Tag Archives: interviews

Episode 5: Make Them Feel Small.


Welcome to episode 5 of The Bunbury Speaks Podcast!

This time we had the the pleasure of talking to the fantastic Mike Bedigan. We covered many topics and had a good few laughs and of course, heard Mike’s marvelous addition to our story.

We also wish Mike all the success possible with his Masters degree and future.

As always the music was by the brilliant Midlane, click on his face below for more!

It was produced by Keri Moriarty for the internet.

Liked this podcast? Want to help Bunbury carry on bringing you wonderful entertainment? Please hit the donate link below and give what you can. We love what we do and hope you love it too.
Thank you.

Donate to The Bunbury Speaks

All that said, we hope you enjoy the podcast.

Happy listening,

Much love,
Team Bunbury

I Remember Judge Tuxedo

Episode 4 of the Bunbury Speaks Podcast is here! We interviewed a guy you’ll all have heard about from our other podcasts because he did the music! It’s none other than out very own Scott Midlane.

In this podcast we cover a lot of topics ans here are the links we spoke about:
To find Scott’s wonderful music

Third Man Phenomenon

And his new single Rag Doll 

Check all of this great stuff out!

Check out the wonderful work from Howard Sinclair Photography

If you’d like to find out more or have questions about Diabetes, please follow the following link

As always the music was by the brilliant Midlane, click on his face below for more!

It was produced by Keri Moriarty for the internet.

Liked this podcast? Want to help Bunbury carry on bringing you wonderful entertainment? Please hit the donate link below and give what you can. We love what we do and hope you love it too.
Thank you.

Donate to The Bunbury Speaks

All that said, we hope you enjoy the podcast.

Happy listening,

Much love,
Team Bunbury

The Bunbury Speaks Podcast Episode 2


Here we are again on our own…

Only we’re not on our own are we lovely listeners, because you’re here.

This time we bring you an interview so electric even the weather joined in!  we has a thunder storm right the way through most of it and editor Keri loved every minute of it.
In this episode we discuss education, Shakespeare, trouser rippage, running, pies, chicken nuggets and the answer to the most important question on the Bunbury team’s mind and one that has burned through the ages;
What Paul’s zombie apocalypse plan is.
All this and more!

Below you’ll find all of the links we talked about in the show.

You can see Paul’s work and get in touch with him via Facebook at
We really do advise that you check him out. He’s a lovely guy and his poetry books are well worth investing in.

Speaking of which, here’s a link to his shop http://thedramastudio.org.uk/shop/ on his website, http://thedramastudio.org.uk/#
There are loads of things to discover so do visit and take a gander and keep up to date with his blog!

One of the things we talk about is a wonderful coincidence which not only went viral but made it to the paper.
Read more here because it’s a brilliant story.

Finally, as mentioned above, we spoke about Paul’s passion for running. He runs for charity a lot and has a just giving page. His next run is for the cancer charity Macmillan. Please give what you can. It will be much appreciated by us an him.

As always the music was by the brilliant Midlane, click on his face below for more!
It was produced by Keri Moriarty for the internet.

Liked this podcast? Want to help Bunbury carry on bringing you wonderful entertainment? Please hit the donate link below and give what you can. We love what we do and hope you love it too.
Thank you.

Donate to The Bunbury Speaks

Peter Brush – Dreams with Advert Breaks: A Review

Bunbury Magazine Rating – ★★★★

Peter Brush is not your ordinary comedian and his show, Dreams with Advert Breaks, is not your typical comedy show.

Peter’s show is all about dreams – more specifically, his dreams, and whether, looking back, he is getting his dreams and his memories confused with one another. With this premise, he sets off on an hour of playing around with some delightfully silly ideas, well-crafted and well-landed jokes that take in everything from being in the womb to playing rock-paper-sciccors.

He uses the room to his advantage too, making the very best use out of the intimate nature of the space to engage with the audience on a more personal level. He was once described in another review as not looking ‘like he’s meant to be on the stage’, something which, again he uses to his advantage. (By the way, we disagree with this!)

Peter’s is a well-rehearsed performance. What we particularly admired was the ending of the show, which brought back all those flights of fancy he takes the audience on and ties everything together. This is a deeply imaginative show about how we should embrace our imaginative side and is very funny indeed.

Dreams with Advert Breaks was on in The Banshee Labyrinth at 1310 as part of the PBH Free Fringe.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 12/10/15

Here is a poem.

Cut my smooth, unbattered flesh

and I do not bleed blue, gold nor red.

My words do not profess nor betray

any strong opinions or judgements.

My thoughts will never change the world,

my deeds will not shape history.

My ancestors backs do not carry scars

of whips and a world of weight and fight.

My existence has never been defined

one straight, sign-posted road, more a series

of light-and-shade dirt tracks.


