When Ted Hughes died, Tony Harrison's name was bandied about as a Poet Laureate contender. A staunch republican, the appointment would have horrified him.
Thankfully, he had probably already scuppered his chances with a lip-smackingly filthy poem about Camillagate.
He read that poem aloud after a screening of his ambitious film poem The Shadow Of Hiroshima, showing his ability to range from bawdy wit to the most horrific subject matter.
The screening sparked off a discussion about art and politics and Harrison reminisced about his time as The Guardian's war poet correspondent in Bosnia.
He also read Shrapnel, which dwells on the curious link between himself and the July 7 bombers. The plotters grew up on the same street where, during the Second World War, the young Harrison had played around in German bomb craters.
The evening confirmed Harrison as the strongest, most unflinching voice in modern British poetry.
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