Speccie: Talking Pictures
 

The Gilbert/Shakespeare Competition was a triumph for Bill Greenwell who wins the extra fiver. I won money too. Frank Osen was nearly there, should have been there in my opinion. Good for us! Full text below.

The new competition looks like a goodie. What view of us would our toilet/lavatory/comfort station have? For instance.

No. 2644: Talking pictures
If your television could speak, what would it say about you? You are invited to submit the views of an inanimate object, in verse, on its owner/s (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 21 April.

Incidentally, I think I know why the prizes are sometimes £25 and sometimes £30. Lucy will have a fixed sum of money - I think £155 each week. When there are only four winners (because they take up a lot of space) then we get a fiver more each than when there are six winners. So in a normal week Frank would Probably have won. Grind those teeth, Frank. I have your money.

Quick try, subject to revision or catapulting:

SAME BACK AT YOU

Where do you go all day, my friend?
I'm staring at your empty sofa
hoping at the bitter end
you'll return, yet I can't know for

sure you haven't left for good.
I sit here in a funk and wallow
in my grief and wish I could
roll upon my stand and follow.

When you arrive with plates of food
and hit my switch and turn me on,
it brightens up my darkest mood
and feels like you were never gone.

You make me come alive at night
and feel that I have words to say.
You love me, don't you? Am I right?
Then sit down on the sofa. Stay.
.
.

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off?

You choose a documentary
on Lifetime or Discovery,
a drama from the BBC,
while I prefer reality,
game shows, stand-up comedy,
a juicy courtroom mystery.
But on some programs we agree:
Old classic reruns, certainly:
Cheers, All in the Family,
I Love Lucy. And aren't we
completely hooked on Jeopardy?
And though we sometimes disagree
we're still the best of buddies. Gee,
when you aim that remote at me,
you turn me on, pal, yesiree!
Just thought I'd tell you. Your TV.

They say I am a 'boob tube.'
Well yes, I am a tube,
but you're the one who watches me
so you must be the boob.
.
.

John,

Speaking of the dosh - be it £20 or £25 - how long do you normally have to wait for it? My winnings from March 13th haven't arrived yet.

Just out of curiosity, do we think these have to be about TVs? The wording is "the views of an inanimate object," right?

No they don't Maryann. I'm working on the thing you sit on in the loo. I, being English midle class call it the lavatory, though that is really the room. What do you call it. What does anyone call it? Toilet? Loo? But that's the room too.

Anyway, here's a draft. I don't see how it can really be called Talking Pictures, but that's Lucy's problem. A bit Gilbertian I can't halp thinking, but then a lot of my stuff is. Would I had his godlike skill.

I am that poor closet
Where humans deposit.
I sorrow, because it
Can never be mine,
To share in your leisure,
Those moments you treasure,
The joys without measure
That make you divine.

In winter or summer
This life is a bummer.
It’s time for a plumber,
The end of the line,
When life such a farce is,
A wretched catharsis,
A parking of arses,
A grunting of swine.

Terrific John, if Lucy doesn't stump up I'll give you the fiver meself.

Wonderful poem, John, but Jim may have to pony up the fiver if Lucy feels the closet isn't really sharing its views about its owner. I call it a toilet.

I had completely overlooked that the object doesn't have to be a TV. This opens things up quite a bit.

UNEASY CHAIR

I don't mind when the woman sits.
She's not a tub of lard like him.
Her backside is so small. It fits.
She works out daily at the gym.
My legs support her weight just fine.
With him I feel my legs might snap.
I fear someday he'll cross the line
and let her sit upon his lap,
and then I'll meet my sorry fate
in splinters strewn across the floor.
If only he would lose some weight
I would not worry any more,
or if she'd toss him on his crown,
divorce him for some skinny chap,
I would not mind when they sat down,
alone or in each other's lap.

John, yours is great, but Bob's right, it doesn't express its views on its owners so much as wax philosophical on its heavy load in life. Maybe you could alter it a bit so as to fit the bill. It would be a pity to flush this one down the tubes.

