No 639: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: Back in the days before the postmen's strike, when the Boat Show was packing them in at Earl's Court, competitors were asked to compose a sea shanty for all Britain's part-time amateur sailors—including the PM, of course. A number of early entries were becalmed at the SPECTATOR office, but were supplemented after six weeks or so by a medley of even more becalmed January entrants and some last-minute express packets.

The Prime Minister got a fair share, but no more, of the entries. In spite of the rough water of the past few months, he received a not unfriendly reception, though one or two entrants think it's going to be cloud all day now, not just morning cloud.

PM didn't think much of his performance at the Commonwealth Prime Ministers' Con- ference: As I sailed out of Singapore A Siren raised her head: 'Why did you let them call the tune And lose your tempo, Ted?'

and W. F. Owtram hadn't forgotten his 'new ship's belle In just a bikini and bra!'

A touch of sourness—especially these days— often adds the prizewining touch and F. A. V. Madden wins four pounds for the best of the Heath entry:

The PM's out at sea, me boys! He's sailing down the wind,

And when he's all at sea, me boys!

Shall we be far behind?

(Chorus) So up the spinnaker, trim the sails! Or whatever you do in the face

of gales, From England, ScotlAnd, Irelind, Wales, We come to man the boat.

What if we sink without a trace, We mariners of an island race?

It's one of the things you have to face If you follow the life afloat!'

The wind is on the Heath, me boys!; How strong and fast it's risen. He's sailing in its teeth, me boys!, And it's blowing hard in his'n, (Chorus as before) C. H. W. Roll mentions one of the little local difficulties that can happen to the best of sailors, though surely never to the skipper of 'Morning Cloud': Lost the rudder? Deary dear! Dropped off in the sea, I fear. Down the sails then. Homeward ho! Get the oars out. Who can row?

A shanty is traditionally a working song, but here too times change and the hardest work that some of our part-time sailors do, it seems, is to prop up the bar. This doesn't always go down well with the wives—witness Molly Fitton's 'Sailing Wife's Sea Shanty', which wins three pounds: We must go down to the seas again—oh, what a frightful drag! But the season of Cowes is upon us, and one has to show the flag. Dear Julian says it's essential; he's sweating on his promotion, And to sail into the Board-Room one has to sail the ocean.

A few years back it was ski-ing; a week or two at Gstaad Was enough to give the climber a flying

social start. Now jib and boom are a la mode, the thing that's chiefly 'in' Is sipping tepid cocktails with Toothy Ted the Grin.

So I must don my yachting togs—its dreadfully

unfair That I should be afflicted with such chronic • mal de mer; Today, though, to be Anybody, to sail is de rigueur- Oh, bother this endless motion! Quickly—a basin! Ughhhhhhhh George van Schaick's entry, a close runner-up, wins two pounds: We can't all do Sydney to Hobart, We can't all afford 'Morning Clouds', But we stand at the bar in the clubhouse And talk about shackles and shrouds.

We know about gybing and reaching And how to avoid a lee shore; We swear that last year for the Frostbites It was gusting Force 8 if not more We cruise round the bay on a Sunday, The crews we recruit are our wives For our Wineglasses, Wayfarers, Graduatesi Our Fireballs or sleek Five-O-Fives, (Chorus) Hearts of oak are outmoded by Fibreglass, Tarpaulin's become Pvc, And though Britons may not rule the oceans We can still mess about on the sea, And finally there are the girls—or not sd finally. They are not just pretty faces in sales photographs; ask C. L. Bundela (`All the nice girls . . .') and William Hodson's Wally the Weekend Sailor (who win two pounds each):, All the nice girls love a dinghy, All the nice girls love to crew; For there's something in dinghy-sailing- She just might meet You Know Who! Tack to starboard, reach to larboard, She will love each ship-shape ploy. How she'll thrill to hear you shout `Port your helm and go about Round the buoy, round the buoy.'

. For there's something in dinghy sailing Turns 'em on without ado.

Clinker, carvel—it's a marvel, Dinghy dolls are never coy; If your wife can't navigate Find yourself a Second Mate Round the buoy, round the buoy, (Tune: Barnacle Bill the Sailor.)

'Who's that fouled my mooring buoy?' (ter) Cried the fair young maiden.

'It's only me from Penge YC,' said Wally the

Weekend Sailor;

'I'm all rigged out in PVC,' said Wally the

Weekend Sailor; 'In bobble cap and anorak 1 gybe and lull and reach and tack Across the reservoir—and back Said Wally the Weekend Sailor.

`Have you sailed the Seven Seas?' (ter)

Cried the fair young maiden.

`I've sailed each lake and gravel pit,' said Wally the Weekend Sailor; `From Frensham Ponds to Dymchurch Flit,' said Wally the Weekend Sailor `I've run aground from Hull to Looe, Been swamped by Power-Boats Polls like you And twice capsized by QE2,' Said Wally the Weekend Sailor.