[John Whitworth]

Competition: Town lines

LUCY VICKERY
SATURDAY, 7TH APRIL 2012

In Competition No. 2741 you were invited to submit an extract from the libretto of an opera that pays homage to the town of your choice.
The Lottery-funded operatic venture Swindon: the Opera, which inspired the comp, catapulted that unlovely town into the cultural spotlight, and this assignment was meant to be an exercise in doing the same thing for other, unfairly perhaps, mocked parts of the country. But as I didn’t make that clear enough in my brief, Aldeburgh and London share the stage with Milton Keynes and Walthamstow in the winning line-up below.
Susan Therkelsen’s Woking, Janet Kenny’s Lewes, Chris O’Carroll’s Bognor and Josh Ekroy’s Guildford were unlucky losers. The victors nab £30 and Noel Petty takes the bonus fiver.

Minister (Recitativo):
This is the Place, its very name a sign of Grace.
Milton and Keynes! O happy combination!
These heroes will inspire a brave new nation.
(Aria):
Milton. sweet singer of Paradise enchanting!
Keynes, bold progenitor of deficit financing!
In your great names we’ll raise a town of glass
Where token cows will graze on token grass,
Where happy, welcoming employment waits
On model light industrial estates,
And all ringed round with many a roundabout
Where many enter in but few go out.
For all who come will witness and believe
And never find it possible to leave.
Chorus of Under-Secretaries:
No! No! They’ll never, never leave!
Noel Petty

Andiam’, andiam’, andiamo,
Andiamo a Walthamstow!
Belissima, coronata
per il cinema de Granada,
Walthamstow! magnifico!
nella strada ferrata
fra Chingford e Liverpool Strada.

Siamo giocoso
notte e mane
sulla famosa Dog Track,
(la pista di cane),
e dalla famosa High Street
alla gloria
della Linea Victoria.

Vincerò! Vincerò!
Walthamstow!
Brian Murdoch

Town Crier (bass):
Aldeburgh town! Aldeburgh town!
Peter (tenor):
Oh who can hear your name and yet feel down?
That sea so aching-cold and surly brown,
where opera’s in the air, and most of all
the music, then the poetry, festival.
Town (chorus):
How moot the questions asked in our Moot Hall,
this borough penned by Crabbe, the fishers’ stalls,
where sole and crab are sold along the beach
fresh from the ocean’s salt devouring reach.
Peter:
Oh who can face your winds and stay upright?
Only the strongest brave the breezes’ bite.
But that’s the English summer! let’s be glad
It keep us middle-class and culture-mad.
D.A. Prince

Scene 7 of London: the Opera: A gas-lit street. Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, Jack the Ripper)
JR: Good evening, gents. Now, no offense, but what’s your predilection?
SH: I specialise in deep disguise, and amateur detection;
I solve each riddle, play the fiddle, dwell in Baker Street.
JR: Well, not to vaunt, but my great haunt is ‘Meet thy Maker’ Street;
Show me a tart, and, bless your heart, I’ll thoroughly unzip her.
SH: I know you, sir. You dog, you cur! I have you, Jack the Ripper! (Handcuffs him)
DW: Amazing, Holmes! One for my tomes! But how did you know so fast?
SH: It’s elementary, old friend — he’s listed in the cast.
(Aria)
It’s a comforting thing to be brainier
Than others, detectives or felons,
For I’m gifted with one of those crania
The size of a couple of melons.
Not for me all those Scotland Yard bodgings
By incompetents lacking in charm...
But it’s time to return to our lodgings —
I’m in need of a shot in the arm.
Brian Allgar

Chorus: In Darlington, in quiet acres
Sundered by the Tees and Skerne,
The railways came, as did the Quakers,
In whose cool hearts the passions burn.

Pease: Oh Lord my name is Joseph Pease,
In Parliament I’ll serve my term,
Loath to swear an oath, but pleased
That I may stand up to affirm —

Chorus: He is a man whose blood is steam,
Whose dreams of steel make many scoff.

Pease: Let Londoners deride my theme,
But I’ve a hat I will not doff.
I come to you through Northern mist,
My voice is strange, I grant you that.
I’ll play the great philanthropist,
But in the Commons, wear my hat.

Chorus: The locomotives feed each mouth,
The funnels fume, the town must grow:
Oh send our Joseph to the South
In Darlo, Darlo jubilo...
Bill Greenwell