COMPETITION

National failing

J aspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1814 you were given Canning's opening line, 'In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch . . and invited to carry on, substituting, if you wished, different words for `commerce' and 'Dutch'.

'Is offering too little and asking too much' was Canning's oft-quoted second line. This was the best competition for weeks. Praise for delightful entries goes to Paul Griffin, Bill Greenwell, Chris Ting- ley, Mary Holtby and Edward Thompson, whose opening couplet was a humdinger:

In matters of converse the fault of the Finn Is not too much talk, but how to begin.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Bob Pringle..

In matters of markets the fault of the Frogs Is to run with the hare but to hunt with the dogs,

While in matters of farming it's plain to see that They ensure they are giving much less than they GATE

In matters of Union all schoolboys should know That the President Bullfrog made 'non' a Bonn mot.

In matters of measure they fail to conform To making the foot, pound and acre the norm, And they might take a small grain of salt at a

Butptihneeyheharge by the metre and won't give an inch.

Both transport and politics see them delight To give way to the Left but adhere to the Right, And although their cuisine is a subject they boast

They seem to burn rather more lamb than they roast.

In a nutshell, the Frog, in his lofty chateau, Is seen both to have and to eat his gateau.

(Bob Pringle) In matters of travel the fault of the Japs Is a manic compulsion to keep taking snaps. From dawn's early light to the end of the day, The Nippon globe-trotter keeps clicking away At any old object that looms into view, From Trafalgar Square 'ion to motorway loo. For his annual vacation he's splashed out his yens

But can only enjoy it through camera lens. This ceaseless click-clicking, I sadly declare. Has but one single object: to prove he was there. All scenes are alike to this photo-mad race. Is it Windsor or Stratford or some other place? When crawling with tourists all sites look the

same.

Photographing each other's the name of the game.

In my humble opinion, snaps taken by Japs Must be almost entirely of Japs taking snaps.

4Keith Norman) In matters of language the fault of Australians Is talking in terms most offensive to aliens.

'You sly pommie bastard — your sheila's a beaut!'

Means 'Look here, I must say your girl's rather cute.'

While 'Don't be a drongo — just toss me a tinnie' Is their way of saying 'More beer please, you ninny.'

They've never established a register fit For formal occasions: a breast's just a 'tit', A bottom's a 'bum' and to vomit Down Under Is invariably rendered as 'chuck up' or 'chunder'.

This foul-mouthed inelegance isn't confined To your bloodshot-eyed bushwhacker out of his mind On Castlemaine XXXX: it's equally rife Amongst men from all walks of Australian life.

In matters of language the Aussies are stuck In the Stone Age — what's more, they don't give a XXXX. (Peter Norman) In matters of passion the fault of the Swede Is a lack of mystique in approaching the deed. Where others begin with a meaningful glance, A murmured suggestion, a sensual dance, Your Swede looks upon it as rather like squash, Where you seek out a partner and have a quick wash, Then hop into bed for a hearty five-setter And tuck into smorgasbord feeling much better. The Swede has no truck with soft music, low lights, Or the rest of our amorous box of delights, He simply can't see that a body concealed Is twice as erotic as one that's revealed, While for us, chucking beach-halls about in the buff Casts a terrible damper on doing one's stuff. Yes, sex with a Swede is a brisk proposition, And strictly for those in the peak of condition.

(Noel Petty) In matters of conduct the fault of the Scot Is the right rare conceit of himself that he's got: He may tell you he's honest, aye, any man's man — At least if you're wearing the kilt of his clan; And he's canny, maybe, never more so than when The cost of morality's gone up again; He may live by a Calvinist ethic of work, Whether climbing the Cairngorms or sitting in kirk; He may mellow on Burns Night, shed tears at the grave Of Robert the Bruce, or chant 'Scotland the Brave';

He may dance a strathspey, pipe a Skye boating song— But the one thing he won't do's admit that he's wrong.

Most men tend to harbour a patriot's pride In their own patch of ground, he it Kent or Kilbride, But the most bloodymindedly proud of the lot Is your raw-honed, besporraned and haggis- stuffed Scot.

(Robert Roberts)