Speccie Come Friendly Bombs by 6th February
 

I couldn't get a handle on the Round Robin thing at all, but I'll have a punt at this one as I am sure will you all. What rhymes with Luton? Darn tootin'.

No. 2784: Come, friendly bombs

You are invited to rewrite John Betjeman’s poem ‘Slough’, substituting the target of your choice (16 lines maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 6 February.

What rhymes with Luton? Darn tootin'.

Roger Scruton, John, a man surely after your own heart.

Said Roger, the first Baron Scruton,
Relaxed in a whorehouse in Luton,
'At the end of the day
It's as good as a play
Or an afternoon huntin' and shootin'.'

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on France,
where women don’t outgrow their pants
and kids are smarmy sycophants.
Swarm over, Mort!

Or if 'French wisdom' isn’t true,
swarm over, Death, on writers who
propound such piffle. Turn them blue
and rot their corps.

Here's one I wrote earlier - a lot earlier - but which, without the epigraph, I think I might risk sending.

FALLUJA

(The ‘final’ bombing and assault on Falluja followed on the ‘re-election’ of George Bush and on the Lancet’s report of the deaths of 98,000 Iraqi civilians, mainly women and children, after the illegal invasion of their country by the ‘foreign fighters’ of the US and Britain. This figure for civilian deaths excluded those killed in Falluja during the first assault.)

Come friendly bombs, fall on us now,
As humans, we don’t count somehow,
And SMARTest weapons still allow
Unreckoned death.

Come bombs, and blow to bloody rags
Insurgents garbed as scally-wags,
False youths, false men, false maids, false hags,
Not worth life’s breath.

Bomb and bulldoze Falluja’s town,
Bring minarets, like statues, down -
Their message with munitions drown
And burst our ears.

And smash those folk, from God-knows-where,
Who simply fight and do not care,
But live among us - everywhere -
Till death appears.

Then, ‘blitz’ our homes and lay them low,
Entomb our dead so, at one blow,
As ‘Freedom’ spreads, we’ll learn to know
‘Liberty’s’ knell.

But spare ‘police’ and oil-men too,
Who toil to aid ‘allied’ air-crew,
In heaven-cleaving work they do
Above our Hell.

It’s not their fault they cannot smell
Exploded guts, or even tell
The scream of death from that of shell,
That tears at flesh;

And only think of furloughs free,
In Fort Worth or in Milwaukee,
And don’t look down, slight death to see,
But shower up fresh.

In unbombed homes, with loving wives,
They’ll tease out unentangled lives
For decades, till their turn arrives
To draw last breath.

So - friendly bombs, fall on us now
That, from our dust, may grow somehow,
Inhuman strength, enough to vow
Their choking death.

(With apologies to John Betjeman)

- though I suspect this is not the kind of serious response the Speccie is looking for - more bulldoze East Kilbride or dynamite Milton Keynes. They certainly wont want a call to plough under Chipping Norton - though come to think of it, that is not such a bad idea!

You'll have to cut it to sixteen lines, Nigel.

Yes, you have put your finger on a problem. I thought of rubbing out the whole of Wales. Or Brussels perhaps. Or Islington. That's where Tony Blair's political career began. For which they all should die.

Box office bombs
 

It has been brutally cold for the last week here. So, I have been staying indoors and watching VHS tapes and DVD's of old movies, which I had picked up for a buck each at a flea market this past summer. I have discovered why they were so cheap. So, my target of choice is Hollywood:

BOX OFFICE BOMBS

Box office bombs which were Hollywood’s worst
(Cinema’s progress abruptly reversed);
Terrible movies the public had cursed,
Like “Heaven’s Gate”.

Four dismal hours of tedious trash,
Black hole for forty-four million in cash;
Wrecking careers with a thundering crash;
Such was its fate.

Bleeding red ink like show business blood,
Critically panned as a miserable dud;
This bomb went the way of all Tinseltown crud;
Late-night T.V.

Now, to recover a million at least;
Like the revenge of some mythical beast,
Old box office bombs all get re-released
On D.V.D.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on those
Who say “Like, innit”, or “He goes”,
And split infinitives in rows
As though they’re chopping logs.

