So it turns out poetry slams aren't that polite. We reckon not even the most raucous of you Itchy readers often get to the stage when you've 'not quite realised how drunk you've become and are vomiting in her hair', or visualise steamy sex with your dentist.
To be honest, embarrassing life admissions were the last thing we were expecting judging by the venue, with its middle-aged men and women sipping red wine and cliques of students huddled quietly in corners. Before we had the chance to sneak back to the pub, Itchy was seized by the organiser and presenter, John Paul O'Neill, who cheerfully appointed us to be a part of the judging panel. Apparently, we're harsh markers.
A slam platforms the work of amateur poets, which are rated by some members of the audience. Our fave at Farrago was Harry Baker, who rapped about love between prime numbers (cooler than it sounds), but each poet's a winner with everyone receiving a prize – from car dice to beer openers. Handy.
The one thing to be careful of is how long it goes on for. Starting at 7.30 and finishing at 11, we were starving by the end, our friends at the pub had gone on to a club without us, and we couldn't quite absorb any more stacatto variations in tone. Make sure you eat something before you go. And bring enough cash, the bar is pretty pricey.
It's £5 for students, £6 for everyone else. The next slam is March 31st.