Over a single weekend I witnessed the genius of the two thinnest men in Manchester. John Cooper Clarke, the legendary punk poet from Salford has, if anything, lost even more weight. He writhes onto the stage (a piece of carpet over B + W checked lino) in a suit of minuscule proportions, hair like a startled Chihuahua and obligatory cheap shades. The first five minutes or so are embarrassing, he is disoriented, he's lost his notes, he has a sore throat, he has people shouting at him and he doesn't know what to do, he is shaking visibly. The man is a mess. He asks how Stoke City got on that afternoon (they beat a hapless Grimsby Town 3-0), this takes him on to his beloved Manchester United and suddenly we're away. The room transforms into a warm glow of appreciation for the fastest rhymer in the North as he winds his croaking way through several classics and a few newer attacks. For fifty minutes he is a whirlwind of ideas and then just as suddenly, when the audience are nestled in the palm of his bony hand he loses it again, starts to ramble, stands to the side of the rug while people clap, returns for a vague 'Kung Fu International' finale and ambles back into the black.
Russell Jones