Demolish those, both old and young,
Who think the past of “bring” is “brung”,
And are the reason why our tongue
Is going to the dogs.

Just atomize those Dougs and Petes
Through whose inane linguistic feats
The tongue of Shakespeare, Donne and Keats
Has come a nasty cropper.

Come, friendly bombs, drop from the sky;
Illiteracy deserves to die.
But kindly spare all those like I
What speak our English proper.

Nice one, Brian. And you have noticed it doesn't have to be a place. Therefore:

Come Friendly Bombs (Pre-Brian Version)

Come friendly bombs and zap the rich,
Leave bankers dead in every ditch,
Zap Fred the Shred, Abramovich
And all their mates.

Zap them daily, zap them good,
Zap their every neighbourhood,
Their mansions up in Chorleywood
And their estates.

Zap the traitors, young and old,
Their bearer bonds, their tainted gold,
Their politicians bought and sold,
Of every label.

Zap these architects of fraud.
Give up to fire and the sword,
This nest of vipers, Gracious Lord,
And cleanse the stable.


Come Friendly Bombs (revised and, I hope, improved version)

Come friendly bombs and zap the rich,
Leave bankers dead in every ditch,
Zap Fred the Shred, Abramovich
And all their mates.

Zap the rats and zap them good,
Pulverize their neighbourhood,
Their mansions up in Chorleywood
And their estates.

Zap the traitors, young and old,
Their bearer bonds, their tainted gold,
Their politicians bought and sold,
Of every label.

Zap the architects of fraud.
Terminate their bed and board.
Strike with fire and the sword,
And cleanse the stable.

Chorleywood's a lovely place -- I used to live there. In the servants' quarters, essentially. On reflection, yes, bomb it. Bomb it flat.

I think you're both right to focus on types of people not places. It felt uncomfortable to write about a place -- I'm sure Betjeman could never have done it after WWII.

Good one too, John. I'm all in favour of zapping the rich - unless one day, against all the odds, I become rich myself. But you obviously meant the undeserving rich, so I'd be OK.

One small quibble: you start by apostrophizing the bombs, but end by apostrophizing the "Gracious Lord", which to my mind slightly weakens the effect.

You are right, Brian. I have made amendments.

Well of course, Mary, I have no intention of flattening Chorleywood. 'Tis but a tale.

On looking up Chorleywood on the Internet, I found the following:

In the early 1960s, researchers at the British Baking Industries Research Association in Chorleywood improved upon an earlier American bread making process. This resulted in the Chorleywood Bread Process, which is now used in over 80% of commercial bread production throughout the UK.

Well, we all know what commercial bread is like, so if you feel like flattening the place, John, go ahead. Present and future generations of bread-eaters will thank you.

I speak, of course, as one who can buy freshly-baked baguettes, brioches, croissants, pain de campagne, and all kinds of other delicious bread, just across the road from my flat in Paris. Living in Frogland is not all bad, apart from the Frogs themselves.

That's interesting, Brian, but Chorleywood is also the richest place in the UK according to something else I found on the Internet. Which was just as well because no other place fits. Saint John's Wood is too long and Petts Wood is to short and anyway far too poor.

Did you notice 'Hit me with your rhythm stick' jostling its way in there?

Although he lived to disavow
His wish that bombs might fall on Slough,
Soon bombs were raining, anyhow,
From Hull to Henley.

Would Betjeman have wanted moms
In Grozny, Vukovar or Homs
To read his plea for dropping bombs,
Albeit friendly?

No, he was more for conservation.
See how his statue, in elation,
Regards St Pancras' preservation,
Pleased at its sprawling.

He wears a sharp, disarming air
While goggling at the rooftop, where
He seems relieved to see that there
Is nothing falling.

Frank

Delightful, Frank.

Susan

Frank, That one is a joy.

Thanks, Frank. I needed to read that. I hope Lucy likes it as much as I do.

Ah yes, Frank's is lovely.

John, did you know that Betjeman was a big fan of Chorleywood? It received some of his most lavish praise in the Metroland documentary. And of course I don't really want it flattened either, but it was an odd place to live when not a millionaire. When I lived there it wasnt as rich as nearby Gerrard's Cross, but perhaps my moving away lifted the average.:)

And yes, industrial bread is bad, but it was worse before the Chorleywood process. Ironically, Chorleywood had the best local bakery I have ever found.

