Poetry packs a punch
Sir: Vernon Scannell, who figured in Jeremy Clarke's column last week (Low Life, 24 November), was quite a legendary figure in Milton Keynes, where he was poet-in-residence some 50 years ago.
His mild, scholarly demeanour belied the fact that he had been a ferocious professional boxer. Drinking in a Milton Keynes pub one evening, some local heavies rather the worse for wear asked him what he did for a living. 'I'm a poet,' he told them. Banter led to insults, then one of them hit him Scannell floored three of them in quick succession before returning amiably to his pint.
He subsequently taught creative writing to young poets, who would go to local pubs in search of Pernod and other fancy drinks. When these mild, wispy-bearded young men were accosted by burly drunks they had only to mention that they were poets for their would-be tormenters to scatter in alarm.
They had learnt the lesson that if you know what's good for you, you don't mess with poets; they'll bust your nose as soon as look at you.
Robert Ireland Harrow-on-the-Hill, Middlesex
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