When hurricanes run out of breath, and floods subside
Liverpool’s Roger McGough is something of a national treasure in England, a genuinely popular poet who is verbally playful and funny. The poetry has a lightness but there is still — at its best — that sense of a man negotiating the vagaries of being alive and the prospect — at the age of 76 — of no longer being alive.
My first encounter with McGough was in 1982 when I wandered into the Tricycle Theatre on the Kilburn Highroad for a reading by him and Brian Patten.
