David Meads - whose stage name is the title of an Edward Lear poem - recited for an hour on topics including his own development as a poet ("1000 Words"), suicide ("Angles") and the myriad failings of mankind ("Letter from God"). Some of the material is very dark, but the mood of the gig stayed buoyant thanks to Meads's likeable onstage persona. He has a knack of switching between intense recitation and chatty banter that made sure that last night's huge audience stayed with him throughout, whether laughing with him, or hanging on every beautifully crafted line of verse.
Just as not all theatre is poetic, poetry is not necessarily theatrical. Last night, however, in the hands of Scroobius Pip, it most certainly was.