A nice twist on the subject, Frank. Very entertaining.

Indeed, nice one, Frank. Should win if there's any competition justice.

Apparently Betjeman regretted ever writing them (and Slough suffered real bombs and causalties during the war) but no doubt there were those who also thought that the lines were topographically a short distance off target.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Eton
Which once saw schoolboys badly beaten
But still can set a rich elite on
The path to power . . .

Hah! We all know there isn't.

Come on Jerome. More of that. What rhymes with buggery?

.....Thuggery?

And skulduggery. Should do nicely.

From pre-pubescent thuggery
And adolescent buggery,
Political skulduggery
Duly awakes.

Though others may be brainier,
Those Old Etonian crania,
Filled with elitist mania,
Have what it takes

To govern all us lesser mortals.
Every young Etonian chortles
Entering those hallowed portals -
It’s just the ticket.

What matter if their brains are soggy,
Dumber than the dumbest doggy,
Thoughts confused, and ideas foggy?
Life’s not cricket.

Golly, give these spheroids an inch and they'll take an ell. Saved me a job, though.

Since you insist, John.

Come, longed for lightning-bolt, strike Eton!
Bared buttocks now may pass unbeaten
But still it puts a rich elite on
The path to power.

We wait, damned college by the Thames
That makes mere PR men PMs
In coalition with Lib Dems,
Your final hour.

You're loved by those who live in castles
Who stole our land in giant parcels
And cater for some total *rs*h*l*s
(No names supplied.)

So, drop your fees, they're quite offensive,
Sell off your fields ( far too extensive)
Rename yourself Slough Comprehensive
Or - FLASH! - you're fried!

I like that very much, Jerome. Could be a winner.

And as for yours, Brian. Sheer mastery! Now you'll have to wait for a competition it would fit. Yes, those are the three rhymes I have used myself. There's also snuggery of course. Buggery in the snuggery. Sounds like Sir Jimmy Saville.

Hah! Thanks, and good ones, all. Jerome's reminds me of last season's Downton Abbey, which was "hosted" here by Viking River Cruises. After each show, there'd be a commercial with a plummy voiceover inviting everyone to take a cruise and visit "magestic a**holes." - an unfortunate construction, since changed.

Frank, you had me laughing out loud with your last quip. I confess that, knowing what it was supposed to say, I never heard the line the way you did.

Susan

Thanks, John and Frank. Those Viking River Cruises adverts are a bit stagey and hammy but I must have missed what Frank heard, or it was a special USA version.

I wonder if that AAAB CCCB arrangement is almost a form in its own right?

I wonder also if Uggery (the buying, selling or loving of Ug boots), chuggery(the art of chugging -street-collecting), druggery(love of drugs), gluggery (love of drinking), muggery (art of mugging - stage or street) and puggery (the world of pug-fancying) are possible rhymes for the B-word?

If you were a Scot you could have shuggery, meaning full of sugar.

A**holes in Spain, Frank?

This brought to mind the lovely, plangent old song:

Oh me sister's name is Lily, she's an 'ore in Piccadilly
And me mother is another in the Strand,
While me father flogs 'is arsehole round the Elephant & Castle.
We're the finest fuckin' family in the land.

May you all remain free from prosecution! :eek:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/ukne...urt-hears.html

The law here is an ass, Terese. People habitually say things on blogs which you would have thought would be prosecuted under that stuff about saying racist things. Mind you, the government and the vile EU are working on it. They want to regulate the internet, well of course they do.

Seems the Torygraph's subs, if there are any, are as bad as the Grauniad's.
He told the judges that the microblogging website, Twitter, had been invented in 2006 and so was not know to Parliament when the Act was drafted.
And the caption to the photograph has (center) instead of (centre)
Shame on the Barclay tweedles.

Jerome, I hope I wasn't illicitly encroaching on your Etonian subject-matter. But I couldn't resist John's call to arms - or rather, to bums.

Not at all, Brian. As I said, saved me a job, as I wan't too keen on going down the uggery rhyme route. As JW noted, your nimble number is no doubt awaiting its competition.