Competition: Pilgrims
Competition No. 2657: Pilgrims’ progress
31st July 2010 Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2657 you were invited to imagine what merry band Chaucer might bring together if he were writing today.
It was another bumper entry this week, and you fell into two camps. There were those who reasoned that were Chaucer writing today he’d probably use modern English. Others, though, couldn’t resist the lure of Middle English, which was used to great comic effect. As spelling in the 14th century was a fluid affair (despite Chaucer’s attempts to standardise it), I didn’t worry too much on that score. What was more important was to capture the wit and vibrancy of his writing, and many of you did so admirably.
Commendations go to unlucky losers Marion Shore, Brian Murdoch, Gerard Benson, Bill Greenwell, Paul Griffin and G.W. Tapper; the winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. The bonus fiver goes to Mary Holtby.
A yonge Cook ther was, who Jamye hight,
In fresshe foode was hys whol delit;
He wolde fede the smale children so
For Turkey Twizzlers were to hym unknowe.
An auncient Bischop folwed in the weye,
Al cladde in purple, but he nas nat gay;
At everich paas hee loked wel bihynde
Lyst hee a ladye bischop mighte fynde,
Than bisily gan preye for the soules
Of pilgryms from the Parlement of Foules;
For swiche, in veritee theyr brasse is mukke,
A clene Hous they scorne, to house a dukke.
And laste, in sadde array with droopyng flagges
Lymped Seint Georges armee and theyr Wagges,
Th hooly blisful martyr to implore
That hee assoile hem — but I seye namoore.
Mary Holtby
A clerkes sone ther was, a froward wight,
Nat fat but for his paunch and ful in height.
He hadde a voys he wroght to ryse and fal,
And koude outshout a loude croude with alle.
In scoff of al that elfin salftie preche
He wolde more speke his mynd than mynde his speche.
Above al elles he loved to feel hors power
And fayn wolde ryde at many miles an hour.
Two squiers he hadde, good yeman both,
Oon smal and nimbel, oon a freend to slowth.
Grown men with alle they ech wolde pleye the childe
Which when some saugh they spuwed, but many smyled.
They spent hir dayes in japes of hir devys
And wended where they list in sondry wyse.
Hir plann was now to mak a dafte trip
To Caunterbury from Southwerk al by ship.
W.J. Webster
Whenas we left the Tabard, then we found
A strapping Ladette, blottoe on the ground.
The squyer woke her, and with courtesie
Did beg her that she join our compagnie,
Therfor cam she upon our pylgrymage,
Yet her religioun was hard to gauge,
Save that we heard her mutter ‘Oh sweet Jesus’
Whan told ther were namo Bacardi Breezers.
The Millere much admired this sturdy wench,
Although hir langage made the Shipman blench,
And ye Good Wife of Bath cried out ‘That’s rude’
When reading wordes on hir rumpe tattooed.
In sooth, her manners were not over-nice.
The Persoun therefor proffered good advice.
He tolled her, swearing is nor big nor clevvere.
To which the wench replied but with ‘Whatevvere’,
George Simmers
Oure hoost, cleped Simon, sayeth, ‘Bloody Helle,’
whan that the Stripper’s othere tassle felle,
Quod he, full snyppye, ‘In a woord,
thy drasty vaudeville acte’s nat worth a toord!
Get backe to Engelonde’s erse-end, ye woot,
for nat a drap of talent have ye goot!.’
She putt hyr smale foweles in thir cage —
pleynly, she was no Elaine Paige,
but nevyr one to bee beset by doubte,
now in a Priory, she’s dryen oute
and taken mastyrre-clense, she’s coole againe,
yngagyd to a Soccer Hooligan.
Nexte seson, too, another gygge she hath,
whan therre bigynneth, ‘Real House-Wyves of Bath’.
Frank Osen
Some chaves whilom to Caunterburye came,
And ech and everichon arrayed the sayme:
Ful fetis wer thir clokes, as I wel trowe,
‘Lamparde’, they hadde ywroghte, and eek ‘Defowe’
A motleye shoure, ful gentil and ful meeke,
The hooly martyr’s blessinge com to seke,
Singinge ful many bawdye songs and chantes
From Caunterburye, wenden they to France —
Thanne longen folk to goon to sondry londes,
To seken sonne, see, sexe, eek straunge strondes,
To bathen every veyne in swich licour
That nonne remaynen staundynge on the flor,
Ther tales eek wel obsene and unne-PC,
And ‘Engelonde, Engelonde’ mayken melodye.
David Silverman
A youth there was with football in his hand
Returned from Cape Town sooner than he’d planned
With moll all flash and leggy, known as Wag,
Though truthfully no more than Shopping Bag.
For as we passed by Southwark’s retail Mall
She vanished, implants, fake tan, bling and all.
An MP too there was, expenses paid,
Whom jeering crowds left wholly undismayed;
An eco-hero too, who hugged dead trees
And died, unmourned, near Penge, of Elm Disease;
While poet Ransome-Davies joined to seek
To give his Bonus Fiver won that week
In thanks for intercession by the Saint
To keep him winning what mere mortals cain’t.
(My ghost, you’ll notice, made the trip as well,
And since I died you’ll see it’s learnt to spell.)
Martin Parker
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