“He was doing Summer Season,
His big come back, when one night, To-
wards the end of his run,
Some heckling kid upset him terrible- a few
Months later: dead, heart attack, supposedly
But it were that gobby brat did for him…”
I have this troubling memory
Of Mum, Dad, me- we’re sat Front Circle,
Queen’s Theatre, Blackpool- it’s almost
The sixties and a red curtain’s rising on his
Toothy grin, trademark ukulele when I yell
Out “That’s not him, s’just some old man!”
He falls into silence; coughs;
Whispering; from the stucco ceiling gilded
Cherubs look down, open mouthed at a
Waxwork dummy that’s trying to sing but
He’s faded, off-key.
So now I know for sure.
It was me.
I killed George Formby.
Kevin Patrick McCann
Illustration Nick Victor
A new book of poems