Speccie 2847 -- double celebration -- May 7 deadline
 

No. 2847: double celebration

Gilbert & Sullivan; Torvill & Dean; Gilbert and George: there have been many memorable pairings. You are invited to write a poem celebrating one of your choosing. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to

lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 7 May.

Hmmmm... Bonnie and Clyde, Nixon and Agnew, the Menendez brothers, Hoover and Tolson ... this one has a lot of potential.

Holmes and Watson, Crick and Watson, Rag, Tag and not Bobtail? Hmmmm.

I'm thinking of going for Burke and Hare. I feel that celebratory verse has rather overlooked them.

Dammit, Brian, that was my idea.

Masters and Johnson? Benson and Hedges?

No reason why we shouldn't both do it, Rob. And may the best man win!

Nah ... on reflection, I retract that last statement. Bazza already gets more than his fair share.

Yeah, that's what worries me.

Still, it's statistically likely that I'll outlive all of the rest of you on here, and then all the prizes will be mine for the taking. All mine! Hahahahahahaha! You hear me? Mine! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

So I'll give the graverobbers a miss for now.

I propose Hillary and Tenzing.

It'll be comedians for me, I suspect: Pete and Dud, Morecombe & Wise, Cameron & Clegg.

Flanders & Swann.

Vuckov and Dye. Er...

Thak you Chris. I have spent the last four days in Germany, in Cologne actually and have to say I have misjudged these splendid people all these years. Charming and helpful, you only have to stand for a moment looking puzzled (and the Cologne transport system would certainly do that) and they approach from all sides. Some of them turn out to be American. All so NICE. The children are much less vile than ours, like children of forty years ago, doing old-fashioned things like playing cards and laughing and running about.

Glad it was a pleasant trip, John. That the Germans are charming and nice comes as no surprise. But Americans, too? No frickin’ way.

Germany is old-fashioned. Like England before.... oh you know. Those children have old-fashioned haircuts. And Mrs Merkel is like everybody's granny.

My granny wasn't ex-Stasi (as far as I know).

Ex-stasi? I can't find that. Of course in a sense nearly all Europeans of the twentieth century are guilty of collaboration, more or less, with totalitarian regimes. As we would have been doubtless. Fortunately we didn't have the chance to find out.

Sorry. Off-topic and probably wrong. Here's a poem that's on-topic


Posh ‘n Becks

Posh ‘n Becks, Posh ‘n Becks, youth ‘n beauty, stuff ‘n sex,
Countless millions crane their necks, Posh ‘n Becks, we love yer!

Spice Girl! Footie boy! It’s a perfect pairing,
Caring ‘n sharing, Everybody staring,
What is that she’s wearing? O…

Becks ‘n Posh, Becks, ‘n Posh, loadsa love ‘n loadsa dosh,
Oh by golly, oh by gosh, Becks ‘n Posh, we love yer!

Spice Girl! Footie boy! David and Victoria,
it’s the same old story o’ in excelsis gloria,
Wish that there were more o’ yer. O…

Posh ’n Becks, Posh ‘n Becks, sorceress ‘n pontifex,
Multivalent, multiplex, Posh ‘n Becks, we love yer!

Well, you would't, John. You see... no, I've said too much already.

I daresay that's the first time anyone has rhymed 'Posh and Becks' with 'pontifex'!

Ronnie and Reggie Kray

Of all the famous villains bred within this noble land,
No other thugs are quite as sorely missed.
What modern gangsters, sawing off a screaming rival’s hand,
Would subsequently shake them by the wrist?

If Ron or Reg beheaded you for welching on a debt,
They’d send your wife some flowers for support.
A smile was all but guaranteed for everyone they met
(Though coppers’ narks would get the Chelsea sort).

They shopped in Saville Row, of course, and only ever wore
The finest whistles dirty cash could buy.
They’d change their shoes if only lightly flecked with spots of gore,
And neither brooked a blood-bespattered tie.

When setting you on fire they’d follow every etiquette
And thank you for your time. God bless the Krays!
We’ll never see their like again. It’s true you used to get
A better class of criminal those days.

