Trivia: the second collection of essays and poems by David Collins (pseudonym, quite a clever one, I thought), illustrated by myself ("The Hollow Refuge"), was written up as “whining, artless garbage” by the Cambridge Review: they even sent the review copy back with a -very nasty- note written on it. Needless to say, we re-covered with “whining, artless garbage - Cambridge Review” very prominent and sent them a second edition too. Elitist snobby bastards with your words that sound similar to one another about flowers and how blue the sky is…

The gentleman’s stroke magazine “Knave” was much kinder, citing that poetry of “Sex, car crashes, and violence are accurate parts of everyday life”. And they sent me a copy of the magazine with the review in it. Which my mum opened. Try explaining that. “No Mum, I’m a poet, not a wanker!” Bloody synonyms anyway. Sadly, the copy of the magazine was lost during the crossing of the broad majestic Atlantic. Bloody sailors.

A few months later, we started to get strange mails from a prison inmate who had somehow gotten his hands on a copy and was very reluctant to say why he was in the big house. We sent him the remainder with the publisher address (my home) blacked out, and without the individually illustrated covers.

After the manager at the local copy shop decided he was a moral authority and I was publishing filth, we more or less gave up on the idea. You’d be amazed how many would-be poets who’d like to learn from your work but are just hard up now and could you send them a free copy there are. If you can afford a wank magazine, you can give me your bloody pound mate.

“No Mum, I’m a poet, not a wanker!”

Ha!