For Whom the Bell Tolls
Page 8
‘You don’t win games with kids.’ Hard to relate,
It takes a while to turn boys into men
And put the potent into potentate,
For life begins at three score years and ten.
In what they call their music they combine
Demented drums and discords to create
A racket like the curse of Frankenstein
Whose only purpose is to aggravate
And give us something righteously to hate.
They are but cuckoo clocks to our Big Ben,
We’ll see them off before we lie in state,
For life begins at three score years and ten.
Their love life is completely out of line,
Their ladies are absurdly underweight,
The merest wisps of things, too anodyne
For men of substance to appreciate.
Our years are reasons to accelerate
And not to settle for the long amen;
Myself, I plan to stay up rather late,
For life begins at three score years and ten.
Envoi
Your Majesty, Elizabeth the Great,
Our Monarch since we can’t remember when,
Your heir apparent’s going to have to wait,
For life begins at three score years and ten.
Royal Wedding (1)
Prince William and Kate Middleton were married in Westminster Abbey on 29 May 2011.
The valleys celebrate and hills
Rejoice because of Kate and Wills.
The headline writers palpitate
At the approach of Wills and Kate.
Only the gloomy Guardian, in despair,
Wishes the Royal Couple were elsewhere.
Royal Wedding (2)
Republicans have all the arguments:
Why should the Royal Family be succeeding
In either sense by accident of birth?
The case seems so clear-cut for Presidents
Chosen by ballot rather than by breeding,
So we – not they – may inherit the earth,
But ultimately, when push comes to shove,
As with the million in the Park and Mall
When William and his Catherine tied the knot,
What’s left without the loyalty and love,
The Crown and grand tradition of it all?
We’re really better served by what we’ve got.
Retrospective
I saw myself from forty years ago
As someone whom I wouldn’t wish to know.
This young reporter I was looking at,
I didn’t like his morals or his hat,
His escapades, his dubious love affairs,
His haircut or his loafers or his flares,
The accent of his broadcasts, so cut-glass
In imitation of the ruling class;
But most of all the insolence of youth,
As if he, and he only, knew the truth.
He for his part would not accept the blame
For what his later character became,
Transformed from a Young Turk to an old codger,
From bright young thing to veteran bomb-dodger.
There is one point on which we both agree,
Although we share the same identity:
This other fellow really can’t be me!
The Celebrity Protection Force
I scanned the news from Camden Town to Morden:
Celebrities competed with each other,
Not politicians, David against Gordon,
But refugees from Strictly and Big Brother.
It’s surely long past time we threw a cordon
Around this stuff, declared an armistice.
It’s gone too far: the country known as Jordan
Is now a synonym for Katie Price.
Although she’s not at war with all and sundry,
This tabloid icon is at action stations;
Her enemy is her ex, one Peter Andre.
Who says we don’t need the United Nations?
Let’s form a force to monitor their actions,
Give it blue helmets, armoured cars and more,
To halt the famous-for-five-minutes factions:
And find a name for it – CELEBPROFOR.
Cheryl
I see the nation is entranced by Cheryl
And ask, is she a singer or an actress?
A princess, patron saint or benefactress?
A businesswoman, owning many factories?
An editor perhaps or a redactress?
And am I ignorant of her at my peril?
Max
When he was only four my grandson Max,
Whose escapades gave rise to heart attacks,
Struck his first match: and as the flames rose higher
My little cottage was engulfed by fire.
Now more than twelve, I’m sure that Maximilian,
A piece of work and one kid in a million,
Will make his mark upon the larger stage.
And, even more than his beloved mother,
Will have his name all over the front page,
Sooner or later, one way or another.
Decisions
We tend to cringe so much and self-berate
Whenever we commit the Great Mistake,
That it should help to set the record straight,
And list the missteps that we didn’t make.
Let this be known, across a chequered life,
And weighing one deliverance with another:
I neither danced for Strictly’s Bruce Forsyth,
Nor signed an unwise contract with Big Brother.
