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Thus runs the phobic Englishman’s refrain,
Anthropocentric, boring and inane,
The rant of every tabloid-reading lout
Who loves to chuck it down and give it out,
Expressing vaguely, through a fog of booze,
Old fears of Popery and wooden shoes.
Three lions on his shirt and well tattooed,
A perfect specimen of Essex Crude,
He’ll tell you all about the bleedin’ Frogs —
Their greed, their rubbish food, their smelly bogs,
And how they all rolled over for the Krauts
(Odd that — he’s often one of Adolf’s touts).
You ask him if he’s ever been to France.
He sneers at you and growls, ‘No fuckin’ chance.’
He’s English through and through, and proud of it;
i.e., he’s full of xenophobic shit.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Unnatural the age that by mischance
Hath digged a tunnel underseas to France!
Beneath those waters comes a flood instead
Of thin coffee, thin wine and thinner bread.
So, too, we must our very past eschew —
Deny Trafalgar, Crécy, Waterloo!
Lest we offend, we may not even say
The names of Blenheim or of Malplaquet.
Alas! Our own Correct Politick State
Robs us of those whom we most love to hate.
Enough! We fought them for a hundred years!
We need our oldest enemies! Our fears
Were ever of invasion — come, let’s fill
The tunnel, put a tower on every hill,
And grant to us a national holiday,
To mock the French upon St Crispin’s Day.
Brian Murdoch
The French disease (their country’s lasting shame)
Is syphilis by any other name,
Born of French kissing — very comme il faut
(To french is slang for plain fellatio).
They steal our honest chip and dignify
Their version as a cordon bleu French fry.
French windows feature when the plot is sparse
In that most imbecile of plays, French farce.
French cricket has no rules — so suits them well;
French polish covers up the stains that tell
Of real life; French poodles, with their coats
Clipped into topiary, are mincing goats;
And grands projets, despite what they believe,
Are born when common sense has ta’en French leave.
D.A. Prince
Were I their ruler, first I would abolish
French fries, French beans, French mustard and French polish.
French dressing then would follow, and French liquors,
And who would wish to tangle with French knickers?
No son of Albion could e’er conceive
Thro’ windows (French, of course) to take French leave.
The quavering of the devious French horn
Can make a fellow wish he’d ne’er been born.
French sticks are hard enough to break the head,
A knavish, mean apology for bread.
French toast (no marmalade) makes John Bull blench,
Nor would he trade his ale for gin and French.
French cricket mocks the pastime of their betters;
Their sport is all French kisses and French letters.
French chalk’s for powder-puffs; God dammit, sirrah!
I like an honest visage in my mirror.
Noel Petty
Five French republics really takes the cake,
But Frenchmen won’t admit to one mistake.
Fraternité’s a cry I really bar
When rioting farmers scream, ‘L’état c’est moi.’
The Queen’s dear Highway far, far better suits
Than camion-constipated autoroutes.
When Churchill saw de Gaulle he’d rightly say,
‘Mon général, je vous get riderai.’
French breakfasts, tealess, one can scarce forget
As teeth are shattered on the day’s baguette.
Three hundred cheeses are not deemed enough
To go with all that beastly salad stuff.
French loos, dear God, can’t cope; the stench might yet
Repel Agrippa or a Bazalgette.
In hating Waterloo for Eurostar
The French idea is au dessus its gare.
Simon May
No. 2411: The Last Smoker
Remember Michael Heath’s splendid cartoon series ‘The Last Smoker on Earth’? You are invited to supply a poem (maximum 16 lines) or a piece of prose (maximum 150 words) with this as its title. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2411’ by 22 September.
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