In Competition 3363 you were invited to write a poem about holidaymakers from a local’s perspective. Thanks to Paul Freeman for this suggestion. There was a lovely crop of entries and once again there were too many runners-up to single anyone out. The winners get £25.
We hates and needs,
Waters and feeds
And sates the greeds
O’ grockles.They loafs and basks,
Int’rupts our tasks
Fool questions asks,
Do grockles.In shorts, no shirts,
They suncream squirts,
Coarsely they flirts,
Our grockles.They makes their hay,
Comes, goes away:
We makes ’em pay,
The grockles.Adrian Fry
To Bonnie Scotland summer has now come again
Although alas there is often quite a lot of rain,
But we welcome tourists who come every day
Across the Mighty Forth or the Silv’ry Tay
Or indeed any other way they please
If they spend a muckle lot of bawbees.
The tourists visit us from countries all
To see Auld Reekie’s famous festival,
And even His Majesty the King comes to Deeside,
Where his great-great-great-grandmother used to reside.
But also ordinary people often bring their wealth
To boost Fair Scotia’s economic health
By buying a sporran or even a sgian dubh,
Or a fine teapot shaped like a hielan’ coo,
And especially wee books of poetry
By me, William McGonagall (Bard), of Dundee.Brian Murdoch
I commented to Dafydd boy:
‘I love those tourist berks:
They ask about the viaduct,
Then tell us how it works!’
And Dafydd nodded, looking sage,
So I described the fools:
‘They crawl their way to Snowdon’s peak
In flip-flops and cagoules!’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Dafydd, circumspect,
‘They’re generous – moneywise.’
‘Exactly so!’ I blurted out;
‘So let’s just compromise:
They tour all year, if they desire,
But let it be by drone,
Then send a big fat envelope,
Sans car, sans coach, sans phone!’Nicholas Lee
Feedback sheets are on our front desk.
Someone wrote on one of those sheets
That we are a ‘bed and breakfast’,
When we are in fact Boutique Suites.
I have read some other feedback
Sounding off about our high tea,
Writing that we’d call it dinner
If we ‘weren’t so high and mighty’.
These same oiks and riff-raff ask me
For the way to walk to ‘your pier’.
I will say ‘I cannot help you
As we do not have a pier here,
But there is a pier that is near,’
Telling them quite factually:
‘You can find a pier in Brighton
But we’re in Hove, actually.’David Blakey
We’re not the type round here to make a fuss
We keep our heads down, it’s better that way
But they’re starting to outnumber us,
A constant noisy presence, night and day.
They strut around like they own the place
Taking all the best seats on the pier
Whole mobs of them, invading our personal space
And staring down anyone who dares to come near.
Their habits are foul, they gorge on fast food
Morning, noon and night, chips, ice cream
Whatever’s going, they don’t even queue, totally rude
And the mess they leave! Enough to make you scream.
We’ve asked the council to cull them. What’s that you say?
‘You can’t cull tourists?’ We’re not trying to, you klutz
The holidaymakers are mostly OK
It’s the effing seagulls that are driving us nuts.Sue Pickard
’Twas Auglish and the squeasly jetts
Disgorgy all their yobby lode.
All tipsly were the Tommyrobs
And the Farargies outstrode.
‘Beware the Gringly, mi niño,
The jaws that jybe, the vommy gob.
Beware the Jingobrit and shun
The frumious Breximob.
Observe the grealish Nikey-garbs,
The “ME NO PARLO ESPAÑOLO!”
The Waggly “No carbs before Marbs”,
The “Por favor, tres bacon rollo”.
The “Stick yer s**t Armada
And yer piña chocolada, you can st…” Wait!
’Tis chilligsome. They’re scumming home!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! ¡Olé!’David Silverman
In August, the Cam wends its dawdling course
past gardens flamboyantly green,
and the wind, which so recently howled like a madman,
takes benzodiazepine.The day-trippers spill from the path to the street
without looking, assuming I’ll brake.
They’d follow their guide with his cursed bumbershoot
down the maw of a twenty-tonne snake.They peer in my window as if I’m a waxwork:
The Scholars of Yesteryear.
I flee to the pub, where they’re clogging the bar
asking whether they serve butterbeer.It’s only a matter of time till I club one
to death with his own haversack.
I’d never have thought I would utter these words:
I can’t wait till the students come back!Mary McLean
No. 3366: lore of the jungle
‘We all say so, and so it must be true.’ You are invited to submit a passage or poem incorporating this wisdom (16 lines/150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 4 September.
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