Francophobia

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 2408 you were given an opening couplet — ‘Oh, plague of plagues! Wherever I turn, French tricks,/ French schemes, French morals, and French politics!’ — and invited to continue either in the modern or the 18th-century mode.

The opening couplet came from a contributor to Fraser’s Magazine, a Tory journal, in the late 18th century. Recently our own journal published a poem mocking the Scots, their national character and dress and Wee Frees, ending with the suggested ‘solution’ that they should all be permanently ghettoised behind Hadrian’s Wall. Despite the fact that it was signed by someone with a patently Scottish name, our editor shortly afterwards received a communication from the Race Relations Board informing him that the poem had drawn complaints but that the decision had been not to prosecute. I hope none of you end up in the dock as a result of this week’s light-hearted Frogbashing. The winners, printed below, get £25 each, and Ray Kelley has the bonus fiver.

Let’s not forget French words the French misuse And think the ignorant Briton misconstrues.

We know a slip’s a petticoat; in France A slip’s a pair of trunks or underpants.

The brassière we alliterate with ‘breast’ Is what they call a baby’s long-sleeved vest.

A blonde I’d never dare to order here I’d pay for there to get a lightish beer.

Intoxication wouldn’t make me stewed But poisoned, probably by Froggy food.

A store’s a window blind — what verbal folly!

A caddie is a supermarket trolley.

Concussion: what idea does that convey?

Fiddling the books, on landing in Calais.

I hate French tricks, French schemes, French machination Typified in French word interpretation!

Ray Kelley Thus runs the phobic Englishman’s refrain, Anthropocentric, boring and inane, The rant of every tabloid-reading lout Who loves to chuck it down and give it out, Expressing vaguely, through a fog of booze, Old fears of Popery and wooden shoes. Three lions on his shirt and well tattooed, A perfect specimen of Essex Crude, He’ll tell you all about the bleedin’ Frogs Their greed, their rubbish food, their smelly bogs, And how they all rolled over for the Krauts (Odd that — he’s often one of Adolf’s touts). You ask him if he’s ever been to France. He sneers at you and growls, ‘No fuckin’ chance.’ He’s English through and through, and proud of it; i.e., he’s full of xenophobic shit.

Basil Ransome-Davies Unnatural the age that by mischance Hath digged a tunnel underseas to France! Beneath those waters comes a flood instead Of thin coffee, thin wine and thinner bread. So, too, we must our very past eschew — Deny Trafalgar, Crécy, Waterloo!

Lest we offend, we may not even say The names of Blenheim or of Malplaquet.

Alas! Our own Correct Politick State Robs us of those whom we most love to hate.

Enough! We fought them for a hundred years!

We need our oldest enemies! Our fears Were ever of invasion — come, let’s fill The tunnel, put a tower on every hill, And grant to us a national holiday, To mock the French upon St Crispin’s Day.

Brian Murdoch The French disease (their country’s lasting shame) Is syphilis by any other name, Born of French kissing — very comme il faut (To french is slang for plain fellatio).

They steal our honest chip and dignify Their version as a cordon bleu French fry. French windows feature when the plot is sparse In that most imbecile of plays, French farce. French cricket has no rules — so suits them well; French polish covers up the stains that tell Of real life; French poodles, with their coats Clipped into topiary, are mincing goats; And grands projets, despite what they believe, Are born when common sense has ta’en French leave.

D.A. Prince Were I their ruler, first I would abolish French fries, French beans, French mustard and French polish.

French dressing then would follow, and French liquors, And who would wish to tangle with French knickers?

No son of Albion could e’er conceive Thro’ windows (French, of course) to take French leave.

The quavering of the devious French horn Can make a fellow wish he’d ne’er been born. French sticks are hard enough to break the head, A knavish, mean apology for bread.

French toast (no marmalade) makes John Bull blench, Nor would he trade his ale for gin and French. French cricket mocks the pastime of their betters; Their sport is all French kisses and French letters. French chalk’s for powder-puffs; God dammit, sirrah!

I like an honest visage in my mirror.

Noel Petty

Five French republics really takes the cake, But Frenchmen won’t admit to one mistake. Fraternité’s a cry I really bar When rioting farmers scream, ‘L’état c’est moi.’ The Queen’s dear Highway far, far better suits Than camion-constipated autoroutes.

When Churchill saw de Gaulle he’d rightly say, ‘Mon général, je vous get riderai.’

French breakfasts, tealess, one can scarce forget As teeth are shattered on the day’s baguette. Three hundred cheeses are not deemed enough To go with all that beastly salad stuff.

French loos, dear God, can’t cope; the stench might yet Repel Agrippa or a Bazalgette.

In hating Waterloo for Eurostar The French idea is au dessus its gare.

Simon May

No. 2411: The Last Smoker

Remember Michael Heath’s splendid cartoon series ‘The Last Smoker on Earth’? You are invited to supply a poem (maximum 16 lines) or a piece of prose (maximum 150 words) with this as its title. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2411’ by 22 September.