Don't we all wish we were poets and how many of us are laid low with disappointment? I am not in that diminutive happy band of the successful so I apologise to the loyal reader, now having endured a second rate limerick with each blog -- apologies, not blog but 'chapter' as the filial Deputy Head tells me blog is a misnomer -- now has to endure a whole section based on third rate, apparently interminable verse.
I thought there might at least be some compensation for you if I was to eschew the limerick form but then I discovered a veritable captain's chest of the dreadful pieces composed in the late 1970s as entries for a competition run by Taylor's Port on the back page of The Times newspaper. They have not seen the light of day before [ all were inevitably unsuccessful ] and they will not see it again but here, dotted through the current piece, is their long awaited exposure to the sunlight. And you're allowed to think ' That's really rather good '.
At Spithead the mutinous sailors,
When faced with their landlubbing gaolers,
Were told ' The rum's short,
Can you make do with port?';
Cried ' Yes, just so long as it's Taylor's '.
Abounding in historical allusions, these limericks reflected my blue period, my very light blue period, of prep school teaching when I was keen to show off my poetic prowess when I should have been preparing my next Ecce Romani lesson or concentrating on 3rd Game Cricket.
Said Alfred on eating burnt cake,
' A dissolute Dane I would fake;
My life was so fraught
Till I tried Taylor's Port,
But now I match Guthrum's intake '.
It was really reminiscing in a previous blog about Winchester College, and particularly the admirably inimitable Hubert Doggart, that persuaded me of the potential force of doggerel plus. Hubert himself was not above sharing a smidgen of his own poetry so I thought he might appreciate, when he was of advancing years, a version of John Keats's On first looking inro Chapman's Homer. So I wrote this, which will mean very little to the multitudes who lack the good fortune of having attended Winchester College.
Much have I travelled in the realms of Meads,
Echoing tones of bat on ball to hear,
While Ridding, through his shaded gate, gives steer
To Newfield, home of Lords' heroic deeds.
Here Eton Match adorned our firmament;
Here Jardine steeled himself for Aussie bile;
Here Noob was stiffened for his Cyclops style,
While Harry A looked down from Hunter tent.
Of Wykeham's sons who've graced the cricket field
There's one who stands apart, omniscient;
Coach, captain, author, friend of true appeal,
Blue, Martlet, Lion, HQ President.
No breathless hush with Hubert; all revealed
Through joy, uplifting fun and merriment.
This was not my first attempt at plagiarising this sublimely evocative poem. Twenty five years before I had reflected on some of the eccentricities of Sevenoaks School.
Much have I travelled in the realms of Knole
And many friends from distant kingdoms found;
Round many one-way systems have I wound
My way, as bells from Nicholas inevitably toll.
Oft to green Solefields have I ta'en my boy
Where muscles, voices, hearts are on the ball;
Then to the Sackville and the nearby Aisher Hall,
Cradles of culture, Festivals and joy.
Then saw I Bulletins, lunch queues, the Gun Run,
And Johnsons -- now and aye our soul pervades
A House so rich in spirit, warmth and fun.
A school whose vital ethos never fades,
No prejudice, no clique, no carry-on.
Do you remember the Crystals, a trio of young ladies, grooving with eternal energy, accompanied all the while by sundry boppers and chorus adjuncts, singing such celebrated numbers as 'He's a Rebel', 'Then he kissed me' and of course ' Da-doo-ron-ron?
I composed a version of this last song for the three ladies, Jenny, Athene and Jane, who really ran Johnson's House at Sevenoaks School when I was Housemaster and did it brilliantly too. Few knew that I was even nominally in charge. Amongst their multifarious responsibilities was the eternal supervision of laundry matters and the version written for them in a pantomime, Aladdin and the Magic Gong [ an exceptional production devised, written and directed by Mark Hanley Browne and Nigel Connell, two of the most talented teachers I have known ] has sadly been lost in the fog of time. I can just remember the first line ' Washed it on a Monday and it looked quite fine; Da-doo-ron-ron-ron etc' 'but no more.
I did however remember the song when I was about the business of trying to raise staff morale at Gordonstoun and produced a version to be sung at a social event, making light of the inevitable interruptions to the academic curriculum in a school founded on an holistic philosophy. Teachers will always object to such dislocation of priorities unless it is their own pet activity which is the cause of the interference.
