Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition
In Competition No. 2572 you were invited to provide a rugby- or football-style song for another sport. After I’d set the assignment, it occurred to me that it runs counter to the spirit of football chants and rugby songs, which seem to arise spontaneously on the terraces and in the pub rather than being laboriously composed at home by dedicated chant-writers. The best are almost always lewd and often downright offensive — as W.J. Webster commented, they make Jonathan Ross sound prim — and while they are undoubtedly funny when heard in context, they look crass on the page.
So congratulations to those of you who managed to capture something of the spontaneity, bawdiness and cruel wit of the best chants and songs while still remaining printable. The winners below get £25 except Bill Greenwell, who gets £30.
Please note, Christmas printing deadlines mean an earlier-than-usual closing date for the next comp.
One stiff ’un, one randy ’un,
And the knackers of Nalbandian,
And the rumpy-pumpy umpire called new balls,
oh please.
Chorus: Oh the bent of the Duke of Kent who went down on his knees.
He played her, he made her fur
Fly up like Roger Federer
And the rumpy-pumpy umpire called new balls,
oh please. (Chorus)
His stroke had a manner which
Sank Ana Ivanovic
And the rumpy-pumpy umpire called new balls,
oh please. (Chorus)
One sore point, one forehand
Hurried straight at Murray’s raw gland
And the rumpy-pumpy umpire called new balls,
oh please. (Chorus)
Rafa’s lob was no cleaner,
It split Venus and Serena
And the rumpy-pumpy umpire called new balls,
oh please. (Chorus)
Bill Greenwell
Oh, if I were the malleting kind,
Which thank the Lord I am, sir,
the kind of girl that I would wed
would be the full twelve stroker.
She’d stroke it in,
I’d stroke it in,
we’d be well ahead, in the flower bed,
stroking the roquet-croquet.?
Oh, if I were the double ball kind,
which thank the Lord I am, sir,
the kind of girl that I would wed
would play the full hoop circuit.
She’d loop the hoop
I’d shoot the hoop,
we’d be on the lawn, up until the dawn
shooting the loop-hoop croquet.
Josh Ekroy
(To the tune of ‘Men of Harlech’)
Men of croquet, stiff and upright,
Grasp your mallets for a tough fight,
Run the hoops as lusty sons might,
Get a winning break.
Keep both balls in constant play, for
This is how you’ll win the day; more
Strokes per ball and you’ll delay, or
Wriggle like a snake.
Stamina needs roquet;
Triple peels are OK;
Till night falls you’ll stroke your balls
Then celebrate the centre peg with Tokay.
On the lawn you’ll prove your manhood,
Show yourself a champion, and could
Act just like a winning ram would,
On the grass today.
D.A. Prince
Boys do it, girls do it,
Dustman up your street and belted earls do it.
Let’s do it. Let’s play a round
Punks do it, drunks do it,
In some progressive monasteries the monks do it.
Let’s do it. Let’s play a round.
In Scotland few people don’t do it.
It’s a game that they prize.
Gordon Brown, though, just won’t do it —
Doesn’t fancy the lies.
In the rough divorcees do it,
Underlings and yes-men out to please do it.
Let’s do it. Let’s play a round.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Joh-nny Pres-cott, Joh-nny Pres-cott
Hoop that croquet ball to score
Like you’re squeezing through a door
Cliff-y Richard, Cliff-y Richard
Here’s a game your image fits
Lots and lots of wooden hits
Sa-rah Pa-lin, Sa-rah Pa-lin
If you’re sore about that poll
Use your mallet on a mole
A-my Winehouse, A-my Winehouse
You look tired and overdrawn
Too much smacking up across the lawn
Mis-ter Dar-ling, Mis-ter Dar-ling
Ooh your ball’s up near the edge
Bet you’ll lose it in a hedge
John Samson
Does anyone think he can tiddle a wink?
Well, he’ll have to think again.
Your effort tonight is the lousiest sight
Since I can’t remember when,
Grovelling there with your bum in the air;
Do you want to play with men?
Can you pot? You cannot.
Just count from one to ten.
Tiddly-diddly, ever so fiddly,
Best abandon hope.
Your winks all wunk and you’re totally sunk and
You’re playing like a dope.
Squopping and squidging, it’s like a religion
And I’m the bleeding pope.
Can’t you tell? What the hell?
Try pissing up a rope.
John Whitworth
No. 2575: Last Noel
Christmas traditions are coming increasingly under fire. You are invited to submit a carol entitled ‘The Last Noel’ (maximum 16 lines). Entries to ‘Competition 2575’ by Friday 5 December or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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