The Oldie ''The Wrong Kind of Apple'' comp by 24th July
 

Here you go - some info that might help...7000 varieties and the 18 you actually need to know about

Jayne

The Oldie Competition
by Tessa Castro

Competition no 192
For pies, bobbing, giving to the teacher or anything else, you need the right kind. A poem please called “The Wrong Kind of Apple’’. Maximum 16 lines.
Send your entries in by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T
3EG), fax (020 7436 8804), or email comps@theoldie.co.uk to ‘Competition No 192’ by 24th July.
Don’t forget to include your postal address.

The Wrong Kind of Apple

Prince Paris was given an apple
Which he gave to a goddess, and then
The impetuous boy
Caused the burning of Troy
And the ruin of millions of men.

Fot it wasn’t the right kind of apple,
Being probably more of a fig,
And everyone knows
If you eat one of those
Then the scope for disaster is big.

Mother Eve ate the wrong kind of apple
Because of a snake in the grass,
And the terrible cost
Was Paradise Lost
And Humanity out on its arse.

In the fresco in the Sistine Chapel it's fig. I bet you didn't know that.

I really thought I could beat you to this one, John, having written just such a poem which I'd entered for a competition somewhere else a while ago. I found it, copied it, checked before post-pasting it - and discovered that it's a winner in the aforesaid comp. Bugger. Now I'll have to write another one.

I'm going to Ledbury soon, though, staying on a cider-farm where all the cottages are called after apples. I'll sup the golden nectar and think between hiccups.

And between reading your post, John, and posting mine, I discover that your peach/plum has become a fig, and a reference to the Sistine Chapel has appeared where I swear no such thing was before.

This business of moderators editing stuff without trace is seriously disturbing to those of us who are inclined to question their sanity when things go weird.

It may be an Eratosphere perk, but to my mind it is a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance. And why is there no emoticon for a tut-driven sniff?

Youareright, Ann. I had thought the apple was a peach or something, but found it was a fig. I should have owned up but I didn't think anyone had seen it. I am very contrite.

Do send me your winning poem.

I shall email it forthwith. You are forgiven.

Aaaah! How nice! Better than mine perhaps so I'm glad it's out of contention. A worthy winner.

If you eat the wrong kind of apple
Like some tragic fairytale miss,
I hope that some dashing young chap’ll
Arrive to supply you a kiss.

Had Tell shot the wrong kind of apple
From off his son Walter’s fair head,
Perhaps he’d have then had to grapple
With killing his offspring stone dead.

For Newton the wrong kind of apple
Meant one that rremained on the tree.
He’d sigh ‘Just one gourd in my lap’ll
Make gravity lucid to me.’

In Eden the wrong kind of apple
Was any that grew there at all.
They teach you about it in chapel
(It led to our First Parents’ Fall.)

Jazz hands, laurel wreath, worshipful respect & much else to Ann Drysdale for knowing (as few seem to) that 'more honoured in the breach than the observance' does not mean 'more commonly breached than observed'.

Indeed, Bazza, but Ann knows all, as we all know.

Yes, a true maven.

Not so much a maven as a fule that no.

No fule like an old fule. Not you, Athene, of course.

(Boycotting) The Wrong Kind of Apple

It started in the misty days of yore
When I'd boot up my trusty Commodore;
What manner of a godforsaken sap'll
Refuse to purchase gadgets made by Apple?

I moved on to a Microsoft computer;
No gaucherie of mine was absoluter.
No matter what my cybernetic wants be,
The ghost of Steve Jobs never ever haunts me.

The money I have saved eschewing Apple
Presents me with no existential grapple;
Instead of iPhones, I can savor noshes
Of Fujis, Gravensteins, and McIntoshes.

If someday, Apple should get into trouble
And go the way of Bernie Madoff's bubble;
I'll shed no tears, but celebrate a wider
Experience with well-fermented cider.

Superb, Douglas; made me laugh aloud and must win if there is any justice.

The wrong kind of apple flew sideways,
And splattered all over the wall.
‘That’s not what I wanted,’ said Newton.
‘That’s not what I wanted at all.’

The wrong kind of apple went floating
Above where the physicist sat.
He muttered in further displeasure
‘And nor was I hoping for that.’

The wrong kind of apple shot backwards
In time to a time well before
The tree had been planted. Said Isaac
‘I’m starting to find this a bore.’

The right kind of apple dropped on him
Just as he was giving up hope.
His patience was nearly exhausted,
And also he'd smoked all his dope.

