Bazza flew solo this month; not even a mensh for the rest of us!
Many congratulations yet again to our very own SuperBard. It strikes me as no coincidence that Bazza's name can be abbreviated thus: BaR-D
(Next comp on a separate thread)
Jayne
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe Oldie Competition
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxby Tessa Castro
IN COMPETITION NO 146 you were invited to write a letter to the editor in verse with the title ‘Am I Alone in Thinking?’ This was the title of a collection of unpublished letters to the
Daily Telegraph that came out as a book a couple of years ago, in which one of my favourites was ‘Isn’t it about time sexual intercourse was banned in Britain under health and safety legislation?’
Your missives combined common sense and the authentic accents of Tunbridge Wells. ‘Am I alone in thinking / that taekwondo is a laugh?’ asked Peter Davies’s correspondent. Roger Wright wondered if he was alone in thinking ‘That low self-esteem’s not a problem, / And high self-esteem is much worse; / That the radio’s a wonderful blessing, / And most television’s a curse.’ David Coffey wondered if he was alone in thinking that Tessa Castro was a pseudonym for D A Prince – would that it were. ‘Am I alone in drinking / a bit too much red wine?’ asked Gillian Ewing’s letterwriter. Commiserations to all of these and congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the lovely new bonus prize of a Chambers Biographical Dictionary going to Basil Ransome-Davies.
Am I alone in thinking that the world has gone quite mad?
We never knew such decadence when I was just a lad.
We shook our fists at Hitler as the Nazi bombs rained down
And stood up for our sceptered isle, the Empire and the Crown.
In those days people knew their place, or else they’d rue the sequel.
No ‘Jack’s good as his master’ then, no ‘everybody’s equal’.
But now the hope and glory have been banished from the land
And proper standards ground to dust, as though it had been planned.
On every corner hoodies wait to mug you as you pass
Through filthy city streets that run with blood and broken glass,
The teachers now can barely spell, the foreigners pour in
While millions follow FaceTube with a vacant, witless grin
And women’s libbers run amok, and Elf and Safety rules
To fill the lawyers’ pockets and protect the lives of fools,
And policemen show you no respect, and even art repels,
And parking fees – words fail me. Yours, Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBasil Ransome-Davies
Am I alone in thinking that in general
The letters printed in your rag are fakes
All written by some fledgling office junior
Or staff reporters on their coffee breaks?
Why do the letters printed in your paper
All praise your publication to the skies?
Why is there not a single voice dissenting,
Do readers never dare criticise?
Am I the only one who thinks the letters
Are sycophantic rubbish, every line?
How can you be so dreadfully short-sighted,
You’ve never, ever published one of mine?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMary Hodges
Am I alone in thinking
What the bloody hell’s
Happened to that hard-drinking
Colonel from Tunbridge Wells
Who always wrote to the Times about
The first cuckoo of spring?
Either they’ve dried the old soak out
Or he’s past epistling.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxPeter Wyton
Dear Sir, Am I alone in thinking
That young folks do excessive drinking
And every night obscenely clutter
The street, the pavement and the gutter
In bacchanals that never cease
Until the ambulance and police
Arrive and haul them wearily
To chokey or the A & E?
What makes them savages? My guess
Is far too much permissiveness
That spares the rod and spoils the child
And lets the appetites run wild.
Why can’t they sit at home like me
In civilised sobriety
And listen to some Paganini
And sip a single dry martini?
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxG M Davis