In Competition No. 2605 you were invited to compose an anthem for a county of your choice. Some competitors played it straight but many chose to subvert the anthem’s traditional fawning tone. Northants, in particular, got it in the neck, with Greg Whitehead (who lives there) and John Brown (who doesn’t) struggling to find a redeeming feature between them.
The postbag been swelled in recent months by a welcome influx of entrants from the US. They were out in force this week, casting an often caustic eye o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
A lot of entries read well on the page but I couldn’t imagine them being sung anthemically. On the home front, William Danes-Volkov’s submission had the feel of a protest song and I could envisage lusty, alcohol-fuelled renditions in the pubs of Kent. I also enjoyed Mary Holtby’s rousing tribute to those proud counties that have been wiped from the administrative map. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. The extra fiver goes to G.M. Davis.
I was sad to hear that Keith Norman, a regular presence on these pages over the years, has died. His wit and skill will be much missed.
Where tourist pounds perfume the breeze,
Where Rick Stein rules o’er Padstow’s quays,
Where councils dream of parking fees —
Our land, Kernow!
How thick and clotted is our cream!
How dazzling our Rebecca theme!
How competent our PR team!
Lead on, Kernow!
All hail to our beloved prince
Whose Duchy sells organic mints
And cultivates the yellow quince
Here in Kernow!
We people of the south-west coast
Will rip you off, our proudest boast
To pay the least and charge the most.
Long live Kernow!
G.M. Davis
Give a cheer, no fear, for Tyne and Wear,
From Whitley Bay to Roker Pier,
There’s Geordies and Mackems living here,
We are the worst of friends.
No ships, no coal, and the pits concealed
’Neath new estates and a few green fields,
And the river splits Wallsend from South Shields,
We are the worst of friends.
In beer, in boats, at each other’s throats,
From Spital Tongues to Cullercoats,
From Byker Grove to Brockley Whins,
The Tyne and Wear aren’t twins.
Give a cheer, no fear, for Wear and Tyne,
Where the civil servants drew their line,
It was unintelligent design,
We are the worst of friends [cue rioting].
Bill Greenwell (tune of the William Tell overture)
We’re the heartland. We’re the homeland of the
Christian ultra-right.
We don’t believe in Darwin and we’re spoiling
for a fight.
We might not gun your doctor down, but then
again we might.
Kansas marches on!
We’re the geographic centre of the Lower Forty-
Eight.
We’ve got a list of deviants our God wants us to
hate,
So you’d best not match the gender of the people
that you date.
Kansas marches on!
We dislike other countries, and most other states
as well.
When they’re not buying the grub our farms and
ranches have to sell,
Oklahoma and Nebraska and the rest can go to
Hell.
Kansas marches on!
Chris O’Carroll
And did this shire, from days of yore,
Shine as the jewel in Britain’s crown?
And was there ever built before
A place more fair than Taunton town?
And did King Alfred burn, in haste,
Those cakes on Sedgemoor’s willowed ways?
And was our cider’s wondrous taste
As sweet as now in bygone days?
Bring me my pitchfork gleaming bright!
Bring me my bow of withies made!
Bring me my scythe! O foes, take fright!
Bring me my sharp and shiny spade!
No Carver Doone shall keep us down,
Nor Witch of Wookey rule by threat.
We’ll drink of scrumpy till we drown
For we’m come up from Somerset.
Alan Millard
Hail to Fife the place of kings
And old Dunfermline town,
That gave us good Sir Patrick Spens
And doughty Gordon Brown.
Hail to the towns that grace its coast:
Burntisland, Kinghorn, Crail;
Hail to Kirkcaldy and Rosyth
Whence warships once set sail.
Hail to St Andrews, home of golf,
Set by a silver sea,
And hail to Culross, ancient town
Of saintly history.
The heart of Fife’s a kingly heart
Stirred by the North Sea’s tide;
Here honour and philanthropy
And noble deeds reside.
Frank McDonald
Couthy Angus, ’tis you we prize,
In Doric chant our voices rise,
Songs from ancient legends spun,
Proud standing stones invite the sun.
Couthy Angus, your parks are fair,
Barley ripples in summer air,
And smokies glisten, golden brown,
By harbour’s side in Arbroath town.
Couthy Angus, where granite shines,
You’ve clever loons and clever quaens,
’Twixt Don and Dee good education,
Gives Angus pride to a prideful nation.
Refrain: Angus, where nought worthwhile is free,
Her stone face set against the sea.
Tom Durrheim
No. 2608: Descriptive power
You are invited to submit a poem in praise of adjectives (maximum 16 lines). Entries to ‘Competition 2608’ by midday on 5 August or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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