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  James Young

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Alexander Larman

What happened to the Rishi Sunak I knew at school?

There are conical horns in the crowd tonight,
As plastic bottle beats plastic seat —
Whistles and cheers greet balls in flight,
And the stadium fills with a pounding beat.
And it’s not just the din of a tin of beer,
Or the sudden crash of the cowherd’s bell,
But the rousing threat of the fearsome cheer:
‘Play up! play up! and give them Hell!’
The sands of the desert are stained with oil,
Black as the hardened and charred remains;
And under the sunlight soldiers boil
And the biblical rivers stink like drains.
The towns are crowded with APCs,
And the noise of the gunfire starts to swell
While the cricketing cries fill the cruel breeze:
‘Play up! play up! and give them Hell!’
This is the world where insurgents crouch,
Scourging the enemy, purging the friend;
Where the weapons system and human pouch
Mean no one knows when the match will end.
Here they fall, the forgotten boys,
Ending their lives not in honour, but shame,
Hearing the boundary’s ceaseless noise:
‘Play up! play up! and give them Hell!’
Bill Greenwell

There’s a wretched crush in the stands today,
Ten fours to make and a match to lose,
The perfect pitch to inspire play,
Scant hope of cheer in tomorrow’s news!
No gentle clapping from the crowd,
No tea cups, only lager cans
And ribald chanting, lewd and loud
From the low-brow Barmy Army fans.
A wicked Yorker hits the wicket,
Bowled with a ball besmeared with dirt,
Bowled at a speed that’s just not cricket,
Passed by an umpire not alert.
The stubborn batsman stays at the crease,
Disputes the call and will not go,
Provokes more chants and disturbs the peace,
An unseemly sight and a jolly poor show!
They play for what? Alas, no more
‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’
It’s cash alone they bargain for
And all the spoils that come with fame.
There’ll be no hush in the town tonight,
Just one team drowning in champagne,
Long gone those gentlemen wearing white
Who played for England, not for gain.
Alan Millard

There’s a breathless hush in the House tonight,
A joke to crack and a vote to win;
A dubious pitch to the TV lights,
A role to play with the usual grin.
His legacy’s shot and there’s nothing to hope;
After ten wasted years just Iraq is his fame.
A memoir to write and a soundbite to quote.
Time’s up! Time’s up! But he plays on the game.
The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with young blood, and a mother’s heart broke.
The rifle was jammed and a squaddie’s dead,
But the public is blinded with mirrors and smoke.
The advance has been given, the cash in his banks
And England’s fame’s sullied and honour’s a name;
But the Son of the Manse will soon rally the ranks;
‘Play up and pay up!’ for he too has no shame.
This is the country that year after year
Just can’t believe that her sun is now set,
Swallows the lies and the spin and the smear,
Follows the Test match and tries to forget.
The hopes of restoring democracy’s flame
Are lost in the dust and the bombs and the pain.
‘We’ve beaten the Windies, an innings behind.’
The one-eyed man leads in the land of the blind.
Patrick J.d’A. Willis

There’s a lot of noise on the news tonight,
The Windies, of course, had an easy win,
But a streaker ran out, set the bails alight,
And the riot police had to be called in.
No one gives a stuff if our team is sunk;
It’s just as newsworthy, all the same,
If the captain’s arrested for being drunk
And has to give up and quit the game.
The sands of Iraq are full of the dead,
With the wreck of a war that won’t go away,
And the place is alight, and the President’s mad,
And there weren’t any weapons anyway.
But give it a week and old Gordon’s in,
So he can jolly well take on the blame
For a cause that no one would ever win;
And he can declare and wind up the game.
Brian Murdoch

Competition No. 2503: Country music
You are invited to supply new words for the British National Anthem, which would be sung to the original tune (two verses only, so 14 lines). Entries to ‘Competition 2503’ by 12 July or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.