But once, beguiled by the presenter’s wink,
I did agree to play The Weakest Link.
Radio Five Live
It started out in warfare and mayhem
And in those days was known as Scud FM;
But had appeal
Perceived and real
To regular and ordinary folk,
So now it’s better known as Radio Bloke.
Classic FM
If I were to be Supreme Ruler, the first act of my dictatorship would be to revoke the broadcasting licence of Classic FM. Simon Bates no longer works for the station, but the memory lingers on.
Though some of what they play is quite sublime,
The engulfing chatter is more than enough
To ruin it when almost every time
They back announce the music as ‘great stuff’.
Thus La Bohème is great stuff by Puccini,
They flog great stuff by Holst and Liszt to death,
Great stuff by Chopin, Brahms and Paganini,
Great stuff by everyone across the board,
Vivaldi’s Seasons, Sullivan’s Lost Chord,
Come into the Garden – great stuff! – Maud;
And then, illiterate, they pause for breath
Between Arturo – gulp! – and Toscanini.
So when the DJ Simon Bates
Turns up outside the Pearly Gates
And clamours for inclusion,
St Peter would do really well,
In choosing between Heaven and Hell,
To test his elocution.
Decline and Fall
Mother Tongue
The Bible (King James version) and Shakespeare
Are to our tongue what Machiavelli’s Prince
Was to the politics of courtly Florence.
Alas, the language went downhill from there,
And what has happene
d to it since
Is cause for much abhorrence.
Language
Somewhere between Exeter and Reading
I travelled in astonishment awhile:
A fellow passenger produced a file
Some forty pages thick, under the heading
Brand and Generic Keyword Optimisation.
Was this the language Shakespeare wrote,
Or something coded and remote,
A symphony without a note,
Defying explanation?
Word Abuse
With clichés scattered over a wide area,
And moving forward, at this point in time,
Through sea change, step change and a paradigm,
For rolling out a fit-for-purpose plan
(Whoever rolled one in, you witless man?),
Because it’s as contagious as malaria,
This word abuse deserves a total ban.
Painted Lady
I met a girl on one of Cunard’s ships
Who had the whole world at her finger tips;
The thought occurred, wherever this one sails,
She’s going to be as colourful as nails.
Ranges of peacock colours were displayed
In varnishes of every hue and shade.
So naturally in the Caribbean
She opted for a deep aquamarine;
Off the Pacific coast of Mexico
She changed to sparkling grey and indigo.
She will of course use matching paints that please
While sailing in the Red and Yellow Seas,
And in the Coral Sea it’s only moral
To use a tint respectful of the coral;
But when we reach the coast of Eritrea,
If pirate ships should threaten to waylay her,
Then that will be my signal to take charge
And paint her nails throughout in camouflage.
The Virtues
The first girl whom I met was Charity
Who told me with quite brutal clarity
That I required a total overhaul.
Then next in line I met another, Constance,
Who notwithstanding my remonstrance
Turned out to have no constancy at all.
I tried a Patience and she mine: ere long
She proved to be impossibly headstrong.
I met a Faith and found beyond dispute
Fidelity was not her strongest suit.
I thought that Prudence could have had potential,
Except that she was not at all prudential.
My Verity was fraudulent and ruthless
And, sad to say, exceptionally truthless.
And lastly there was Hope, but everywhere
All those who knew her also knew despair.
I have forgotten or lost in obscurity
Whether I ever knew a girl called Purity.
War Wounds
In August 1992 in Sarajevo I was expertly treated for a mortar wound at the United Nations Field Hospital, run by the French. On leaving the hospital I found that all my money had disappeared.
Once in a war I took a double hit,
Shelled by the Serbs and plundered by the French
(Each side, you might say, playing to its strength),
But I recovered and got over it.
