Tag Archives: literature

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

Rosie Fleeshman – Narcissist In The Mirror. Review


Bunbury Magazine: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

This show is filled with excellent full belly laugh humour and a sense of mischief from the off. Rosie works the crowd so well and has the audience hanging off her every word.
There is a sort of, poised chaos to the performance which intensifies the further in we get but it is shot through with warmth.
The use of silence is just as effective and needed as Fleeshman’s spoken word which itself incorporates surprising language usage which trips off her tongue effortlessly.
The piece encompasses what spoken word should be about.
It is brave, charged with emotion and inspiring and is topped off with a very unique voice that suits the tone and writing down to the ground. Close your eyes and you can hear her facial expressions and feel every word.
Narcissist In The Mirror leaves you wanting more and is one of the most beautiful ways to spend time with what I would class as a perfect ending.
If you haven’t seen it, you’re doing yourself a disservice.


Dave Chawner – Circumcision: A Review

Bunbury Magazine Rating – ★★★★★

Bunbury Fringe Award – The From The Hood Award

Straight from the top of the show, it is clear that Dave Chawner is a confident performer who brings a great deal of cheek and charm to the stage.

This cheek and charm are deployed to fantastic effect whilst dealing with some very sensitive issues – this show is the story of Dave’s circumcision at the start of this year. As the story unfolds, the audience are taken on a journey through mental health issues and eating disorders, all of which are dealt with with the utmost respect and sensitivity. It is clear that Dave knows how to put an audience at ease with excellent delivery.

He even talks about sex in a way that had us in stitches but without being overtly graphic – for the most part – which is a very difficult skill to master.

The entire show had a great rhythm and flow, moving through the narrative with a natural pace that allowed the story to build momentum. There was a very clear message to take from the show, an uplifting message which we will not spoil here but we left knowing we had seen something brilliant from one of the loveliest people we met in Edinburgh.

Circumcision was on at Cabaret Voltaire.

Do The Write Thing Halloween edition.

Rain tore down the well built defences of waterproof jackets and umbrellas while a welcoming, warm light burned in Bar Ten.  A large bowl of sweets sat invitingly on a table and a pumpkin glowed on stage, a raven carved into its face.
20151027_203924The evening started with open mic slots, the first of which took the form of a dialogue written and performed by Alan Rick with Fiona Nuttall taking the second roll. It is the first time we have had a more theatrical piece and it was great to see something different.

Next up was Michael Bainbridge who has a short, sweet and wonderfully penned offering and you know how much 20151027_204355we love seeing a new face.

Another new face performing but regular audience member Helen Bainbridge gave us a heartfelt and emotive pieces to enjoy.







After the first lot of open mic performers we had the first of our headliners for the evening, Dr. Sam Illingworth.
Dr Mr Sam is a physicist who lectures at Manchester Metropolitan University. He is also a poet. He delighted us with poe20151027_204927ms on birds, fish, the void and many other topics. Sam writes about and researches the crossover poetry and science, to put it in a nutshell and if you get the opportunity, go see him. You will not be disappointed.


After the break we had our second headliner, Mr Chris Bainbridge who is always a pleasure to have at our evenings. His pieces are inspirational at some points, thought provoking at others and downright hilarious too. He truly is a gifted poet and again, if you get a chance to 20151027_214746see him, do so.


The second, smaller duo of open mic performers started with a comedic piece from Matt Panesh who portrayed a character by the name of Roger Cumsnatch who is just as jaw-dr20151027_215919opping as the name implies. It was very refreshing to have another first at Do The Write Thing.

The second slot saw the return of the highly talented Fiona Nuttall who is always a pleasure to hear and has previously been a headliner. Fiona has a style all ofWP_20151027_024 her own and captivates the audience with ease and a great degree of skill.

Finally, we saw the début headliner performance of Lorraine Beckett-Murray, who delivers great impact from page to performance. We were treated to tales of cannibalism and long lost loves spanning centuries. A regular at our writing group, Do The Write Thing and landlady of Bar Ten, it is wonderful to see someone so passionate really take the reins.

At the end of the night, Keri presented the headliners with her own canvases. The pictures of which, are below. We hope you’ve enjoyed this write up and urge you to come to the next event. Keep an eye on our Facebook page for updates about the next event.

20151027_211005 20151027_223029 20151027_223057


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.