IN my last column I wrote a eulogy to my late comrade in ranting verse, Steven “Seething” Wells. Today I celebrate the life of another poetic force of nature: Brian Patten, who died last Monday. 

Like thousands of others I first encountered his work as one of three new Liverpool poets (Roger McGough and Adrian Henri were the other two, of course) featured in the pioneering anthology The Mersey Sound, originally published by Penguin in 1967.

I was in my mid-teens when I picked it up circa 1973, my early love of words fostered by my late father (he died when I was ten), the Cautionary Tales of Hilaire Belloc, and the wizard words of Marc Bolan, and not suffocated by the dead words of the boring “greats” I was forced to learn by rote at a stultifying school.  

When I opened their book, those young working-class Scousers opened my mind — to a new world of poetry which reflected the lives and experiences of ordinary people, and was accessible to all. 

And The Mersey Sound was a catalyst for my own work. Inspired by it, and shortly afterwards by the DIY energy of the emergent punk scene, I threw myself into writing and eventually got up on stage as Attila the Stockbroker in 1980. Ten years after reading The Mersey Sound for the first time I was sharing the stage with the Liverpool poets at festivals. I did many gigs with Brian, and one in particular sticks in my mind.  

RIP to a talented poet and lovely bloke, and thanks for the inspiration.

FOR BRIAN 

So farewell to you, Brian Patten: 
‘The Mersey Sound’ opened my eyes 
We shared quite a few gigs together 
And a bed once, much to our surprise.
It was not our mutual admiration 
Which led us that night tryst to keep 
But a lit fest’s crap administration 
And we both needed somewhere to sleep.

My recent stay in Yorkshire for the Seething Wells memorial last Thursday week also included a moving and brilliant performance by former Orange Juice front man Edwyn Collins at the Brudenell in Leeds on the Friday, and culminated in a wonderful Saturday. Brighton secured three points at our tribute act club Chelsea, while I joined my lovely hosts Mark and Rachel to watch their team Bradford City beat Blackpool and go back to the top of League One.

I then had a brilliant gig which was literally a piss-up in a brewery (Horsforth Brewery, to be exact). 

Yes, I’m boycotting Chelsea and shall never set foot in Spamford Bridge again. They’ve had our manager, five of our players and half our backroom staff, and I loathe them. Here’s a rewrite of an old Elvis Costello hit: I didn’t need to change the title though. 

I DON’T WANT TO GO TO CHELSEA

Memories of dirty tricks 
To take that club to the top six 
Stolen Soviet money fix 
Abramovich just licked his lips 
Premier League is a filthy puddle 
Slave state oligarch American bubble
Fit and proper just a useless muddle
And one club started all the trouble 
I don’t want to go to Chelsea
Oh no, they just revolt me 
Gonna boycott them completely 
Though some other clubs repulse 
I will go everywhere else 
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Modern football sets the borders 
Gives we loyal fans our orders
If you’re pissed off go away
All the plastics want to pay
Bully Boy Boehly poaches players
Shakes them very gently by the throat
One’s named Marc and one’s named Moises
Potter came back and we made rude noises 
I don’t want to go to Chelsea
Oh no, they just revolt me
Gonna boycott them completely 
Won’t let bygones be bygones 
They’re even worse than MK Dons
And to show my depth of malice
Hate them more than Crystal Palace
I don’t want to go to Chelsea