For Competition 3390 you were invited to come up with your own version of the Groucho Marx song ‘I’m Against It’, from the film Horse Feathers:
Your proposition may be good
But let’s have one thing understood:
Whatever it is, I’m against it.
Hats off to David Silverman, who got into specifics: (‘Conniving, skiving; Mo Salah diving;/ Texting while driving/ VAR’). Also to Sylvia Fairley, Nicholas Lee, Bill Greenwell and others. Sue Pickard channelled the true spirit of Groucho by keeping it general:
I am the very model of a modern-day contrarian
If you are a sophisticate then I’ll be a vulgarian
Whatever your opinions are, mine are antithetical
I was determined from an early age to be heretical.
The winners below get the £25 vouchers.
I must complain, I’m outraged and superior,
In comments sections, letters to the Times:
O tempora, o mores! Call this progress?
I scoff, I sneer, I judge your petty crimes.
I’m sickened, peeved, perpetually offended,
I’m angry, shocked, disgusted, mad and miffed,
Your ignorance appals me, it’s disgraceful,
You’re weak, deluded, morally adrift.
The world’s on fire and I’m the voice of reason,
I must harrumph, deride, call out, object,
Whatever you say, I am dead against it,
I won’t just tut – I spit at disrespect.
How have we come to this? I rant, I protest,
I disagree completely, you’re absurd,
Until I’m dead and buried I’ll pour scorn down –
I do not like it. That’s my final word.
Janine Beacham
Though the view is all pervasive and your arguments persuasive
I cannot concur that travel broadens mind.
Even though my statement harrows, I’m convinced all travel narrows
Mental focus and the traveller grows blind.
Take, for instance, any tourist; ignorance is at its purest
In his boasts of sunny days and foreign shores.
For each one, a mere vacation substitutes imagination,
As his outer world attracts, his inner bores.
As I make my claim contrary, do feel free to cry ‘How dare he!’
For it’s just such controversy that I crave,
Sitting here by my wainscotting while you’re talking up globe-trotting,
I enjoy the thrill due all who misbehave.
Adrian Fry
At school they gave us milk to drink –
I slyly tipped mine down the sink…
What, join the herd? I thought that daft.
While they all quaffed I sat and laughed.
When I grew up cheese was the thing
And steak and chips, and Burger King
And strong red wine, good for the heart,
I said, ‘Stuff that, I’m à la carte!’
And then it was that chocolate’s bad
So I ate lots, but then they add
The dark stuff’s great, so I’m agin it,
Speaking out just takes a minute.
Bread is good – and then it’s not,
Then meat is bad, eschew the lot;
The vegan fad? That’s not for me
It’s steak and kidney pud for tea!
Elizabeth Kay
Our MP sends a questionnaire
but not to trawl my views;
it’s only to confirm he’s right
whatever he might choose.
A gallery, post-visit, wants
my feedback – not, alas,
about the exhibition’s stance,
just gender, age, and class.
Those paperclips I bought online –
a plea for a review.
They’re paperclips: no more, no less,
and do what they should do.
The endless round of needy mail,
all begging for a like.
Not on my watch. The sole response
they get is: On your bike.
D.A. Prince
Gender identity, pronouns and quotas,
Splitting us all into whingers and gloaters.
Tethered-cap cartons and cars that go ‘bong’:
These are just some of the things that are wrong.
Sewage in seawater, plastic pollution,
Every damn thing being called a ‘solution’,
Hubris, hypocrisy, bullshit and cant:
These are the things that incite me to rant.
When it’s over, in the morning,
We can start to climb.
And civilisation will happen again.
We might get it right next time.
Nicholas Whitehead
I’m against these competitions with their convoluted missions;
Rhyme and meter are a nightmare, you’ll agree.
Writing prose may seem a trifle, but the subject’s bound to stifle
Creativity, which should be roaming free.
I’m against those fiendish setters who have put my mind in fetters
And extinguished every faint creative spark.
Though I scratch my head and ponder till my thoughts begin to wander,
It is useless, I’m completely in the dark.
And those stubborn empty pages cause me apoplectic rages
As I sit here trying vainly to begin ’em.
So a curse on competitions with impossible conditions;
I’m against them all – unless, of course, I win ’em.
Brian Allgar
No. 3393: Wrong time
You are invited to write a passage of historical fiction and sprinkle it with anachronistic detail (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 2 April.
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