COMPETITION

Blair-bashing

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2159 you were invited to write a verse lampoon on Tony Blair.

This invitation elicited enough poetic Semtex to blow up not only No. 10 but sev- eral government ministries to boot. If the PM reads this week's Spectator, I suspect he will feel more than tickled. There is room for six trenchant prizewinners, print- ed below. They get £25 each, and the bottle of the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Watson Weeks.

The cha'telain of Number Ten, Too certain of his mise-en-scene, Resolved to lecture, on parade, The Jerusalem and Jam brigade. With practised smile and well-worn tricks, He ventured into politics, Sure of unqualified assent From forth that monstrous regiment.

Alas for pious expectation!

No cheers or rapturous ovation; Instead, genteel, slow, measured claps, To castigate his wayward lapse.

Thus was our Leader quite undone, His charm reviled, his spin unspun, His speech, by minions finely crafted, By blue-rinsed matrons shrewdly shafted.

(Watson Weeks) Mr Blair is full of air, A party-pumped balloon.

His candle's lit. He handles it And waves his jelly spoon.

They're playing pass the parcel, And Mr Blair unwraps: The music's stopped, his bubble's popped, But everybody claps.

Mr Blair is blindfold; It tickles both his eyes.

His tail is wonky on the donkey, But still he wins the prize.

The past gives way to presents, For Mr Blair, of course: In Spider-suit, he looks a hoot Upon his hobby horse. (Bill Greenwell) A fraud he would a-wooing go, `Heigh-ho,' said Tony, Whether the people would like it or no, For they'd trust what he said when he said it was so With a rosy-posy, gamble and gimmick, `Heigh-ho,' said Anthony Phoney.

Off he went with a big toothy grin To find a few doctors who knew how to spin, For no matter what happened he wanted to win With a rosy-posy, gamble and gimmick, `Heigh-ho,' said Anthony Phoney.

Up jumped a farmer and called Tony's bluff. `No, no,' said Tony, But nobody listened, they'd all had enough Of his rosy-posy, gamble and gimmick. `Forgive me,' said Anthony Phoney.

(Frank McDonald) The public face, all teeth and smiles, Projects integrity for miles, But what self-interested wiles May underlie that grin?

The boy-scout look, the jolly-gosh, The failed attempts to not sound posh, Are so much public-image tosh. They mask the man within. The gestures say, 'I'm Tony Blair. I'm everybody's friend. I care' Sincerity itself. Beware!

Put filters on your ears.

As leader of this ailing land He claims to know and understand, But sepulchres are whited and The crocodiles shed tears. (G.M. Davis) The chief defect of Tony Blair Is strangely opportunist hair: No accident, his pompadour, But, tellingly, a metaphor For underhand, deceptive schemes And grand, Napoleonic dreams.

It tends to flop from side to side As if to catch the pollsters' tide, And though a sudden gust of wind May show how badly it has thinned A touch of spin restores its place Atop a balding carapace.

A man may swear his heart is pure, But take a look at his coiffure; The final test of virtue is The state of his capillaries.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Let fair be foul, I say, and foul be fair! How else encapsulate the praise of Blair? A democrat who seeks the public voice, The better to manipulate its choice, Stealing a party, calling it his own, And stuffing it with sycophant and clone, Financing it with cash from friend and foe — The foe ennobled, friend told where to go Each oxymoron mouthed with sickly grin, All sense and syntax sacrificed to spin. `Let black be white!' he simpers, swift to show That only fools can fail to see it so. Eager to lead through any open door, Provided focus group was there before, Who ever better turned and trailed his coat, Lest principle should risk a single vote?

(Jonathan Sleigh)