Run about?
 

John- Why would you expect modern day children to run about? They would certainly fall and damage their iphones and tablets! :)

The German children didn't appear to HAVE iphones and tablets. Strange eh?

I might be the first person to rhyme 'pontifex' with anything.

J. Edgar Hoover and his sidekick Clyde Tolson
 

The Passionate Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to his Love
(J. Edgar Hoover and his sidekick Clyde Tolson)

I am a scowling, bitter guy,
Director of the FBI;
But darling Clyde, I shall be true,
And love no other man but you.

I always wear my panty hose
And frilly bras beneath the clothes
Of the top G-man in the land;
Men’s underwear is much too bland.

When I have put the crooks away
And leave my desk at end of day,
To take a break from fighting crime;
The nights with you are so sublime.

So, after we have wined and dined,
Our bodies intimately twined;
I promise, Clyde, that you and I
Will be together ’til we die.

I like it, Douglas. Filth.

This is Classical Filth.

Daphnis and Chloe.

You're looking very girlish,
In sandals, socks and chiffon,
All gorgeous golden curlish,
So pert and pink and girlish.
I fear it's rather churlish
To stiffen like a griffin
But you're so gorgeous girlish
In sandals, socks and chiffon.

You're definitely boyish,
All tousled-tramp and dirty,
All puddle-jumper joyish.
You seem supremely boyish,
So Bob Hobbledehoyish,
Scuffed shoes and open shirty.
I think you're very boyish,
Tramp-tousled, dirty-shirty.

John,

Thanks for your comment. Hoover and Tolson are buried in adjacent graves. So, I'd say its True Filth. (Or, at lease as true as can be curently determined.) Hoover started out as an innotative lawman, but became a creepy character later in his career.

You have a couple of strong contenders here.

When I met Reggie
 

I had a close personal encounter with Reggie Kray one Friday 16th April. He had escaped captivity (leaving his twin Ronnie behind bars) and been sighted roaming the local golf course. He even brazenly appeared in its club house, then decamped, only to be spotted lurking in my parents' garden.
There, he proved to be a gentle creature, not averse to being manhandled nor biting or scratching at all when we detained him (first) in a cardboard box and then (when he looked like succeeding in his persistent efforts to escape) being transferred into a somewhat sturdier wicker basket. (Apparently, though, he and his brother had been wild in their youth.)
We rang the relevant authorities and in due course a warder and driver arrived to take him back; which Reggie assented to readily, even eagerly, after obligingly posing for photos.

Of course we hadn't known all the back-story till then. Meanwhile we had simply enjoyed this unexpected encounter with an altogether-amiable young runaway ferret.

I started several pieces on London department stores, but found most of them had attendant rhyming difficulties. Debenham and Freebody . . . Swan and Edgar . . . Marshall and Snelgrove . . . You see what I mean? Much scope for inventive thought -- but time is short.

So, reluctantly, I went downmarket and settled for Arding and Hobbs (slightly desperately teamed with "blobs.") Few on the other side of the Greater English Channel will ever have heard of it, and I dare say some Spectator readers will prefer to deny their Clapham Junction roots.

But even as I write it is on its way to becoming an instant transfer to Lucy's recycling bin. What the hell! Write about what you know, say I.

I have a poem set in Arding and Hobbs. Won't do for this, though.

Ann,
But I can be confident that yours does not sink to the depths of rhyming it with blobs! Can't I, please God?

I parked it in the middle of a line, to avoid blobs.

Ah, such skill. Would that I were a proper poet.

For what it's worth, I much prefer you as an improper one.

Then, for what it is worth, I shall continue as such. But the Clown's yearning to play Hamlet is unlikely to rest no matter how many bells may adorn the motley.

Some suitably doggerely stuff from an ex-educator:

I have an ancient firm in mind, devised by Thring and Gabbitas;
They specialise in sourcing Beaks and do it with much gravitas.
Providing staff to teach the boys of Eton or of Kazakhstan
Their offices, off Regent Street, have welcomed Waugh and Betjeman.