Every morning I slip in to pre-tied trainers

and scroll through the Recently Played

list for something soothingly familiar

to listen to whilst walking to work

for someone who keeps the roof over my head,

gas in the pipes and ambition caged.

Walking under cherry trees which darken the path

with its tributaries, I use the flap of the tobacco

pouch as an umbrella for a cigarette.


The main road parades a torrent

over me on the corner junction

as a dust-red Vauxhall chances

the last amber half-second.


On the other side of the junction,

a fray-haired mother uses half her

effort to put the rain cover

up over her already sodden child

whilst gazing through the window

of another beauty salon.

The cars beep her back to reality,

informing her to cross over.


On the main high street, one-third of the shop

shutters are still down, displaying vulgar graffiti.

A homeless man pulls at one of the shutters,

fingers grimly clawing at a rusted padlock

before giving up and moving on to the next.


Cut my smooth, unbattered flesh

and I do not bleed blue, gold nor red.

My veins do not run with riotous

glimmer nor within my mind does

not reside the cure for cancer.


As one hand cups a half-smoked rolly,

my other is deep in the pocket of my rain coat,

finger-tips idly toying the engraving

of a pocket-watch I received as a birthday present,

and I know I am loved.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 09/10/14

Here is a poem, cutting right to the chase after an interminable shift in work.


Hello, my name is Chris and I am calling from

a number that will be ignored.


Hello, my name is Chris and I’m

wasting my breath apparently.


Hello, my name is Chris and I’m calling

because after 7 years of study

this is the only job I could get.


Hello my name is Chris

and in an employer’s market there

are no transferable, desirable skills,

irreplaceable people or loyalty

to anyone’s need to eat and pay rent.

There is simply a revolving door

and a detached middle-manager

on the end of a phone telling you

that you are no longer needed.


Hello my name is Chris and I’m calling from Quantum.


As I said, I am calling today because

I cannot get any other job.

I have 10 years of sector experience,

a degree, A Levels, all manner of training

but the job market has created a situation

where there are dozens of people for every job

and the majority of jobs are apprenticeships

or zero hours contracts with no guarantee

there will be a job at the end of a fixed-term

contract and no guarantee that you

will not be treated like a caged animal

by superiors and CEOs that know

how to interpret ‘human rights’

through loopholes.

Does that sound like something you could help with?

Could you help me today pay my rent by listening to

some words that have been placed in front of me,

printed in dispassionate font that I am

reading in a dispassionate tone?

Does that sound like something you would be interested in.

I fully understand your need to call me a cunt, I

really do. I know that I should be ashamed of my job.

The thing is, this is my intro, my pitch.

It may not be the one for you but it really is the only one

that I have.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 08/10/14

So, it has been a little while since I have done this. In fact, I think it is fair to say that I have failed the challenge of writing a poem every day this year, given I haven’t done one since the end of July. I knew it was ambitious and I over-stretched myself but I am glad I tried it. I think out of the 100-200 poems I did write in that time frame – I was writing more than one a day at one point – I maybe have about 3 or 4 that I can actually work in to something which is a success of sorts.

I actually started doing this challenge in January because I was in the midst of a depression, I had not written anything for months and wanted an exercise to get me just doing something, anything again. Getting some words down. That is something I achieved whilst doing this from the start of the year to July. I did write some things. I managed to get myself out of the depression too. I came off the antidepressants and things started looking up.

It has not been plain sailing of course, nothing is. I am still fighting my depression on a daily basis. I have just had to take a new job in a call centre of all places because my previous job were a horde of succubi. Since the start of the year though, we have released 3 really strong issues and have another one we are just about to start editing. I finally obtained my degree, after seven long years and we have started planning our wedding. That’s right, the very beautiful Keri and I are shackling to each other next year, on my 30th birthday until the day we are either raptured or eaten by raptors. those are the only two logical endings as far as I can see.

We also spent an incredible (almost) week up in Edinburgh for the Fringe festival where we saw some incredible shows, made some brilliant friends and had a few cheeky beers on the way. Not too many. Have you seen the cost of a pint up there? We’re not collectively Rockefeller!

Anyway, enough of the amble, pre or otherwise. I’m back with a poem. Since the start of July, I have not really written much and after 8 hours today of being called a cunt on the phone, I do not really have much in my head but I am going to force myself to write something to kick this off again because writing is too important. I would also be a fool if I did not chose today, National Poetry Day, to actually write some verse!

Here is a poem.

Take my hand and fly with me,

above the trees, amongst the birds.

Forget the words that you have heard

that humans were not meant to fly.

Take my hand and up we’ll go,

above the clouds to kiss the sky,

climbing higher and higher again

until it all just fades to black

where we can feel the hot, pure sun

upon our backs.

