Goff Morgan - Adventures In Hack Poetry

A repository for the poetry of Goff Morgan, the one and only Newport Town Poet. Goff was the only official town poet in Wales from 1997 to 2000, and since then has continued in an informal capacity to write commissioned verse for BBC Radio Wales, and others.

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Location: Newport, Gwent, United Kingdom

I trained as an actor in the early eighties, and performed my own one-man shows until 2000. I was made Newport Town Poet in 1997, and have broadcast on BBC Radio Wales since 1991. My first solo programme for Radio Wales was "Goff At The Pictures", and I've recently completed a two parter called "Goff's Guiding Principles".

Thursday, January 12, 2006


Commissioned by the Radio Five Live Anita Anand programme, broadcast live from the Cameo Club Canton.

As the programme was about all things Welsh, they wanted something about the new phenomenon of Welsh paparazzi, and their professional stalking of Charlotte Church et al.
Also, Wales is "hip", and it's now cool to be Welsh, apparently.

It's thanks to this programme that I am now Honarary Poet in Residence for The Cameo Club.
Eat you heart out, Andrew Motion!


From the saddle of our mopeds
(Honda Melody Express)
We scour the streets of Cardiff
For celebrity excess,
`Cos it's very cool in Cymru,
Welsh is hip, if it's not hippy,
And the tabloids love a pic of
Of Charlotte Church behaving lippy,
And the editors of the Sundays
Will descend from near and far
For shots of the Super Furrys
Buying Vimto from the Spar.
First we prowl around St. Mary's Street
`Fore our initial sally
At Gavin Henson with a Cod & Chips
In Botulism Alley,
Then we rumble down to Bute Town
For the simple thrills and spills
Of Shirley Bassey in a knife-fight
Outside William Hills.
After pausing for a Panda Pop
We're straight onto the phones
To sell photos of Huw Edwards
Bitch-slapping Aled Jones,
Then it's back into the centre
Where we're hoping for the chance
Of another shot of Charlotte
With her skirt caught in her pants
(And we really pulled it off,
`Cos things turned rather nasty
And she tried to bottle Colin
With her heel stuck through a pasty).
Then as the dawns descending,
With our mopeds tucked away,
We sleep the sleep of the pure at heart:
Tomorrow night's another day.


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