I wish I could write a great poem, An epic that doesn’t have rhyme, But the problem I have Is I’m a bit of a chav, Which is why I ‘isn’t’ sublime.

I’ve always liked simple verses, That speak of life’s charming affairs, And this may cause alarm But the hairs on my arm, Stand alert for the work of Pam Ayres.

And so when I type out my verses I make sure they end with a ring, And what’s good about this Even though it’s remiss, Is the fact I like poems that sing.

Which is why those serious poets, Have always left me cold, For they say it makes sense To be deep and intense, But frankly, I’m really not sold...

I think it’s fair to say that poetry and I have never really got along. It’s not I don’t respect it – it’s just I don’t... get it.

And I know how ignorant that makes me sound but I can’t help it.

The only poem I’ve ever liked I read only once, and then only its opening line impressed me (‘The force that through the green fuse drives the flower’).

What’s worse, for years – and I mean about 35 – everyone I’ve ever told this story to I’ve misinformed.

Until just two minutes ago, I’d always attributed it to someone called Gerard Manley Hopkins (who WAS at least a poet).

Wary of looking the fool, I decided before writing this column to check my facts and lo and behold, it wasn’t Gerard but Dylan.

And quite why these Dylan Thomas words have stayed with me all these years I don’t know.

Because apart from them and the odd bawdy limerick or two, poetry has neither attracted nor excited me.

I love reading, true, but I could never be bothered with a Salmon Rushdie or anything worthy of a Whitbread prize. I just like stories.

Indeed, I recently claimed the best writer I’ve ever read is Stephen King and I mean it.

I think his stories and, perhaps more importantly, his style of writing, astonishing.

Strangely, I also love Charles Dickens (who IS universally regarded as a genius) but only because, like King, his stories are so vivid.

I guess what I hate are those books where it’s implicit you work hard to understand them.

But I’m not interested in ‘messages’ or something called ‘subtext’; I just want to curl up and lose myself in a cracking page turner for an hour or two, either at home or lounging in one of our parks.

And if can do that, then reading rocks...