We have a certain fondness for poetry. The poetic qualities of Athletic Young Men from Bude and Similarly Athletic Young Ladies from Ealing (West London) are not beyond our reach. But Samuel Coleridge Bloody Taylor, what an arse. Has a dream about Kubla Khan, thinks this is a winner and then gets pissed off because an extremely well meaning chap from Porlock popped round.
“On awakening” Coleridge Taylor wrote, he had “a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!”