For us (and I think I speak for my compatriots) 'toilet' is the seat but 'bathroom' is the room (e.g. you s(h)it on the toilet, but you go to the bathroom) although many other euphemisms come to mind: restroom, washroom (more popular in Canada), comfort station. Lavatory is used, though less frequently. I've even heard 'powder room' though I think that's a relic of a past generation. We do understand loo, BTW. I've even been known to use it now and then, when I'm trying to sound high-falutin'. Fascinating topic. (In college I was a scatology major.)

Bob, I love the uneasy chair!

Thank you, Jim, but I fear Roger may be right. Hum!
Jayne - quite a long time, up to a month. You can always ring up and get some daft posh girl who knows sweet F.A. But it will come.

Roger, nice one!

Double UC

I'm your double UC, see?
Short for water closet,
near rhyme, faucet.
Feel free, do, sit.

Aye! Take a seat
any time you like,
take a pew,
make your will

(give some the chance,
they will, they will).
I see the side of you
that few see, I get

comfy with your, er, end.
Moon me at any
time you've
a need, friend!

Christopher T. George ;)

Hi, ChrisG. Haven't seen you online for ages. Welcome back!

WALLET

In your pocket,
near your groin,
sharing space
with key and coin,
made to clutch
your cards and cash,
if only I
had teeth to gnash!
You pat me,
making sure I'm there,
but it's not like
you really care.
You barely reach
for me all day . . .
except when there
are bills to pay.

Nancy Mitford was amused by the American euphemism "going to the bathroom" as if one meant to take a shower. Does anyone still call
it the W.C?

I'm more amused by the expression "going to the bathroom in your pants," frequently applied to young children. Sort of like "going to bed in the backseat of a car."

Transparent

Your vision is a blur, it's true
you raise one finger and see two,
when neighbours' kids call you Magoo;
before you find your specs.

The one-eyed king supplanted then,
it’s you’re the boss, in charge again,
though careful she’s not looking when
you ogle the other sex.

And in your job you can by dint
of luck, a neck as hard as flint,
and mastery of finer print,
command a penthouse view.

You have an eye, there is no doubt,
for earning money, wielding clout.
You see through me perched on your snout;
and I see right through you.

John - when I excused myself in that exclusive venue in Canterbury, I told you I was going to the bog - but the thing I sat down on when I got there was a pedestal.

That's what you'd ask for if you were buying one from a plumber's merchant, anyway.

"She sat, bare-arsed, upon a pedestal" has a touch of class about it, doncherfink?

Curiously WC survives in Italy - or at least the term "water closet" does, always abbreviated to "il water", pronounced "vattair".

They also call it, as in most other languages I'd guess, "il bagno" (bathroom) and, rather charmingly, "il gabinetto". More vulgar is "il cesso", as in cesspit.

Jim, I ought to have said that I love your poem. Would it be rude to suggest that the antepenultimate line has one more syllable than it can comfortably manage with?

Gregory, I love 'the cesspit' and shall endeavour to introduce it among my acquaintance. I hope you know the Scottish 'kludgie' which is pleasantly onomatop... oh how te hell do you spell it?

Ann, you speak, as ever, in divine poesie.

POETS GO POTTY

My own contribution to the new genre of "poems by talking bathroom
appliances":

As once to kings their jesters were
allowed to speak the truth and live,
a humble piece of furniture
like me has also truth to give.
When you're in costume for the street,
your mirror may approve the view,
but recollect the toilet seat:
I see the underside of you.

The dishes only know your hands,
the television serves your eye,
but I'm the one who understands
that fundamental things apply.
Your friends who only see your face
believe that what it says is true.
I've knowledge of a deeper place:
I see the underside of you.

The Pen Speaks to the Poet

Lonely soul, where would you be
Without the humble likes of me --

No hopes of immortality,
No record of your gallantry,

No proof that you’ve crawled from the sea
And suffered so theatrically --

At my expense you guarantee
No thing but your own vanity –

Resist ! Desist ! Can you not see
Your vice will mean the end of me.


:cool:


--
The Elemental Squid
http://nutshell-wendy.blogspot.com/

It's called the 'dunny' down here Down Under.

Wendy - that is superb!

Gail, I love it. It's better than mine.

