If you speak to certain people at the wheel of the great poetry juggernaut, you will often be told that poetry has "gone back into the mainstream" again, that it's now fashionable, credible, and that since Scroobius Pip climbed into the Top 40 everybody knows what to expect from the spoken word scene. Sometimes I pick up the Metro and the London Paper and read these articles and almost will myself to believe them. I'd have to try very hard, though - they're complete and total bollocks, obviously.

I don't blame anybody for trying to get the public's confidence, and it probably does much more for the cause than my brand of self-deprecating honesty, but let Uncle Dave put you right here. Poetry has been in much ruder health at other points in history. This isn't like 1968 all over again, and it isn't selling out the Royal Albert Hall. In fact, it's frequently barely selling out scruffy pub backrooms even when there are big names on the bill. That the mainstream media even want to touch the artform at the moment is a giant leap forwards in itself from the dark old days of 2005 when poetry sales hit their lowest trough since records began, but we've still got a long, long way to go before people get the recognition they deserve.

Nights like Jorge at the George Tavern in Stepney do highlight the public's general attitude towards spoken word artists as soon as the form is taken out of its safe little ghetto. Where poets and bands share the same bill, it's a war the prose warriors will never, ever win. Make no mistake, it's a tough gig, and I don't know anybody on the circuit who would ever claim otherwise apart from perhaps the most famous performers. As I take to the mic, I notice that I am greeted with a number of angry scowls in the front row before I've even opened my mouth. "Poet = wanker" their expressions seem to say. The majority of the audience talk straight through me to start with, rendering the first few minutes barely audible to most of the room.

During the third poem, however, something strange happens. The whole room shuts up, and is watching and listening to me. It's not a slight silence, either, as a few people trudge towards the bar and ask for drinks. It's total silence (with applause at the end, thankfully). This continues for long enough that I can get some snappy, simple material out which I think won't anger too many people with self-indulgence, and stays with me to the very end of the set. It still feels as if it's been a battle, but it's an absolute blessed relief that I've managed to come out on top. It's an unusual set in that I air a lot of material which I would ordinarily leave out of gigs, but I make a mental note to remember exactly what I did and how I did it for future occasions like this one. In a moment that makes me cringe immediately afterwards as soon as I sit back down, I tell the audience that they've been lovely. This is a blatant lie, obviously - they were stubborn arseholes for a worrying amount of time. I find myself meaning it as I say it, though. It's the same syndrome as when you decide you like the school psychopath for a few minutes, because they've made up their minds that they find you rather endearing and they're not going to torture you with a car battery after all. I think sometimes as human beings we tend to mix up feelings of relief with something else entirely.

I completely admire the concept of the Jorge night and think what they're doing for poetry (and indeed the gig circuit in London) is wonderful, though. Far from constantly going for obvious "big names" or people who are barely even connected to the poetry world to promote the form, they're genuinely taking risks and booking new artists as well. It often works, and many poets find themselves in similar positions to me to start with, only to win over the audience against all the odds. The bands are also frequently brilliant. On the bill on Thursday we also saw the enjoyable piano driven tunesmithery of Steve Bland, who actually managed to be anthemic with very little musical support, the distortion heavy pop angst of Thee Assasins, and finally an anarchic twelve piece band called Apples for Everyone who seemed like an exciting collision between Celtic folk, psychedelic pop, anti-folk, The Guillemots and your large drunken uncle after ten Guinnesses. What astonishes me about the present music scene is that lurking in the cracks and crevices are some bands who frankly wouldn't have been out of place on John Peel's Dandelion label circa 1972. They don't seem to get much press exposure, but they're there nonetheless, and sometimes you can turn up to events like these and feel as if the carnival has come to town. The lead singer ruins things slightly by making a few comments about performance poets which sound rather sarcastic and scathing - perhaps I misread his intentions, but nonetheless it would be a bit rich if he were indeed extracting the urine. For large scale hippy collectives to suggest that poets are a bit pretentious and ridiculous would be hypocrisy of the highest order, after all. As Dan sneered to the judge in Withnail and I: "Do you think you look normal, your honour?"

Much lower down the bill on the night was an individual called Harry Herry who I embarrassingly spoke about on mic as being "Hairy Mary" (although I still maintain that he has been billed as that at the Klinker at some point). He's another character who has to be seen to be believed - a man from Rotterdam dressed as a Dutch sailor who sings solo songs about perplexing topics such as cleaning out toilets whilst gurning, bobbing up and down, and playing his keyboard like a demented, hyperactive goon. He's been around on the circuit for many years now, and is always worth a look.

Another top night, then, and further evidence that The George Tavern may not be the neatest or smartest gig venue in London, but it's certainly one of the most daring and deserves to continue.