The Performance

On a quiet Tuesday in our village,

workmen started putting up a stage

in the square. When Will Johnson,

who has the butcher’s there, came out

to see what all the fuss was about,

he found they spoke no English.

By noon, the news was everywhere.

Some said it was all for a performance

by travelling players, others a boxing bout

between the vicar and the mayor,

or for some visiting dignitary, like the Queen

or Wayne Rooney. What wasn’t in doubt

was the expense: faux-Roman pillars,

flower arrangements camouflaging speakers,

a climbing frame lighting rig, a portable

orchestra pit. Neighbours talked about it

all afternoon, claimed indifference: the baby

to put to bed, something on the telly,

but by half-six, everyone was gathered

in their best clothes. Money changed hands

for seats in the front row, while at the back,

there was something approaching an insurrection

over whether one arse cheek means possession.

Quiet settled as the performance time came

and went, and nothing happened:

by seven-thirty we were restless and thirsty

and some fella started hawking cans of beer.

The first of us stormed the stage an hour later,

swaying slightly, ready to have a go at

an a cappella Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,

got a can to the cranium for his efforts.

That started it: an industrial speaker

was put through the butcher’s window,

a lily was rammed down the vicar’s earhole,

some kid made monkey bars of the lighting rig,

until it collapsed and smashed, setting fire

to the now obviously polystyrene pillars.

We finished up cracking the stage with our seats:

all in all, it must have made a sight

for the workmen who then came around the corner,

with their mops and brushes, their mirror ball heads,

speaking no English, whistling to themselves.