No. 1224: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem describing the obnoxious

characteristics of a nation they had never been able to warm to.

I hope you all noticed that an aphorism

by Roger Woddis which won a competition prize in our last issue was quoted in the Observer's 'Sayings of the Week'. Watch

this column for future brilliance.

'In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch/Is offering too little and asking too much,' wrote George Canning in a dispatch in cipher to the English Ambassador at the Hague. Since then our antipathy to foreigners must have dwindled. Now, it seems, uncharity begins at home, for in- stead of xenophobically bashing Frogs or Krauts or Pakis most of you turned and

rent your British brothers — even 'Nor- therners', even Glaswegians being offered as 'nations'. Belgians, Turks, Japanese, Australians and Russians all escaped

unscathed; not one of you had a word to say against any native of South America or the African continent. I found this new spirit of international politeness rather spooky.

The prize-winners printed below get £9 each (bad luck, Bridget Loney, George Moor and Clare), and J. H. M. Donald takes the last bottle of Cutty 12 Blended Scots Whisky for a fine piece of `flyting'. Our grateful thanks to the makers, Cutty Sark, for their generous patronage during the last three weeks.

Who starts an argument when no one else would care a jot? Who keeps on quarrelling for reasons he has long forgot?

Who joins a fight before he knows who's fighting who for what?

The Scot.

Who wakes with trembling hand and eye bloodshot?

Who brags that he can always drink another tot?

Who afterwards falls down and then brings up the lot?

The Scot. Who, if he loses a football match, calls it a plot?

Who doesn't change his underwear but lets it rot?

Who wears a paste-brush on his groin to advertise what underneath he hasn't got? The Scot.

(J. H. M. Donald) I never could abide the Swedes: But not because of their misdeeds (Their neutral annals are as null

As Nordic forests, fearfully dull;

Though letting Germans through in '40

To capture Narvik — that was naughty).

What stokes my patient enmity Is their immense solemnity Re Life and Love and Sex and ... Crikey, The way they flog the poor old psyche, Their days one long paralysis Of sickly self-analysis!

Whoever met a Swede ironic, Flippant, bantering, Byronic?

Most puddingy of northern breeds, Europe's turnips — that's the Swedes!

(Martin Fagg) There's no one on earth more inflated with swank Than a lip-smacking, swaggering, gum-chewing Yank.

His muscles are flabby (blame transport for that).

Junk food, too refined, makes him pasty and fat.

As fashion dictates, all the children are brats, Malevolent clones in their look-alike hats.

And is it just laziness, do you suppose, That makes an American speak through his nose?

In his eyes the biggest is always the best: He'll worship the wealthy and scorn all the rest.

I always disliked them, but hid it, of course, Until Elmer settled my terms for divorce.

(Jean Hayes) One deeply detests Those queer folk who dine On ancient birds' nests And (just think!) rice wine.

Far worse, when they eat They do juggling tricks With pieces of meat Upon two thin sticks.

It's custom, they say.

Well, they can stick it!

Chinks can't even play The game of cricket. (Edward Samson) I think I could only like the people of Ireland If I were by nature vireland.

For one shillen You can have any of them, from Enniskillen To County Cork, Despite their charming tork.

What appal me are the models The Irish carry in their nodels: They worship belligerent clowns With names nobody can pronowns - Some legendary, like Cuchulain And Naoise (really, no fulain!) - Some contemporary: Haughey, A witches' broth of a baughey, And to cap it all, the Reverend Ian Paisley!

I must stop, before I start screaming craisley.

(Paul Griffin)