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Spectator Competition: Our kid

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issue 21 September 2024

In Competition 3367 you were invited to write a formal poem about the Brothers Gallagher (Noel and Liam). This comp was set before we had quite reached Oasis saturation point; possibly we’re beyond that now. There were more entries than usual and they were roughly equally split between those that expressed great joy at the reunion and those that weren’t even remotely bothered. A shout-out to Brian Murdoch, Bob Newman and Edmund Carver – and the winners below get £25.

When minstrel knyghtes forst gan maken melodye,

Two brother knyghtes, each of grete envyé,

Sire Noel, eldeste, meek, a gentil knyghte,

Sire Liam, yonge, a cur who loved a fyghte,

Abusioned lutes in every shire’s ende,

Of Engelond, where’er they wende,

To slaght hir rank ballads: yet alacke, one nighte,

Sire Noel struck his brother with grete mighte.

Upon his noggin with a lute ful brute,

And thus did breake hir bonde, and put hir noyse on mute.

For fifteen winters, bitter were hir layes,

Moping and moaning in grete drunken daze,

Till that Sire Noel took his brother by the honde,

And quoth, ‘Methinks there’s coin in our old bonde.’

And thus they played whil erst hir stryf was shorn,

For who could fighte with Wonderwall reborn?

Ralph Goldswain

‘What did you do on the day, Dad?’

The time of JFK?

Or when Apollo hit the Moon?

‘No – New Oasis Day!’

’Cause history’s been made this week:

Hotels can stay afloat.

The Gallaghers have saved the world,

Before they’ve sung a note!

They’re Jack-the-lads from Manchester;

Their hobby is to swear.

They love to strut in anoraks

And cultivate their hair.

Their fans say they’re the Beatles Plus,

While others hold their ears.

It doesn’t matter, though: they’re back –

Definitely? Maybe years!

Nicholas Lee

O scowling sourpuss lager gods, Oasis,

Thou feuding fraternal frontmen, Britpop lads,

O surly Noel and Liam of rockstar status,

Give us thy gigs at Wembley, you’ll earn scads,

Outdo fair Tay-Tay, don’t look back in anger,

Wild spirits, O Mancunian bards, bad boys,

O Morning Glory, belt us out a banger,

Give us thy Wonderwall, revive thy noise.

O Gallaghers, O brawlers reunited,

O lewd, loud bros, O effing huge commotion,

O Champagne Supernovas oft-recited,

Thou cultural monoliths of fan devotion,

Thy tickets sell, restore thy lost net worth,

Thy concerts come; O contracts freshly signed,

The trumpets of PR hath shook the earth,

If Noel says yea, can Liam be far behind?

Janine Beacham

Do not go mental over yesterday

But keep today’s oasis within sight –

Rage not in retrospect, I heard you say.

Though fans are getting fleeced to see you play,

You know those ticket prices can’t be right,

Do not go mental over yesterday.

Though City lost to Liverpool, away,

With Grealish, Foden, Haaland playing shite,

Rage not in retrospect, I heard you say.

Though trolls and critics said you’d lost your way;

Though you and Noel had yet another fight,

Do not go mental over yesterday.

Though time moved on and now you’re old and grey,

Though Britpop’s just a blur, in failing light,

Do not go mental over yesterday,

Rage not in retrospect, I heard you say.

David Silverman

The return of the fabled Oasis

Seems to rely on the basis

That vast new rewards

From fraternal discords

Are sure to put smiles on their faces.

But is their rapprochement a fake

Inspired by the fortune they’ll make,

With dynamic pricing

The undeserved icing

On already overpriced cake?

And, though both seem eager to try

To make peace, will we see by and by

That three hours on stage

Could end in a rage

And rapprochement as pie in the sky?

Martin Parker

It’s time for two fraternal millionaires

To call a ceasefire on a lengthy feud,

One of those sibling rivalry affairs

Where each of them competes to be more rude.

Yet now a reconciliation airs

A friendly, nay a loving, attitude.

What action could express agreement more

Than an expansive reunited tour?

Expensive, also. You must be well heeled

To buy a concert ticket, lucky too.

The anarchy of the consumer field

For middle-aged Britpop means quite a queue,

And drives up the all-round financial yield

From an event, promoted as a coup,

That even groupies call a money-grab.

Though if the fans enjoy the show, why crab?

Basil Ransome-Davies

No. 3370: Space to think

The two Nasa astronauts who have been stranded on the International Space Station have been talking about how they plan to make the most of their extended stay. You’re invited to write a poem about their situation (16 lines maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 2 October.

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