Appeal? An apple does have some--
Voilà, voilà le jus de pomme.
Earth-apples, though, have more to spare.
Voilà le jus de pomme de terre.

Esprit de core may make me hum--
Voilà, voilà le jus de pomme--
But spud juice makes me sing, I swear.
Voilà le jus de pomme de terre.

With cider, every chap's my chum.
Voilà, voilà le jus de pomme.
With vodka, every chap's my frère.
Voilà le jus de pomme de terre.

When tippling apples tempts, I come.
Voilà, voilà le jus de pomme.
Potatoes? I'm already there!
Voilà le jus de pomme de terre!


S4L1 was: So...apples? Sure, I'll tipple some.

Brilliant, Julie - but way too classy for "The Oldie".

I won somewhere with a franglais entry about cricket.

Thanks. Gotta fix using "some" twice, though--I changed a "become" and didn't notice until I posted it here. There's no proofreader like the "Send" key, is there? [Okay, tweaked now. Please tell me I can use "come" innocently.]

There's also the small matter of hardly any vodka being made with potatoes, but....

Julie,

Your vodka trumps my cider.

Vodka can be made of old socks. But the best vodka is made from potatoes accordng to Wikepedia.

The Wrong Kind of Apple

The truly meretricious
Apple is the Delicious,
Because anything that erect
Is simply incorrect.

I cannot bear a striped one
Or even an overhyped one,
And if your apple squirms,
Those things inside are worms.

I find most bakers lie
About which to use for pie
In New York, because Upstate
Your pie determines your fate.

That is, if you’re a female.
Still, the occasional he-male
Likes to show his skills
With the Granny Smiths he grills.

edited 7-13

Annie,
No you won't. Send it in. I can boast (as I've done here once or twice before, ahem) that I've won The Speccie and The Oldie with the same poem! I've never seen either of the comps stipulate that entries can't have appeared elsewhere; they don't seem bothered about that, thankfully.

Jayne

PS. Re Please tell me I can use "come" innocently. Julie,... Hmm, not sure I can tell you, in the context you've used it :D

With a nod to PG Wodehouse's ''Printer's Error''
 

My ‘latex mother-in-law’ (that’s late and ex-)
had loathed me at first sight; I got the look
which summed me up: She’s only after sex,
she’s far too thin and she’s a useless cook.
Hah! Unbeknown to her, my apple pie
had earned me prizes (labelled, once, ‘World Class’)
but when I cut a piece she gave a sigh:
“It’s sour, the pastry’s soggy, fruit’s quite sparse;
what kind of apples have you used? They’re gross.’’
I told her, “Bramleys. I think they’re the best.”
The knife still in my hand, I came up close
behind her and… I think you might have guessed
what happened next. The judge had sympathised
with me in court. “You poor young thing,” he said,
“Bramleys are best. Your choice was criticised
unfairly; it’s her fault that woman’s dead.”

And the judge was quite right. Nice one, Jayne. Do they have Bramleys in the States or is it only we who are so blessed?

A good one, Jayne.

Would line 12 be better as "... I think you may have guessed"?

Bramleys are excellent for cooking, although the best eating apple is the Cox's Orange Pippin. Try finding them in France, the land of the Golden Pernicious.

The French have a splendid cuisine but it does not extend to puddings. They have no idea how to make an apple pie.

True; they get 'em all arse-over-tit. Tarte Tatin? Yes, please.

It may/might be better, Brian, but I decided on might because of the assonance with knife in the previous line. Plus, I've already submitted it to "Tessa".


John, the French are far more inventive in their puddings than with their main courses - dominated by boeuf bourguignon and coq au vin - giving us the splendid crème brulée, the aforementioned tarte tatin, choux à la crème, to name but three...

(Neither do the French (in my experience) serve a profusion of lovely vegetables, as we do.)

Brian may - or might ;) - have a different view on this.

Jayne

Those are not puddings, Jayne. We know what puddings are. Jam roly-poly, treacle pudding, rhubarb crumble, stuff like that.

Yep, I suppose you're right, John. Ours are puddings, the posh French ones are desserts.

Let's not forget rice pudding, baked egg custard and Spotted Dick!

How could one forget Spotted Dick? There is excellent stuff on true English puddings in the work of Patrick O'Brian.

When it comes to desserts, the Italians have it all over the rest of the world, since they are the only people who can make proper tiramisu.