[Chris O'Carroll]

Like other Yanks here, I can feel Betjeman's poem getting lost in translation line by line as I read it. I'll probably try to write something for this comp, but more for the exercise than with any hope of winning.

We can all console ourselves with the thought that no matter how much we don't get certain nuances of British culture, we are not as belligerently tone-deaf as the author of this review of a Betjeman biography:

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/articl...DTL&type=books

If Philip Larkin is England's answer to Robert Frost, who do you reckon Wendy Cope is? Their Maya Angelou? And if Garrison Keillor is the American Betjeman, maybe Billy Collins is our Pam Ayres?

[Ann Drysdale]

No, no - it's not phone versus telephone - it's phone versus ring.

Frank is right on the button with Hyacinth; it's all about New and Old money. It's the artificial gentility, doncherknow; the nouveaux-riches trying to appear effortlesly superior.

I am sure Americans can do it - think Henry James. Or Sweet Charity. Come on, don't be quitters! It's the Fourth of July - strike a blow!

[Julie Steiner]

Ah, but in America no one wants to be perceived as upper-class. Wealthy, yes, but classy, never. For example, if one is seen entering or exiting a limousine, it seems obligatory to simultaneously demonstrate that one is not wearing panties. One wouldn't want to be mistaken for a member of that great democratic nemesis "the elite", would one?

[Ann Drysdale]

One might

[John Whitworth]

Nobody in America, except your good selves of course, wishes to be thought of as cultured. But then it's getting that way over here. Betjeman's poem depends on some stuff by Nancy Mitford (upper class bint who wrote a bit) which she pinched from a Professor Alan Ross. It's a bit out of date now. What we want now is to be like Posh and Becks (who they?) rather than to be U rather than non-U. U stands for Upper Class.

Some people STILL won't say toilet.

[Allen Tice]

My take on U (and you) and non-U was that non-U were linguistic strivers and prettifiers who couldn't bear to call a jackass.

[FOsen]

"Cruet. The sentence Pass the cruet, please is very non-U; cruets are in themselves non-U. In gentlemen's houses there are, ideally, separate containers."

One if by vinegar, two if by oil!

We fought the revolution for the right to emulsify.

[John Whitworth]

The sentence is NOT non U. A gentleman, in a house where there is a cruet, would be most ungentlemanly to hint that this was in any way out of place.

PS I, of course, do not possess a cruet.

[basil ransome-davies]

[QUOTE
We can all console ourselves with the thought that no matter how much we don't get certain nuances of British culture, we are not as belligerently tone-deaf as the author of this review of a Betjeman biography:

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/articl...DTL&type=books

[/quote]

That is a very strange review, and hilariously misses the point of the poem it quotes & derogates. San Fran, was it? I thought they were supposed to be cosmopolitan-sophisticated there, but maybe they're just on something Thanks for the laugh, Chris.

Incidentally, don't bank on Betjeman getting everything right. Not even a refeened petit-bourgeois arriviste would 'beg pardon' for 'soiling the doilies' by putting cakes on them. That's what they're for.

[Ann Drysdale]

I had a bit of a brush with the old cruet question when I was writing a book on Newport (Gwent, not RI) because one of the big attractions at a local stately home is a (Googleable) thing called the "Tredegar Salt". Its purchase for the nation was a real bone of contention hereabouts.

I wanted to include a photograph of it, but was told by the front office that I couldn’t take one without a special appointment. When I contacted the management to ask permission I was told that I would have to apply in writing and if it was to be for a commercial purpose – a book for instance – there would be a charge…

So I went to have a look at it, along with all the other punters, and then set out to describe it for my readers as best a poet may.

The Ballad of the Tredegar Salt

Oh, the Morgans of Tredegar, they were all but on the street
So they sold the family silver in a bid to make ends meet.
They sent the Salt to Sotheby’s and fairly well it did,
But Newport Council bought it back for fourteen thousand quid.

I thought it would be marvellous, a wonder of the world;
Perhaps a golden galleon with silver sails unfurled,
All artfully constructed on a raft of little wheels
To trundle down the table during under-seasoned meals.

But it’s not the tarty artefact to which the rich aspire;
It’s a tiny little, shiny little object of desire.
It’s half a salt-and-pepper set, a pillar with a dome,
Though marginally larger than the one I have at home.

It’s not at all spectacular; it’s functional and neat
And it teeters on the tablecloth on little ball-y feet.
I don’t know if the top comes off; I can’t see how you fill it
But since I shan’t be asked to dine this will not matter, will it?

Some say it’s solid silver; some say it’s parcel gilt
But it serves a sterling purpose and ensures no salt is spilt.
And it’s altogether better than the greaseproof paper twists
For which the gawpers grovel in their bags of noisy crisps…