FACE THE MUSIC

You face the music, see the pitches
and rhythms freckling my face,
then make some thunder with your bass,
the resonance of which bewitches

your listeners, all in a trance
as if you were some great magician.
Yet no one has the least suspicion
you never memorize the dance

of notes. So, were you to mislay
your priceless music score — yes, me! —
since your deficient memory
would not recall what you must play,

in shame you’d leave the stage, my friend.
Face the music, pal, you need
this paper with those signs you read.
Without me, your career would end!

PDA

If I'm the one who knows it all,
.. then why are you in charge?
Might it be because I'm small
.... and you are large?

If justice only had its day,
.. the smarter one would rule.
Too bad it works the other way:
.... you are a fool

and yet it's you, not I, in charge.
.. The smarter one's in thrall.
Why? I guess because you're large
.... and I am small.

Thank you John, much appreciated, good ones Wendy & Gail.

Gail,
Yours is a royal flush!

Rime of the Ancient Davenport

You say I'm saggy, ugly, dumpy,
and squashy as an old tomato,
Well look whose talking, Mr. Lumpy--
you've turned into a couch potato!

So heed my words, you lazy loafer:
Get up, lace on those hiking boots,
or take it from your poor old sofa,
any day you'll put down roots!

And what about those kids, who leap
and bounce around like acrobats?
No wonder I'm a sorry heap--
Ah jeez--here come those goddamn cats!

I like "Rime of the Ancient Davenport" Marion.

Marion, would not the couch be more put-upon AND the rhyme be more crisp if the cat became plural? :D

Maryann, yes and yes. Done. Thanks!

I'm also amused by stuff like: "the cat goes to the bathroom outdoors." Or "the cat digs a hole when it goes to the bathroom." And for the outdoorsperson: "going to the bathroom in the woods".

Driven

You drive me wild when you’re riled
***and even when you’re not.
Lashed most nights, you run red lights
***and speed. (You will get caught!)

Your spouse, however, never ever
***makes my motor roar,
except the day she began to play
***with my stick shift more and more ...

Although your teen keeps my body clean
***enough for an auto show,
though great at steering, he harms my hearing
***when blasting the radio.

But when you three get inside of me,
***I’m quite a blissful Bentley,
for on our outing, though you’re all shouting,
***its then you drive me gently.

Sweet F.A.? English, please. ;)

Sweet Fanny Adams. Who was actually a real person and can be googled. Meaning nothing at all, Marion. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

Old joke. Nazi interrogator: Your Churchill, he knows bugger nothing. But our Fuhrer, he knows BUGGER ALL.

You’re making bedroom eyes at me.
You tilt your head, glance up, and smile
when sure that nobody can see.
But I’m the one you can’t beguile.

I’ve seen you naked, drunk, distraught.
I know each spot in your complexion.
How could you, hopelessly, have thought
your foibles would escape detection?

Your appetite for flattery
is doomed and faintly risible.
You see you when you look at me;
I’m otherwise invisible.

Mirror Mirror

This knight nouveau knows he’s the one
whose subtle stratagems will take
the lover’s fortressed heart and make
a match that cannot be undone.

Devout, he studies self-help books,
E. Post’s and Ovid’s, tried and true,
and Playboy, so he’ll know what’s new—
but mostly tends to how he looks.

At toilette tres meticulous,
he grooms his pampered hair and face
and sucks his waist so there’s no trace
of fat. His soul adventurous,

he suavely dons Armani armor,
and cooing like a turtle dove,
he consummates with his true love:
the perfect clone in me, his mirror.

Ralph Ralph

Thanks, Roger. Nice to be back. I am enjoying commenting and posting generally. Looking forward to reading more of your work.

Interesting to know! Thanks, Gregory. I would think that the term "W.C." does still survive in the UK and Ireland, at least among the older generation. I took a War of 1812 tour of Maryland's Eastern Shore a week ago and one of the participants on the tour was surprised to see the sign "W.C." on the plank door of a colonial farmhouse now a bed and breakfast (we were lined up to get in, you see). "That's not American!" the person exclaimed. Although I happened to know, from having stayed at the B&B some years beforehand, that the father of the owner was Irish American and I could imagine he or his daughter had picked up the sign one time in Ireland as an addition to the house when it was renovated. :D

Chris