Take my hand amongst the stars

through galaxies and supernovas

sailing on to the unknown

where there are no words

to hold us down

tether us to weakened ground

because human beings were meant to fly

up to the sky and far beyond.

Take my hand for this I know and one thing else,

that flying on through asteroids and dancing on infinity

is well and good but I could not ever imagine

doing this alone.

Down in the pits of real life

I have a deep foreboding of

the things that might lurk in the dark

but up hear in the silent black

all my fears just melt away

because on one very special day

you took my hand and flew away

with me.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 20 – 22/07/15


Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘drift’ from #Soulwords.

The first of the day

is blown too quickly

away amongst

drifting wrappers.


Hi, my name is Christopher and I

am an addict.

It’s been two hours since I,


last used.

It’s got to a point now where I’m using at work,

on the bus,

on the toilet even.

Once upon a time

it was just something to take the edge off,

relax after a hard day.

It was a great escape,

a break from the prison of reality.

Now it feels as though I’m living on mars.

You can sit there and say,


it’s all good man.

It’s not. It’s like my own

personal horror story.

It’s causing damages,

stripping me down to the bones

in numbers,

and saying anything would

be a lie to me.

A pretty little lie.

Now I’m doing it every chance I get.

Cigarette breaks, toilet breaks,

behind the counter.

It’s even worse when I’m at home,

on a day off. Up at 8A.M,

by nine I’m already on the third rock.

Doing it when I’m washing up.

Sorry, I know I’m not making much sense.

I’m deep in the thick of this.

I don’t even care what it is anymore;



feel goods,


those ones that make you feel

like you’re the one being watched.

I think I need a doctor who understands,

who can help me slay this thing,

to chuck the habit,

because doing this on my own

is like chasing fireflies.

It’s the cost too.

Sure, the first sample is free

and that’s how they get you.

After that though, you pay.

Pay every time, like clockwork.

So, I,

I don’t know,


I don’t know what else to say

other than,

Hi, my name’s Christopher and

I’m addicted to Netflix.


Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘quiet madness’ from #MadVerse.

Our attention is always drawn

to those who scream and destroy

publicly when it should

be on those who boil

the shadows in quiet madness.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 17-19/07/15


Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘bittersweet memory’ from #DSPoetry.

The phrase ‘no resit’

jolts the heart, sets it

on a path until,

seven months later, the heart

is captured and can be at rest.


Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘breathless second’ from #WrittenRiver.

‘How do you think I feel?’

rapid breaths condense

into fogs of silver.

‘I’ve been training for

four fucking years!’


For the million and one moments

after you escape, each one

is sumptuous. Each mouthful

of fresh, clean air tastes

as sweet as anything can.

In delirium, you start

to rebuild a shattered life.

You do all the things you

always said you would do

but never got round to

before you were taken,

locked away for months.

Then, as it does,

reality’s dust starts to settle over you,

infinite particles gradually weighing

and bringing you back down to earth.

The smallest things no longer feel

like the greatest things you can do.

You start to take them for granted.

Then you realise that when you were taken,

irreplaceable things were taken too.

Things you will never get back.

Even things that you can get back.

Your phone was broken in the struggle.

Not a massive deal but it is the inconvenience

and the cost that are really annoying

and that is when the resentment truly kicks in.

Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 14-16/07/15

Here is the second of the catch-up days. All poems, as said before, have already been written. This is just posting them up.


The smallest one hid

at the back for photos,

an innate shyness caused

by always being the furthest away

from warm embraces.

While all the others

are fawned over, it simply sits

and waits for its turn, which never comes,

until eventually it is disowned,

left alone in the deep cold.

One day someone came to visit,

it passed all the others with perfunctory nods

until it came to the smallest,

at the back as always,

and smiled, said hello.

Pluto smiled back.


The bin in work is not just a bin.

It is not simply there

to hold the discarded items

that retail invariably brings –

packaging, faulty products.

It is also used as a ‘wet floor’ sign,

something to apathetically kick

when it is too hot and I am crabby.

It is also a beacon.

It is the first thing I see, bold red,

as I am opening the door.

A warning light to let me know

the next eight hours of my life

will be tedious, annoying

and preciously not mine.


The tall wide man

with skinny legs and

cliff-face shoulders

struts in front of the mirror.

His arms a map with only

one indicated ordinance feature;

a detailed topography of his

veins. He lifts a dumbbell

with a constipated grunt over his head

and strains. Cannon-balls jostle

for supremacy under stretched-out skin.

Next to him, a short squat man,

wide and less detailed quickly

loses enthusiasm halfway

through a routine. He looks at the tall, wide

man and considers his form,

the time masturbated away

aiming for what is seen as perfection.

Two minutes later, the squat man

is asking to cancel his membership.