Speccie: Pilgrims' Progress
 

Only four winners this week and one of them me. Heh heh! The new competition looks a runner.

No. 2657: Pilgrim’s Progress
You are invited to imagine what merry band Chaucer might bring together if he were writing today (16 lines maximum). Entries should be submitted by email, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 21 July.

Whenas we left the Tabard, then we found
A strapping ladette, blottoe on ye ground.
The squyer woke her, and with courtesie
Suggested she might join our compagnie,
And so came she upon our pylgrymage,
Yet her religioun was hard to gauge,
Save that we heard her mutter 'Oh sweet Jesus'
Syn that there were namo Bacardi Breezers.
The millere much admired this sturdy wench,
Although hir langage made the shipman blench,
And ye Good Wife of Bath cried out 'That's rude'
When reading wordes on hir rumpe tattooed.
Indeed her manners were not over-nice.
The persoun therefor yeft hir good advice.
He tolled her, swearing is nor big nor clevvere.
To which the wench replied but with 'Whatevvere.'

George, that is very good. Right in the slot as the cricket commentators say. Could be money for you, old son.

Congratulations, John!
I'll be back on the speccie scene in August - meanwhile, for the next 3 weeks will be anywhere between London and Land's End - so St. George for England!

Excellent, George.

This competition is too hard for me. I confess that I never developed a taste for Chaucer and the exercise doesn't resonate for me at all. Barring an unexpected Chaucerian inspiration, I won't be entering this one.

Congratulations on your win, John, and George - excellent. Superb last line.

To save the typing, I think I'll just reiterate what Bob said:

Good show, John - George, that one made me laugh - as John has had occasion to say, if there is justice, it deserves a win.

Frank

Thanks for the positive feedback. I've now sent my ladette on a pilgrimage to Lucy.

Oure hoost, cleped Simon, sayeth, “Bloody Helle,”
whan that the STRIPPER’s tassle felle,
Quod he, full snyppye, “In a woord,
thy drasty acte’s nat worth a toord!
Get backe to Engelonde’s erse-end, ye woot,
no drap of talent have ye goot!.”
She putt hyr smale foweles in thir cage—
pleynly, she was no Elaine Paige,
but nevyr one to bee beset by doubte,
now in a PRIORY, she’s dryen oute
and taken mastyrre-clense, she’s coole againe,
yngagyd to a SOCCER HOOLIGAN.
Nexte seson, too, another gygge she hath,
whan therre bigynneth, “Real House-Wyves of Bath.”

Great. I had to Google "real housewives - England" to determine that the show isn't even over there . . . . now I need a shower.