New Statesman -- picnics, September 6 deadline
 

Unhappy al fresco dining memories, anyone?

No 4242
Set by Leonora Casement
We would like you to send in verses all about the horrors of picnics. An entry many years ago to a similar competition read as follows:

Here I am an old man with
a dry mouth,
Bitten by flies among the cowpats
Eating dead winkles with
a crooked pin.
And the end is the beginning,
and tomorrow
It will be wasps at Runnymede . . .

Max 20 lines by 6 September comp@newstatesman.co.uk

Well surely someone here can do something better than that old "winner." Yikes!

We spread the blanket, sorted out the goodies,
Anticipating how we’d be delighted
By salmon, lobster, creamy little puddies ...
A family arrived, quite uninvited:
Two parents, three young girls, a pair of babies
That rapidly grew smellier and damper,
A snarling dog that made us think of rabies
Who, having peed against our picnic hamper,
Ran off with half a leg of roasted chicken
Then bounded back for more, obscenely drooling.
Their youngest daughter managed to be sick in
The bucket where our Bollinger was cooling.
Grabbing her twins, the mother got them teating;
The others started chewing something rancid.
‘Bon appetit!’ they said, but we weren’t eating;
We’d lost our appetite for what we’d fancied.

At last, the picnic interval was finished.
Although we felt unnourished, cross and weary,
Our spirits crushed, our joie de vivre diminished,
Without a picnic, Glyndebourne would be dreary.

Had we but beer enough and time,
a lovely picnic were no crime.
We would char our burgers,catch
some rays, (I'll have to hide that batch
of cookies you call ginger snaps!)
and pass our stomachs' day with naps
and nips of grapes. But you brought the hissing
ogress--now, instead of kissing
and sipping my Merlot we'll have
to kow tow, suck up and behave
as if a goddess had stopped by.
In an hour you'll run off and cry.
I don't know about you, my dear:
I know the perfect foggy pier--
where she could take a healthful dip
with a concrete block we'd slip
around her neck. You think that's mean?
I think your so-called mom's obscene.

I wrote this some years ago, but never did anything about it. Do you thnk it would fall ithin the parameters?


The Picnic

(A report of this incident is to be found in The Times, June 2006)

In the park of the southern city, students are having a picnic,
A picnic on clean white cloths in the late spring sunshine,
When many men attack them in the name of Islam,

Many dozens of men, all armed with sticks and rifles,
Pouring into the park of the fly-blown southern city,
With sticks and AK47s for the protection of Islam.

They shouted out that we were immoral,
That we were meeting, girls and boys together,
And playing music, expressly against Islam.

They shot into the air and people screamed,
Then at a single order they began to beat us
With sticks and rifle butts, calling on Islam.

And standing over them, as the blows rained down,
Black-robed, black turbanned (they recognise him immediately),
A representative of Hojatoleslam Moqtada al-Sadr,

The chosen one of the Prophet, peace be upon him.

John – it's within the unusually generous 20-line limit, it features a picnic & there's horror there without feeding in the clichés of ants, rain, sad sandwiches, etc. No laughs, but the rubric doesn't prescribe comedy. So yes.

Though I do think humour is your forte.

I think so too, Bazza, but (a) I can't think of any jokes about picnics and (b) the Staggers doesn't have much of a sense of humour, does it? So I'll give it a go.

It'll certainly stand out from the crowd, John. Not sure about the following as possibly already pre-emptively kneed in the Prince Harrys by Bazza.

The lettuces are limp green baize,
The tongue a leathery disaster;
The pies have seen far better days,
The ham resembles sticking-plaster;
The chicken's perfect cotton-wool,
The cheese is culturing a spore -
No thanks, I feel a little full . . .
Is there a doctor on the moor?

Picnic Horrors
 

I've had two goes at this, from opposite viewpoints:


“Them!” As in old B-movies,
We’re now facing ant-attacks;
They’re making for the trifle
And (worse) creeping up my slacks.
I wish we’d brought a rifle,
Or some flamethrower backpacks –
Oh why did we decide to come and picnic?

Wasps? They wouldn’t be so bad;
These hornets are far worse!
Some armaments would make me glad -
Their lack just makes me curse.
Is DDT still outlawed? Gad!
Try swatting with a purse...
Oh why did we decide to come and picnic?

‘Scenic views?’ Oh I suppose
There’s your red face and mine,
Begrimed with sweat and bugged by woes -
If that look suits us fine?
These swarms will surely join our toast –
They’ve brought their own sweet whine.


and (the point of view I feel more sympathy with):


The horror! Lids are on too tight;
No chance to swiftly wing in
For an opportunistic bite
Of whatever they bring in.
These humans have our end in sight,
But not our ends! We suffer
The loss of gifts at summer’s height,
Now picnickers are tougher.

No more their fear of yesteryear
At wasp’s buzz or ant-sighting;
With sprays and zapping traps, it’s clear
They’re undismayed: it’s slighting!
We used to rule the countryside,
And they were the invaders;
Now their defence is multiplied,
And see how weak they’ve made us.

Hermetic sealing – unappealing - how unfeeling!
Pesticides, insecticides; electrocuting, persecuting.
We only claim a tiny share; but do these humans care?
No: “Bug out of our picnics,” they all say. Ah, how unfair!

I agree, but - Ah, Shaun, did you notice that they said it was 'an entry'? It wasn't necessarily the winning entry! Subtle difference, eh?)

Is there a sub-text here: "You lot can do better than this"? ;)

Jayne

First time: North Downs; a lovely summer’s day.
I’d never wanted so much to impress
– had trawled The King’s Road, spent a whole month’s pay
on platforms and a psychedelic dress.

He’d brought champagne and food - Alas, no rug
to sit (or maybe lie down! ) on. Instead
of handing me a flute, I got a mug
to drink the bubbly from. Hope turned to dread…

The booze was warm, the sandwiches were dry
(and cheese spread failed to thrill me very much,
along with massive chunks of stale pork pie),
but then things hotted up – he tried to touch

me in a place that boys don’t head for first
(not nice ones) and he hadn’t kissed me yet!
His planned ‘romantic picnic’ was the worst
I’d ever had; I wished we’d never met.

We left; there were some stiles to cross; I tripped
and landed in a steaming cow-pat. Great.
My shoes were plastered and my dress got ripped.
Needless to say, that was our only date.

Nice one, Jayne. Too bloody good for the Staggers.

Monsieur Manet, I must decline
Your kind suggestion I should dine
Alfresco upon bread and fruit
While wearing just my birthday suit.
You want me there au naturel
While blokes wear suits? If they as well
Were stripped down to the pimply buff
I might well think it fair enough,
But nasty little wasps and ants
Would spot the one not wearing pants
And zero in on poor yours truly.
No thanks. Please don’t think I’m unduly
Philistine or dumbly moral.
I’m fond of art and have no quarrrel
With those who paint the female form,
But can’t they do it in the warm?
(I’ve often posed for that short fellow,
Monsieur Lautrec, in the bordello.)
Your plein air work is just too chilly.
You’ll have to find some other filly.