No 1317: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem on the theme of 'King Coal', a challenge recently

presented to the Not- tinghamshire miners.

When in the darkest depths the miner striving Feels in his arms the vigour of the Lord, Strikes for a Kingdom and his King's arriving, Holding his pick more splendid than the sword ...

Thus, in 1922, Geoffrey Studdert- Kennedy, the padre known in the trenches as 'Woodbine Willie', blissfully unaware of the terrible double entendre lurking in 'strikes', or even in the 'King', who might, proleptically, have been Arthur. The quatrain was enough to get him into the Ox- ford Dictionary of Quotations, so this week's winners all have a faint hope of im- mortality. Charles Mosley gets the last bot- tle of Firestone Merlot, Ambassador's Vineyard, 1979, for his delightful effort worthy of Lawrence pere, and he and the other four winners net £10 apiece. Our warmest thanks go to Mr Neville Abraham of the Cafe des Amis du Vin, 11 Hanover Place, Covent Garden WC2 for his generous patronage of six competitions.

Oil's nowt but mucky stuff, Sticky, dear an' thick, Drilled from t' sea by toffs like Cluff.

A man hacks coal wi' pick.

T' nuclear programme's ower failed; 'Twere done in too much haste. For all t' miners' pickets jailed Tha' can't get rid o' waste.

Tha' keep thy `luvly' fire o' logs Wi' poncy wood-smoke smell, Tha' keep thy peat from Irish bogs, Nobbut coal burns well.

Gas makes nowt but right old stink.

T' pit canaries sing: 'Both Tory boss an' parlour pink Bow down to Coal t' King.' (Charles Mosley) Out of the mine that mothers me, Black as the pit that guards my soul, 1 thank the caring NCB For paying me to serve King Coal.

In spite of mindless militance, I have not joined the yelling crowd. Under the threat of severance My fears are not expressed aloud.

Around the silent winding-gears Is gathered Arthur's Red Brigade, And yet the fury of their jeers Will not deter me from my trade.

It matters not how great the hate That labels me MacGregor's Mole; I am the kind of moderate That thinks he'll never join the dole.

(Roger Woddis)

My heart's feeling fine and the world is all mine When I carry my pick in the cage; My bucket i fill for I well know the drill When I'm earning my pitiful wage.

I dig a big hole like a muscular mole When I find a new seam and I strike; As I take up my place there's a lump on my face That I hack at as hard as I like.

There's soot on our tongues and dust in our lungs, And when breathing we're likely to choke; But we haven't a fear as we swill down our beer (For we never — but never — drink Coke).

So who needs a poll for supporting King COa; While the rich warm themselves at the Riti• With their feet by a grate and their food on a plate, They forget that our life is the pits. (Llewellin CrB)

When other fuels falter, When oil is but a dream, And sun, wind, tide have all been tried, King Coal will reign supreme.

Distilled and fractionated, It may well have replaced The varied choice man now enjoys Of goods petroleum-based.

So, come and sing the praises Of Coal, the King to be ... Unless, my friends, the story ends

With Arthur's victory. (Ian Nie.'"

Gods knows we love our Arthur, To us e's lord and king.

If 'e don't like them blacklegs, Then, by Art, we'll kick 'em in.

'E's good to us, is Arthur, 'E gets us our strike pay.

What, us? Work down t' pit? Ta, We'd rather stay away.

I meet the lads at openin' time And, though a god 'e ain't, Our Arthur made a saint.

We all agree, we'd like to see (Foo 13(3510n)