Sam West at York Theatre Royal #mytheatrematters

Strummercamp 2011, Henry Raby performs classic Gil Scott-Heron in his memory R.I.P.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised-tribute to Gil Scott-Heron

Henry Raby and Natalie Quatermass are Vandal Factory Theatre Company and have made a show about punk and politics and DIY called Whatever Happened To Vandal Raptor?
Here they chat to a Design student about the (sub)culture of punk and what it means to them.

Whatever Happened To Vandal Raptor? and the politics of punk

When I take my sleeping bag places, I end up doing the Sleeping Bag Freestyle which involves wearing my sleeping bag and through the power of it's warmth and cosiness I perform a poem celebrating THE SLEEPING BAG in all it's glory.  Sorry for the rough recording, but you can hear people laugh, so, hey-ho, proves something.

Sleeping Bag Freestyle (Live Bristol Old Vic 25/05/12)

A poem about always being a MENACE.  Recorded by LA Hegarty

Last Train Outta Beanotown

Operation:  Historical Ballistic Accuracy

True Friends (Live Black Swan 2nd Feb 2013)

I, Grunt

I came from Celadon.  They call it the City of Rainbow Dreams, but don’t believe the tourism board.  They sell the premise of fancy hotels, fine mansions and department stores.  It’s a pampered joke, even the gym is a sweet-smelling garden populated by pin-up girls and petals.

I lived in Celadon Ghetto.  Take a look beyond fountains and perfect lime tiling.  Rough-housed by bikers from the Bridge to the west with their Koffins spitting gas with poisonous breath.  My mother’s bad with her health, she got too close to a wild Grimer, now she needs medical attention but it’s not free for humans without wealth.  The city won’t pay for a clean-up, so we were left with the dirt piling-up.  Did I mention my little sister got Embered by a Vulpix who came sniffing around our rubbish?  3rd degree burns, and I have to watch her suffering. 

Is it no wonder I took to gambling?  There’s no work, the docks at Vermillion were turned into a luxury cruise port and I’m not washing dishes in some posh restaurant.  No Pay Day for us.  Being the greatest champion in the world is an arrogant boy’s notion, some of us have families to feed, some of us can’t afford Potions.  Some of us weren’t born in rich towns where expert Professors hand out rare types like bystanders hand out pointless advice.  Call it snobbery, but it’s like relying on Metronome, it’s a postcode lottery.

It was in the Game Corner when I met The Boss.  He stood tall like a rock snake, grounded and heavy-paced, imposing like his every step could cause an Earthquake.  He introduced me to the operation, why slave away on my own when I could work for a wider organisation?

“You could be a lowly nameless dot” he said.  “Moving one step forwards and two steps back.”  His smile was a sharp as a Slash attack.  “Why spend the rest of your life like you’ve been Supersonic’d by a Zubat?”

He gave me another option; another world like the earth had a Fissure and was open wide.  I’ll never forget those Take Down eyes.  He asked:  “How about being one of the Bad Guys?”

They gave me a uniform, whip and two slaves.  I used these monsters like I’d use any tool, I don’t feel guilty, given the chance they’d turn on me and use a Hyper Fang bite or leech my life.  You can’t criticise me, I’ve seen how you treat your Growlithe.  You call it loyalty, I say obedience.  Power is all that matters in life.

The job was simple.  Our agents abroad would send us exotic creatures as prizes, digital ducks, electric yetis and even dragons.  I don’t know how they bagged ‘em, but the appeal roped in the rich suckers to the Casino who would waste their money away like newbies waste TMs.  Sure, it was possible to win some cash, but it was more likely you’d lose, like trying to outrun a Rapidash.

There’s two types of people in this world, and neither are very effective.  Those that stand on roadsides, static and patient, like they’re an item waiting to be picked up.  Then there’s those who try and become a Champion and everything is a Flying visit, a city to tick off and encyclopaedia to fill.  We have plots.  We advance the plot.  We’re Super Effective. We’re the Critical Hit.

We got the call.  Shipping out to Mount Moon.  Our Scientists needed some muscle in securing some rare fossils.  So we piled into that pit, I got nipped by mushroomed bugs and chipped by living rocks but I put up with it.  No one owns a mountain, there are no laws on rocks in the earth so we said, this is our turf.

Then they moved our section to Lavender Town, the whole place exiting to support a graveyard built in a tower.  You ask me, graves belong in the earth, not the sky, no wonder we felt watched by an evil presence and dark glowing eyes.  Rumour spread we were cursed by a Marowak we killed, but that monster Bone Clubbed the head of my best friend and left him for dead. 

So they sent us to Saffron, the overpopulated hub of this region.  I never realised our strength before but our organisation is legion.  Our target?  Silph Co.  I always wanted to take apart those bosses who dominate the market.  You think we’re the villains?  They’re the ones with vast wealth.  Why do they have a shop in every city, why can’t you buy from anywhere else?  They Ice Beam protestors with a Lapras.  A rival company gets a slice of business, I heard Drowzees manipulate opponent’s dreams and devour ambition.  They send in Machamps to take out Trade Unions.  They Low Kick picketlines into Submission.  All to keep Silph Co. rich and its competition lower than a Diglett’s dick.

But then this kid, I thought I recognised his face, slapped us around like we were playthings.  Then you Officers showed up, once the real fighting calmed down.  So here I am, answering questions in this station.  But I know that anything violent you criticise or charge us with, we did through an existing system.  There’s no Dark here.

So you wanna know who we are?  We are the Grunts.

Here’s my final reasoning:  I couldn’t spend my life like a Farfetch’d carrying its own seasoning.  You want something in this life?  Battle and take it. This world is as black as Rock Tunnel.  And no Flash will illuminate it.

I, Grunt - A Pokemon Poem

5 Cans of Deoderant

The Credits Roll

Collaboration with the fantastic Travels By Telephone

Henry Raby & Travels By Telephone present: Practise Patience

Punk poet based in York, get in touch via henrythepoet@btinternet.com

HenryRabyPoetry

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