However, the most fascinating publication I've come across is Push magazine, a 120 circulation A5 literary fanzine, that includes poetry and short fiction that shows the astonishing talent there is hidden beneath the literary establishment in the country today. Details are available on Facebook from Paul Pomeroy, on Twitter from https://twitter.com/JoeEnglandBooks while copies cost £2.50 inc P&P via PayPal from joe.england64@gmail.com while contributions can be sent to pushmag@email.com
Here is the story I've got in issue #4. It's fictional, incidentally........
Athletics may have gained mass approval across the UK after
the 2012 London Olympics, but on Tyneside, running has been popular for decades
now. In the 1976 summer games held in Montreal, Brendan Foster won a bronze
medal in the 10,000 metres and, despite breaking the Olympic Record in his
heat, finished fifth in the 5,000 metres final. Strictly speaking, the pub at
the bottom of Chowdene Bank in Low Fell that was opened in his honour soon
afterwards was inaccurately named The Gold Medal. My suggestion The
Boring Ex Chemistry Teacher Who Mumbles out the Corner of His Mouth didn’t
even make the long list.
Time passed; memories dimmed and the pub relaunched itself
around the millennium as Porcupine Park, styling itself as a revolutionary concept in 21st
century leisure, where dancing and dining go hand in hand ALL NITE LONG.
Another decade on and the vogue for sports’ bars showing unreliable internet
feeds of Fulham v Stoke on Saturday afternoons to 30 bored blokes with severe Carling
habits meant the place reverted to its original name. However, I am
able to shed some light on why it was known as Porcupine Park for that
unconvincing interregnum.
When training for the 76 games, Foster and his fellow
Gateshead Harriers, 400 metre sprinter and subsequent convicted drug dealer
David Jenkins (an eventual seventh in his final) and Charles Manson lookalike
steeplechaser Dennis Coates (twelfth overall) made camp in the hills above
Hollywood at a former movie ranch. The Harriers’ companions included the
remnants of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, though not the man
himself as he was engaged in post-production duties on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
as well as Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, enjoying a brief period of rapprochement in their tortuous
relationship.
In the camp Foster, a University educated organic Chemist;
fell under the spell of occasional visitor Dr. Timothy Leary. Brendan
experimented not only with LSD 25 and psilocybin, but with the peyote and
mescal Ginsberg had brought with him as a sign of his continued fascination
with Mayan culture. The hallucinations Foster enjoyed, influenced his future
philosophy, while the junk Burroughs shared with Jenkins shaped the latter’s
subsequent career. Dennis busied himself by jumping over tree stumps and the
ranch barbecue, simulating the track conditions he would soon face, while
reciting Buddhist incantations. Clearly, competitive athletics had taken a back
seat.
Post competition, the athletes were granted a civic
reception at Gateshead Town Hall and then chauffeur driven to meet their
adoring fans at their home track, the International Stadium. In the limousine,
Jenkins freebased cocaine, Coates recited mantras and Foster ingested 200mg of
lysergic acid, in the form of a blotter, as they sped along the A184 Felling
Bypass.
At the stadium, Jenkins slumped wild-eyed across the podium,
while Coates sat cross-legged in meditation, while Foster seized the mic from
local radio DJ and Master of Ceremonies, Frank Wappat, and began extemporising
beat poetry to the awed audience. I am privileged to say I was one of those
gathered to hear him speak.
Foster’s final performance piece was dedicated to “all the
fish of the oceans and birds of the air.” It featured an impassioned plea for
ecological awareness, strict adherence to vegan principles and complete
disarmament by all nations of the earth. As he recited it, Foster provocatively
undressed and jived lewdly with a hand-picked selection of ample breasted women
from the audience, endlessly repeating this totemic tercet -:
We’re gonna build us a
Porcupine Park,
With a dozen apple
trees
And space for the
hedgehogs as well.
Clearly, the poem struck a note with all who were there,
being plucked from the most obscure corner of sporting history to rename a pub.
Certainly, whatever the place is called now, I feel Porcupine Park is a more
fitting tribute to Foster’s achievements than The Gold Medal, but
opinions differ…
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