MEDIOCRITY (A Story)

An insipid man who worked, in a Dry Cleaners, is tricked by a friend into attending a party at which he gets into an argument with a superior poet, who accuses him of mediocrity!

The insipid man broods over this for weeks. Everyone he talks to agrees with the superior poet. No getting away from it, he is mediocre.

Then one night, the insipid man wakes up at 3 a.m. inspired. He writes ‘The Poem’. He enters it for a big poetry competition. It wins! Things escalate quickly. He is invited on ‘Poetry Now’. The Poet Laureate comes in the Dry Cleaners! He is offered the part of Oscar Wilde by Kenneth Brannagh for his new film, ‘Oscar wasn’t gay!’ His new poem, provisionally entitled, ‘the next poem’, is to be published in The Sunday Times! He sits down to write it. He takes out Oscar Wilde’s pen, given to him by Kenneth Brannagh.

Nothing comes.

Not a single word phrase or line. Nothing. He spends a restless night pacing. Smoking. Agonising. The Times call. “How’s it going?” “Oh fine. Fine.” Finally it becomes clear there really is only one option. He will have to go and see the superior poet.

Swallowing disgust, revulsion and hate, the insipid man knocks on the superior poet’s door. “Oh it’s you. Yes?”

He explains. “I see. Well you better come in then.

After a long lecture on mediocrity they get down to bizznizz an thrash it out. ‘The Next Poem’. And it’s good. Very good. The Times editor is very happy. Wonderful work! In fact, it is so good, the insipid man is hurtled into that poetic stratosphere inhabited only by poetry giants, and the inevitable happens. They fire that Duffy woman, and make him Poet Laureate! He moves to primrose hill. And there he is, all set up for the poetry high life.

There’s knock at the door. It is the superior poet. “Well. Quite the little poetry nest eh? What’s this? A first edition of Paradise Lost. Very classy.”

It was very simple. Payback. The superior poet moved in. As long as the insipid man shines his shoes, laughs at his jokes and cooks his dinner, his secret is safe and he can go on living the poetic high life. He can’t though invite any poetry groupies back to his place because it’s like he has the picture of Dorian Gray in his attic! And the superior poet won’t even work on a new poem, provisionally entitled, ‘The Next Next Poem!’

The whole situation is becoming intolerable. Then after a friend has been over for liqueurs and quatrains, he takes insipid man aside and say, “ Err…. Haven’t you noticed? Your superior poet lodger is looking a bit off.” Back home he suddenly saw it. Yes. Some kind of awful change was…but…

Six months later the insipid man comes back from a Foyle’s Literary Luncheon and a ‘thing’, slithers across the carpet towards him. Can this really be the superior poet?

He has turned into a grotesque entity. By what though?

Then he realised.

By poetry of course!

FUCKING POETRY!!!!!!!!

The whole scene had done for him. But why had the insipid man remained untouched? The answer was, because he was!

MEDIOCRE!

Ah ha! Saved by his own mediocrity! Touché!