The poet Lee Harwood had a telling sense of humour. We once shared a lively gig in a Guildford theatre with our mutual, and often thunderingly verbose, friend Jeff Nuttall, who took a post-reading questioner aback with an extraordinarily extended excoriation of the literary establishment. A long silence suffused the gob-smacked bourgeois auditorium, eventually to be broken by a stage whisper from Lee: “Said Piglet.”
