This Spectred Isle/This Spetic Tank

I keep finding myself arriving back here

Back on this spectred isle

This septic tank

Like I’ve washed up after a storm of cultural confusion

Carrying a small bag of sounds I’m not sure anyone asked for

And people look at me

Politely baffled

Like I’m a parcel that’s been delivered to the wrong address

Because here

on this spectred isle

This septic tank

You can walk into a venue carrying an actual sound

A real one

Still warm

And someone will say

Oh

Did you go to Oxford

Or Cambridge

Because apparently that’s the only way a waveform counts

If it’s been passed through ancient stone

And a rowing club

And you say no

And they tilt their heads

The way dogs do

When they hear a pitch they don’t understand

And suddenly your whole artistic practice

Your whole deal

Is treated like you’ve turned up with an unlicensed instrument

Something foreign

Possibly European

Which is frowned upon under the new guidelines

Because in this spectred isle this septic tank

All the big composers

The names printed on the brochures in confident serif fonts

They all seem to have gone to one or the other

Oxford

Or Cambridge

Somewhere with lawns

And supervision

And a long tradition of who gets to be taken seriously

But no one says it outright

Of course not

We’re British

We keep all our real criteria in a small locked drawer

Next to the biscuits

And the nepotism

So they say instead

We’re very excited about your practice

Which is code for

You’re not in the drawer

Sorry

We lost the key

Probably at May Ball

Very messy night

And abroad

Abroad they don’t care where you were educated

They just check the speakers work

And give you water in a glass

A proper glass

Not in a cracked mug from the staff kitchen

With the logo of a festival that died ten years ago

And coming home

You get the same final blessing

Well

It wasn’t for me

But someone somewhere might like it

Which on this spectred isle this septic tank

Is as close as you get to an open door