Steve Rudd was born in Hull, East Yorkshire, in 1955, completely naked, unable to walk, talk, or fend for himself. His chief claim to poetic fame is that he once served Philip Larkin in a bookshop. Unfortunately for both parties at the time, he mistook the great man for Eric Morecambe.
He lives in West Yorkshire with a wife, a cat,and a variable number of dogs, but not necessarily in that order. His hobbies include annoying people, lying under the table with an empty can of Special Brew (which is, in itself, a form of prayer) thinking about Abraham Lincolnís hat, and having staring contests with the linoleum.
In common with many other misguided adolescents, he began writing poetry at school. Fortunately for mankind, all of his early work has been lost, many years ago. This is his third collection of poetry, and, like his previous ones,is intended mainly to appeal to the sort of person who has a table with one leg 0.33cm shorter than the other three, though two of the poems in it so far have been judged to be "poem of the week" on Poetryvoices. It was also the subject of a seven-word review in a small, minor, regional poetry magazine.
In 2010 he was seriously ill and spent six months in hospital. Almost dying seems to have had a positive effect on his writing career, so much so that he is considering doing it again sometime.
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