Prepared it on a Monday and it was just great;
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Do-doo-ron-ron,
I've planned the best French class ever taught to date
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Da-doo-ron-ron.
Yeah, and they gave a lie-in,
Yeah, what's the point in tryin',
Yeah and I wanna go home,
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Da-doo-ron-ron,
Prepared it on a Tuesday and it was just so;
Da doo ...........
Oh how period two was really going to flow,
Da-doo .....
Yeah and they're all on cruise.
Yeah so I'm singing the Blues;
Yeah and I wanna go home,
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Da-doo-ron-ron
Prepared it on a Wednesday and it still looks good;
Da-doo ...........
I'm trying to teach and just praying that I could
Da-doo .........
Yeah, and it's theatre trip time,
Yeah, I think I'll take up mime;
Yeah and I wanna go home,
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron, Da-doo-ron-ron.
Prepared it on a Thursday and the going's getting tough,
Da-doo .........
No false bravado, I've nearly had enough;
Da-doo .....
Yeah,it's the rugby trials,
Yeah, in the Falkland Isles;
Yeah and I wanna go home
...........
Prepared it on a Friday and I've got my second wind;
Da-doo .....
Now all my hopes on the management are pinned;
Da-doo ....
Yeah, it's the Thailand briefing,
Yeah, sure, Phuket's appealing,
Yeah and I wanna go home,
..........
Prepared it on a Saturday just in case;
Da-doo .....
I'm quite the saddest creature but I'm putting on a face;
Da-doo ..
Yeah, House Expeds are such fun;
Yeah, I think I'll ring Kurt Hahn;
Yeah, wish I'd never left home,
Da-doo-ron-ron-ron- Da-doo-ron-ron.
Prepared it on a Sunday ........
OH NO I DIDN'T!
It must be time for another limerick from the late 70s:
Said Karl Marx ' Comrades, I have thought
And just look what pleasure I've brought,
All men are now equal
So what else the sequel
But all must enjoy Taylor's Port?'.
As admitted, I have rarely attempted original serious verse and that has been a wise if depressing move. I once wrote about getting lost in the back streets of Nairobi when I was sufficiently foolish to venture from the once grand colonial crustiness of the Norfolk Hotel and wandered into a world, or an underworld rather, many leagues beyond the zone of comfort that usually envelops the British middle class.
Thinking of the recently mentioned Kurt Hahn and his favourite Bible passage, the parable of the Good Samaritan, I attempted an emulation and was then sufficiently foolish to write about it. Failing to appreciate the poverty of the poem's quality, I proceeded to present it at a school assembly where I always tried to follow Lord Reith's objectives for the BBC of Inform, Educate and Entertain. What follows lamentably scored nul points on all three counts and I did not repeat the experience
An Uncertain Man Went Down
There he was or nearly wasn't,
A bundle of rags enveloped in newspaper,
until I saw a big blue eye blink
as I almost trod on it.
I slipped between the body and the two
ageing black station wagons, dust encrusted,
rust encroaching, against the pavement, close to
the throng of busy -- but not really busy--
people you see in everyday Nairobi.
I trod warily, I stopped, a liitle brown arm,
a young boy's arm, emerged from its filthy wrapping paper;
covered in sores, suppurating, bleeding
from a gash, it seemed, deep and long.
The eye and the hand did the talking,
'I am God's child', it said ' but are you?'
Never talk to strangers and never give to beggars,
I'd been taught long ago so God didn't come into it.
What was God doing about it anyway, I wondered
As I strode on with purpose down the dusty road.
But how about Luke, Chapter 10? a voice tingled
then lacerated my ear drum, fire siren like. There
was this dirty young fellow spread-eagled on a forgotten highway,
Is this really my neighbour? Can't be .... onward.
In any case there are no friendly innkeepers or hospital
casualty departments here. Best leave alone and
I do my bit for charity.com anyway. No .... onward.
But the day of judgement will come and that
might be my own son in a less than human state.
Turn and face the ... no, not the music, not the challenge,
not even the responsibility. Let's just buy a
slice of clear conscience. Now .... backward.
But back's not so easy; he might be
dead. God, what then? Or grasp me in
fear or gratitude -- what's the difference?
