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COMPETITION

Music hall

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2012 you were invited to write a song on the lines of 'My old man's a dustman', substituting another job for dustman and, if wished, 'old woman' for 'old man'.

The old party concerned could, of course, be either a parent or a spouse, so either was OK. Clergymen were rife, there was one aromatherapist, and on the distaff side a good showing of hookers. Basil Ransome-Davies's amusing entry remind- ed me of an unperformed song of my youth which ended with the gleeful line, 'Oh, we're a filthy family, but it's grand!'

A colossal entry, agony to judge. I inclined towards those who best caught the old music hall spirit. The prizewinners, printed below, all 'old manners', get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Ralph Rochester. Hard cheese is regretfully allot- ted to Andrew Gibbons, Manna Blake and Stanley J. Sharpless.

My old man's a taxman, he wears a taxman's hat; He isn't all that good at sums, but where's the harm in that?

He loves his calculations, he's at them all day long And no one gives a monkey's if he gets them right or wrong.

My old man's a taxman, he's clever with his hands, He brings home all those jolly forms that no one understands; He's papered all the bedroom walls, he's papered round the bath, And when we're bored we tick those little boxes for a laugh.

My old man's a taxman, he serves the Revenue, So when he takes me in his arms he knows just what to do.

My heart goes pitter-patter and I tremble at the knees.

Cor blimey, girls, there's no one like a taxman for a squeeze! (Ralph Rochester) My old man's an airman, I wedded 'im for that, But then o' course I weren't to know 'E'd nine lives like a cat.

One fine day 'is airy/plane Get shot right up the spout. I thought I'd got the 'surance then, But 'ed parachuted out.

An then 'e tangled with the prop, It whirled 'im round and round. I thought I'd got th 'surance then, But 'e 'opped off onter ground.

There 'e sits a-swillin' beer, Wiv seven lives still to go, I3ettin"isself I'll snuff it first And 'e'll get the dough. (Joan Hilsden) My old man's Jaspistos, He runs a weekly game, He keeps the cash and whisky And he makes up every name.

He made up 'Noel Petty', 'Chris Tingley' is a scam, 'Bill Greenwell"s off a gravestone And '0. Smith"s an anagram.

Down in my Dad's cellar, You'll find a massive vault, It's stacked with crisp new tenners And Isle of Jura malt.

So, if you think of entering, I'm giving you a hint, Don't waste your time, you'll never Ever see your name in print.

(Hilary & David Wade) My old man's an actor,

'E treads upon the boards, 'E plays a lotta diverse parts, Some beggars an' some lords. When 'e went orf to '011ywood 'E fort 'e'd be a star,

But they done 'im up as an alien Wiv 'is 'cad inside a jar.

Oh, my old man's an actor, 'Is 'Amlet's very fine, 'Is legs look odd in wrinkled tights But 'e don't forget a line. The gallery send 'im plaudits When 'e tikes 'is curtain calls — 'E gets turnips from the circle And termarters from the stalls! (B. Aita) My old folks are bishops, With funny pointy hats. Dad wears gorblimey gaiters And Mother wears the spats. Like every married couple They argue when at home, 'Cos she's in bed with Methodists And he's inclined to Rome. Oh, my old folks are bishops And look just like each other. In fact, when I come home I say, 'Hi, Dad, or is it Mother?' We are a happy household, But what becomes of me?

'Cos next year he is going to York, And she to Canterbree. (Esdon Frost) My old man's a butcher, 'E wears a pork-pie 'at, 'Is job is blooming offal But it 'elps to feed the cat!

Each morning I provides 'im With a pinny, snowy white, But when 'e's finished cutting up 'E is a bloody sight!

'E 'andles lots of hinnards, But I've no cause to gripe, Since we eats loads of liver An' chitterlin's and tripe!

'E's such a lovely 'usband — Least, since 'e took the Pledge — And when 'e comes 'ome sharp at six See me take off 'is edge! (Alyson Nikiteas)