As a poet you have an image to live up to.
In terms of excess the stereotype is Dylan Thomas, so if you aren't an inebriated womaniser you're lacking what it takes to be a real artist.
In terms of dress I don't think Dylan set the standards (or lack of them).
I tend to blame Ian MacMillan and his effervescent shirts.
With Zephaniah, he's the most conspicuous poet on telly after all.
I once read with him at Blackwood 'Stute and was completely dazzled by his shirt....not to mention his superior performing style.
All this was brought home to me once when I agreed to do a Plaid Cymru benefit in Bedlinog.
The other guest poet was from Newport - their official laureate , he claimed - who someone commented 'really looked like a poet!'
This person eyed my Michael Foot-style duffle with great suspicion.
Casnewydd's finest was all swirls of colour and flowery patterns : he could've stepped straight from one of Michael Horowitz's 1960s happenings.
Unassociated with my dowdy dress sense, I caused a bit of a stir by reading a dialect poem about a Labour Councillor whose political progress was down to her ability at blow-jobs!
(It was meant to be a local take on the then current Clinton-Lewinski scandal and was totally fictional).
However, one Plaid member was very offended and accosted me on the bus home to Merthyr for my 'filth'.
I've never been one for trends and only ever wore platform shoes as protection against a snappy Jack Russell who always attacked me in Barry.
I admired music by The Who, Small Faces and later The Jam without wanting to dress like a mod.
I was into punk, yet the nearest I came to wearing a black bin bag was getting tangled in one while putting the rubbish out.
I did like many bands who weren't part of any movement and created music nobody could readily pigeon-hole, least of all themselves.
This was embodied by Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band, Soft Machine and solo artists like Tom Waits and Robert Wyatt ( the man in the cartoon).
It was only at Uni that I tried to express who I thought I was through the way I dressed and I must've looked a right sight!
I think I wanted to stand out in khaki hat sporting a half-moon motif, worker's blue jacket randomly splattered with white paint and anti-badge ( i.e. badge with only a reflective surface).
One English lecturer was perplexed enough by the bucket hat to ask if the moon was symbolic.
In retrospect, it might well have been a small tribute to the great Rob Wyatt, whose 20 minute song 'Moon in June' was one of my favourites.
It often caused consternation for my grandparents who thought I couldn't afford a proper jacket and also fellow train-travellers convinced I was going on a painting job.
My mirror badge was always just a brief talking-point.
While I may have wanted to mirror a Zen master, I might've been better off wielding the inevitable staff they used on the path to enlightenment.
It is possible that understated or mundane dressing can cause equal confusion.
My wife blames the fact I was mistaken for a UKIP supporter on my rather dowdy but nondescript hat.
Not a deer-stalker or trilby mind, but a nothing hat worn for warmth and comfort.
I'm not convinced by this theory. I just think she doesn't like the hat!
Sometimes sheer practicality can dictate fashion.
I'm currently reading Marcus O'Dair's excellent biography of Wyatt 'Different Every Time' and he explains that Rob's penchant for drumming either naked or in his undies came from his early days in Majorca, when it was simply too hot to wear clothes and play the drums.
For a lot of people it's what you can afford, though Prismark have opened up a lot of opportunities, albeit using sweat-shop labour in some cases.
I really do believe you aren't what you wear.
The chicest most glamorous people can also be the most shallow and those who choose practicality have other priorities in their lives than mere outward attraction.
I saw in schools the constant clash between uniformity and individual expression and all it did was elevate the importance of clothing, when it should've been put in perspective.
In the end what matters is that Wyatt was an amazing drummer and if it helped to play in his underpants then so be it.
FLIP FLOPS IN WINTER
'Is ee orright or wha?'
the ol lady pointed with er metal stick.
Shorts, t-shirt, flip flops,
tattoos on both arms.
An there's me on a frosty mornin
with a north wind blowin icy,
in my bobble an woolly scarf,
my four layers o thermals ;
I'd-a worn a balaclava
on'y I didn wanna be arrested!
'Der, summin wrong with im!'
I agreed, all-a time thinkin:
'Good f'r im....wish I could shed more
an jest like me, ee've got no air.'
Seen im in-a Mountain Shop later
searchin f'r a bargen in-a ski wear!
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