Years later, I was mortared in the heart
By one who didn’t wish to make me suffer,
But left me melancholy and apart,
And getting over that was so much tougher.
Trajectories
True love begins where their affections merge,
(To seek its wilder shores would just be silly),
And ends where their trajectories diverge:
His is the Northern, hers the Piccadilly.
And thus the escalator at King’s Cross
Becomes a moving metaphor of loss.
End Game
You brought me joy and grief, you fickle female,
And when I’m gone, if you still misbehave,
You can expect to get a scorching email
From somewhere on the far side of the grave.
The Toast Rack
I have a friend who keeps an old toast rack
Upon her desk in which to file her post;
As a result she rather tends to lack
A place in which to put her morning toast.
Museum Piece
The exhibition ‘War Reporting: The War Correspondent Under Fire Since 1914’ opened at the Imperial War Museum North in May 2011.
I filled in loan agreements by the yard,
They asked for souvenirs lest they forget,
I lent them an accreditation card,
A white suit, dog tags and an epaulette.
They then complained the card was stained with mould;
What else did they expect from one so old?
So many years have passed since I set forth,
Ambition dwindles and the life force with it:
And at the last I’m merely an exhibit
In the Imperial War Museum North.
Credo
Because timidity invites disgrace,
Don’t ever hesitate to show your face,
However dark and dangerous the place:
You make a difference or you fill a space.
Where you have principles do not forsake them,
Where you have fears and frailties forget them:
Good things happen because people make them,
And bad things happen because people let them.
Point of Departure
Three score and ten, I’m feeling mortal,
Reviewing times unprofitably spent,
Little to celebrate, lots to repent;
The years successively accelerate,
The candle gutters and the hour is late.
With boarding pass in hand at life’s last portal,
There’s no mistaking the departure gate;
I wonder, as I rise to take my leave,
What did I ever actually achieve?
Epitaph
When I am gone, I hope you’ll pause a minute
And say, sadly not to my face,
The world’s a slightly less worse place
Because of my time in it.
But, just as probably, you may recall
I made no bloody difference at all.
House of Commons
The People’s Palace is a fortress
Where toadies and careerists win
And independence is a sin.
The parties’ placemen sit therein
And their idea of discipline,
The three line whip through thick and thin,
Looks more like rigor mortis.
Loyal from here to kingdom come,
They’ll do its bidding, take its shilling
And march in lockstep to its drum,
Not coalitions of the willing
But rather of the dumb.
They take great pride in living well,
They don’t do sober, meek or humble,
They vote the ticket as needs must
And, forfeiting the people’s trust,
The only place where they excel
Is in the tribal rough and tumble,
The dreary daily cut and thrust
Of the Parliament from hell.
The Ex-minister
Union President, Secretary of State
(Career path of the good and great),
He was not one to understate
And as he pocketed the winnings,
By then translated to the Lords,
For these things come with their rewards,
He gave a speech designed to show
His zeal pro bono publico
In medias res and other ways
(He dressed it up in Latin).
His Parliament of the pieties,
Of truly honourable MPs
Of fine, industrious grandees,
No fraud, no scandal and no sleaze,
Was not the one I sat in.
Political Class
We’re governed by a ruling class
Whose life experience is so sparse
They might as well be men from Mars,
And so bereft of common sense
They hardly know the difference
Between their elbows and their fundaments.
The sad thing is
Their destinies
To all intents
And purposes
Are ours.
Garden Party
The band plays and the medals glisten,
The Palace staff serve strawberry teas,
Among the crowds who sit and listen
Are soldiers sharing memories
And others, quieter than these,
The wheelchair amputees.
They are our valiant sons and brothers
Who bore the losses without gains
In our fourth war on Afghan plains:
Don’t ask who won the others.
And as for those who sent them there,
Instead of falling on their swords,
They reap their ill-deserved rewards;
Honours attend them everywhere,
They sit in grandeur in the Lords,
And they need no wheelchair.
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