time I am carrying an accessory; a green mini compost bin. I smile at the audience and ask if they like my new handbag. Everyone stares at the grubby home composting bin. I assure them it’ll catch on in fashion circles, and that Posh and Becks might soon be photographed in LA with matching compost handbags, although theirs will be branded with a Gucci logo, rather than a sticker highlighting the foolishness of home composting chunks of cheese. Through the pink glare of the lights, I see Carbonlite gesturing at me to get on with the poetry. So I open my compost bin, and pull out my script. But I hardly need it. For just under three minutes I am an eco ‘Eminem’; an unstoppable one woman anti- global warming poetry machine. I inspire greatness, perspire greenness, rewire people’s collective conciousness. I am a planet saving, carbon shaving, offsetting, unjetting queen of green. A prophetic, poetic, global worrier. I forget I’m at The Brewery and imagine I’m on a world stage. I am now Al Gore, Bono and Swampy rolled into one. In my rap, I recount my struggle as a born again green; my squirmy encounter with the Wiggly Wigglers on the patio, the burgeoning recycling HQ in our downstairs loo, the bottle top mountain that will save the polar bears, and my colourful relationship with the mini compost bin.

The whistle blows. My three minutes are up. Suddenly I’m not a global eco warrior, but Eco Worrier from Burton in Kendal. As I amble off the stage I remind myself that Al Gore had to begin somewhere, although admittedly he started by coming second in the race for American President, while I am being crowned runner up at a poetry event in Kendal. I return to my seat and sip on a spritzer. The panel awards me three nines. Now the other finalist takes to the stage. He is young and looks like a teenager. In contrast I now look like Pam Ayres. He raps an accomplished, word perfect poem about the boredom of being young and aimless on a Friday Night, and by the end of three minutes he looks bored of us as well. The audience panel votes. He gets two nines and one ten. He also gets forty quid and the chance to be crowned slam champion of Cumbria at a future event. I get a book of the nation’s favourite love poems and a cheer from the crowd.

When I return to my seat, Carbonlite gives me a hug. “You are the Cumbrian slam champion in my eyes and I’m proud of you. But now I’m even more depressed. It’s so typical. This audience chose dossing about on a Friday night over saving our precious planet and resources. What are we to do?” He looks for reassurance, but I have no answers; just a bunch of words in the shape of a poem.