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COMPETITION

No room at Brown's

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1962 you were invited to write a poem, in the style of either Kipling or one of his contempo- raries, deploring the Scrooge-like behaviour of the new owners of Brown's Hotel in denying the Kipling Society the traditional free use of the Kipling Room for their meetings.

Since this week you followed Kipling in favouring long lines, I only have room to record my surprise that a mere handful of you chose anyone but Kipling to imitate, to honourably mention Godfrey Bullard, Peter Norman, Bill Greenwell, Chris Ting- ley, Lawrence Rich and Bill Harris, to thank you for your amusing companionship during 1996, and to wish you all a happy Christmas and New Year.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Dominica Roberts.

We wanders into Brown's Hotel to meet and drink a beer; Granada Group they up and sez, 'We wants no poets 'ere, Nor lit'ry folks a-talking of some dead old geezer's verse, Leastways unless you've got a deal o' money in yer purse.' Oh, it's 'Chaucer, out' and 'Keats, get lost' and 'Coleridge, 'ere's yer coat' But it's "Ow are you, dear Shelley?' when they wants you to emote Or needs a villanelle, lads, or a fine poetic quote, Yes, it's 'Thank you, Mr Shakespeare' when they wants a sonnet wrote.

We asks the barmaid most polite to mix a gin and lime, She giggles fit ter bust and sez, 'You should've spoke in rhyme, We've got no use in here for toffs what reads old-fashioned books,' And a bouncer chucks us out wiv ill-bred words and ugly looks.

Oh, it's 'Wordsworth, on yer bike' and 'Matthew Arnold, 'it the road' — Until they needs a ballade or a pome in epic mode, Then it's `Dearest Mr Milton' and `The 'orrid cost be blowed', Yes, it's 'Tennyson, we luvs yer' when they're desperate for an ode. (Dominica Roberts) Where went the decent Brown's of old? Where will these upstarts draw the line? Shall ancient privilege be sold To boost some tawdry Philistine? Insulted ghost, 0 haunt them yet, Let them repent, let them regret!

The Old White Queen, the Widow, dies, The Rajahs and the Raj depart, But still our poet's pen supplies True wisdom for the human heart.

0 honoured ghost, be with us yet: Let them forbid, we'll not forget.

(Mary Hobby)

(G.K Chesterton) You've been swallowed by Granada, Have you, Brown?

And they work their assets harder, Do they, Brown?

Still, although the pace is crippling And some dead wood had to go, Did you have to pick on Kipling To enliven your cash-flow? In the room where Kim gives place to Admen who can meet your bill, Will you really have the face to Use the name of Kipling still? Were the poets too obtrusive? Did they make the bankers frown? And you still think you're exclusive? Chuck it, Brown! (Noel Petty) There's a story that they tell of a room at Brown's Hotel Where the ghosts of time-served squaddies walk at night. They're a legion of the lost who've already paid the cost, And they get the room buckshee, that's only right.

But the nobs with the cigars who ride in big and fancy cars And can talk the hind leg off a Brahmin cow Don't believe in Tommy's ghost, it's the cash that matters most, So the PBI must stump up anyhow.

Did we charge for shedding blood in a sea of Flanders mud?

Were we cost-effective out in the Sudan? Were we showered with Caesar's gold, mustered-out, alone and old, On the streets, without a job or pension plan?

There's a bugle-haunted room where men swap memories of Khartoum And pass around the Pasha cigarettes And think of how they died - not for profit, just for pride - And know there'll be no settlement of debts.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) When England 'ad a Empire and the maps was coloured red Old Kiplin' knew the lingo an' the words that sodgers said; Now all the ghosts of all the men that Kiplin' uster know Looks down from 'eaven in agony to see a deed so low.

The room that bears 'is moniker is rented out for 'ire

To them as keeps 'is faith alive an' fans 'is sacred fire;

For wot was give 'em as their right each time they met at Brown's They'll 'ave ter pay the princely sum of just four- fifty poun's.

The old firm 'ere was 'appy just to let 'em in for free; They rather would 'ave shot theirselves than ask 'em for a fee As they gathered there together to commemorate an' praise The man that spoke fer England an' upheld 'er English ways.

A curse on yer, Granada, an' yer 'ateful foreign name; You don't respeck tradition an' treats everyfing the same, You've never heard of Kipling or the British bulldog breed; The only fing you cares for is yer bloomin' filthy greed. (0. Smith)

No. 1965: Useless information

You are invited to supply a poem (maxi- mum 16 lines) which provides a great deal of information that is useless. Entries to 'Competition No. 1965' by 9 January.