Evidently John Cooper Clarke's Bus Pass

So John Cooper Clarke has just turned 60. The barely bantam-weight Salford bard middle-aged spread appears to have affected only his remarkable hair, still coloured dark as raven’s wings with approximately the same span.On Saturday night a very respectable crowd partial to iambic pentameters in a Mancunian punk rock style crammed into Edinburgh’s Cabaret Voltaire – surely the most appropriately named venue for such a literate performer.And the local literati were littered throughout the crowd, including the redoubtable Paul Reekie, another man of words who seems to improbably improve with age. The long greying hair giving him the look of a craggy Celtic Iggy Pop, but most definitely not that of an insurance salesman.(For the unfamiliar, check his early piece Lovers on the impressive compilation of Scottish post punk Messthetics No 5.)Johnny was due on stage at 8.30 but didn’t make it until 9.00pm, his taxi driver apparently unsure where the Cab Vol was situated in the heart of the historic Olde Towne. Next to the Blair Street Sauna, from where many a promoter of shows source the dressing room towels for the appearing stars. Freshly laundered, obviously.And to think JCC could have hopped on a bus for free, if he remembered to bring the pass. Sporting a heavy red tint rather than the old black wraparound shades of old, he drinks whisky with a bottle of water chaser. Class. His are one of the few shows where the cry of “Twat!” is a request not a heckle, although the occasional Czech lager fuelled hollers from the more drunk and confused are deftly despatched out of the park. There are more yarns and gags than poems, but no complaints on that score.The highlight is Beasley Street being restyled as Beasley Boulevard, with all the accoutrements of 21st century living. Back in 1982 or so I committed the broadcasting faux pas par excellence of deciding to play his single at the time, I Married A Monster From Outer Space.It was during a show called Forth Street at tea time, on curiously enough, Radio Forth.In my defence Forth Street was the station’s actual address.Being disorganised as usual, only the album was to hand, and not thinking about the single edits so popular back in the day, slammed on the LP version.“I mean it’s bad enough with someone from another race,” says Johnny, “But fuck me a monster from outer space.”Cut things short before the next refrain but fell short of an apology. How many of the sizeable drive time audience rang in to complain? Not a single one.Admittedly, I only played a record, but it will come as no surprise that profanity failed to be quite the boosty woosty to my career as it did for those of Ross and Russell all these years later.