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Pot luck…

365/17. Daily notes from the City of Culture.

Pot Luck. Pic by Graeme Oxby.

“I don’t know about you,” I said to tonight’s audience, “but I have no fucking idea what day it is. And we’re only four days in.” I swore early on, because the night I was compering had a line-up of folk who don’t hold back when it comes to language. So I thought I’d set the tone. It’s as good as a parental advisory sticker and somewhat fruitier. Which is fitting, as the venue for the night was Fruit, Hull’s finest former warehouse turned arts space.

Pot Luck, it was called. An idea that prompted people to take a punt on a night, purchasing tickets for something that might not be their cup of tea, from live music, a film screening, an evening of art and spoken word. We were actually allowed to spread the word about the line-up in the morning, and as a result quite a healthy crowd turned out to see Dean Wilson, Attila the Stockbroker, eye-linertastic Luke Wright and the bloody brilliant cultural terrorist Joelle Taylor. Maybe they’d have gone anyway, such is the hunger for culture already.

Nobody, it seemed, was surprised at what they’d turned up for. “Do you all know why you’re here?” I asked. There was a resounding yes in response. Nice audience who clearly wanted to have a lot of fun.

I think I’m right in saying that this was the first official ‘gig’ of the year. Nice to be a part of it in a small way and share the stage with four very talented poets.  Joelle Taylor completely blew me away with her short but very powerful set.

Pot Luck is part of the Made in Hull opening shebang, overseen by Sean McAllister, currently the most popular man in the city and being stalked by his own ever-present camera crew.  I’m hoping Graeme Oxby, who captured me reading off my scraps of paper, will do the same for me. Hang on, what am I saying?

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