There's the road; there he is. 'Are you alright?'
No reply to banal question. No time for a reply,
just 'Take this money; I hope you're better soon'
a feeble sentiment to a boarding school child
from a busy elsewhere parent.
He grasped; he clenched; he got up, he
ran like a Kenyan 400 metre champion. Perhaps
he will be one day but now he
was gone, leaving me confused, the neighbourless one,
a loser with conscience not really cleared. And will
it make any difference next week?
And now, for something completely different, I dared mention the original master of the limerick.
There once was a man, by name Lear,
Whose limericks still have no peer;
He, when asked for the reason,
Replied 'Nonsense in season
But Taylor's Port throughout the year '.
Rather than my less than feeble attempts to follow Auden or Larkin in tragic mode, I was on safer ground with Gilbert and Sullivan imitations. In 1999 I was rather proud to assemble a choir of Gordonstoun School governors to sing to the staff at a social event in the style, which was particularly appropriate in the days of a military chairman.
We are the very model of the modern Govs at Gordonstoun,
With titles, honours, decorations we are more than most festooned;
We know our place, we're on the board and if we act imperiously,
Resist temptation to assume our life we take too seriously.
Our duties are most onerous and mighty multifarious;
Like you, one day, we found ourselves in bubbles strange and various;
Committees are confusing but give us a sense of boundless power,
Estates, Finance and Marketing, a Council seat at Aberlour.
We're pleased the staff are joining us as solo instrumentalists,
We're confident you'll not see us as weary mediaevalists;
We'll give you papers, minutes and agendas to infinity,
And would be rather grateful if you'd take your turn to make the tea.
Responsibilities for govs are quite replete with gravitas,
There's Health and Safety, Children's acts as we exude humanitas,
We're into trees and birds and bees and items more ethereal
And even the disposal of your tons of waste material.
We've read some books, we do have brains, we like the theoretical,
The Living Out Allowance might to us seem quite heretical;
We may relate performance to the pay of staff, Oh what a crime!
Procedure for Dispute and Grievance might be working overtime.
When all is said and done, you know, we're rather pleased to be with you,
We like to share and clear the air and even have a drink or two;
We really are committed to this all-round education.
We are the very models of the modern govs at Gordonstoun.
Closely followed by my final, unsuccessful fling in verse to gain access to a bottle of port:
For the crossword next door spare a thought,
As it has to compete with the sport,
The letters, the leaders,
The avid news readers
E'en limericks on Taylors Port.
In fact that slot on the back page of The Times was then taken by Famous Grouse whiskey so I felt obliged to give that just one shot. It too was miserably unsuccessful; even turning to the Bible didn't help.
Said Samson ' Delilah, my wife,
You've scotched my great strength with your knife,
But I've found Famous Grouse
To help bring down the house,
Farewell Philistine way of life!'
Even holy writ is not allowed the last word. That must lie with the remarkable and rather wonderful young people of Gordonstoun who tolerated me for twenty one years. This plagiarism of Gilbert's Major General came into being at quite an early stage of that time span.
I am the very model of a modern kid at Gordonstoun,
I'm really rather sad at being sent away to boarding school;
I hate the queues for showers, not to mention the Refectory,
And how I wish the CBs would take pity and not hector me.
The squares are round, the hillocks sweet, lawns north and south and Silent walk
And Duffus Castle, Michael Kirk, St Christophers and funny talk ...
There are Wardens and Controllers and two Guardians and ATCs,
But all I want to know is ' O tell me where the loo is please!
I decorate my file in a manner psychedelical,
In summer fix my sweater in a fashion quite umbilical;
My hair is flicked, my wellies green, my shoes in need of polishing,
And why was my old track suit then thought ready for abolishing?
I know the rules, I will obey, say no to licensed premises,
There are some cliffs but going there risks heavy-handed nemesis;
And air guns, sheath knives, catapults are none of them permissible,
The other sex is at arm's length and never, ever kissable!
There's seamanship and cruising, healthy expeditions various,
I'm told at 'Stoun I shouldn't be too cocky and gregarious,
I like the place, I think I'll stay, at least the holidays are fun,
I am the very model of a modern kid at Gordonstoun.
28th August 2023
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