HOME
LINKS
Competition for Satirical Work in Commemoration of Jonathan Swift Subject: The Lisbon Treaty referendum: a Modest Proposal. or Global Warming – a Lot of Hot Air WINNERS Place Author Topic Prose/Poetry 1st Marie Gallagher, Kildare Lisbon Treaty Prose 2nd Peter Goulding, Dublin Global Warming Poetry 3rd Janet Fisher, Essex Global Warming Prose A Modest Proposal- A Perfect Symmetry Marie Gallagher Being that the Union is founded on the values of respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, equality, the rule of law and respect for human rights, including the rights of persons belonging to minorities, I wish to make a modest proposal in relation to the fair and democratic spread of food supplies to lesser well off nations. This proposal has germinated in my mind for some time now, driven by the sad object of observing while travelling through our great, new, vibrant country, the growth of flesh upon the inhabitants. Sadly to say, but as a nation, we, in Ireland, are more likely to wobble and ripple as we progress our business than to move in any brisk way. This new found growth in weight and stature is deemed, in notoriously flippant fashion by the great and good in our media, as being the fault of “Modern Lifestyle.” A word is used to describe this plague that is sweeping through our nation. It is one that rolls off the tongue in a most alarming fashion and is in itself a parody of melody: “O –bes-ity.” Alas, the ghost of the famine years, the starving 1840’s, those skeletal spectres of our past, have been well and truly exorcised in the shape and girth of the bodies in which we, in modern Ireland, now find ourselves. Our already pressed health system is further squeezed by the presence of this near-epidemic. Forty percent of adults and children now suffer this modern illness and the imbalance of its very existence strikes the core of any fair minded citizen. While in many far-flung countries, people stretch out their hands for food supplies and forty thousand children under the age of five, die daily from malnutrition, within the so-called “Modern Lifestyles” of our great and new Ireland, we wear with pride our newly grown, rounded abdomens and perfectly formed “Spare Tyres.” The solution, like all good solutions is breathtakingly simple. Cosmetic surgery for the removal and refinement of body parts would assume a key role in the implementation of my proposal. The set up of clinics and testing of individuals by means of the measurement of Body Mass Index (BMI) followed by a recommendation from a medical expert would kick the procedure into motion. The discarded flesh would be cured and processed and using the expertise of the finest chefs in the land, transformed into meat products which would then be distributed amongst the poor and starving. Since this idea has occupied my mind, on many occasions I have mentally calculated the extent of foodstuffs that might be gleaned from a particularly large abdomen. An individual carrying five stone of extra flesh would by my estimation, after the necessary refinement of the removed flesh, produce three hundred jumbo sausages, four hundred of the finest back rashers and several heat-sealed containers of well-seasoned, savoury meat-balls. Within the framework of the EU Treaty and of course within this current amendment known as the Lisbon Treaty, my proposal fulfils all the values of democracy and equality. No individual shall be exempt from the rigours of flesh testing under the “Body Mass Index” rule. And in a demonstration of leadership by example, I suggest that our Taoiseach, Mr Cowen, while he basks in the currently warm, honeymoon glow of the newly elected, be the first to step up to the podium. By my estimation, Mr Cowen would effortlessly produce a fine supply of jumbo sausages, chunky rashers and lip smacking meat balls. Not only would Mr Cowen be showing the greatest leadership example by being a pioneer in a revolutionary method of provision of food to starving people but the consequent ease with which belt-tightening might take place after such a cosmetic procedure could also, in a rapidly sliding economy, metaphorically speaking, be of assistance. People who heretofore would have slunk surreptitiously into a cosmetic clinic would arrive now with pride and openness, proclaiming their attendance, confident in the knowledge that their actions are not of abject vanity but the product of deep-seated philantrophy. In addition, as with all good business ideas, there are a number of “Knock-On" effects. A flourishing cosmetic surgery and food processing industry will bring increased employment, providing a welcome boost for our now faltering economy. A general improvement in well-being from national weight reduction would prevail throughout our land. The transformation of this human burden to the saving of lives is the ultimate in fair and equitable distribution of natural resources. Ladies and Gentlemen, I make my modest proposal, the over-indulgence of one nation being absolved to sustain another, a perfect symmetry. Addendum: The Reform Treaty, also known as the Treaty of Lisbon, contains a number of provisions. I propose the inclusion of a further amendment: That member states operate an equitable means of the spreading of food resources for the provision of sustenance to Third World countries. Global warming? What global warming? Peter Goulding This morning I awoke with grace Of God, the sun upon my face And, as the day was heaven-sent, I lay there in my canvas tent And marvelled at those bearded loons Who whistle eco-friendly tunes. For aeons now they have insisted Policies are grossly twisted, Repeating, yea, ad infinitum, We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em. They claim we should protect the masses From the scourge of greenhouse gases And “legislation needs reforming” Due to so-called global warming. (Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse! ‘Tis but a science-fiction farce That Cork and Galway may tomorrah Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah! ‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places Sport the very best oases, And people in glass houses oughta Smell the roses and the water) And thus I lay in contemplation Of the eco-situation, While outside, my well nourished ass Grazed lightly in the marram grass. Why, just last week, as I recall, I bought a paper at the stall Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar, And read how still those heat-deranged Green activists claim Ireland’s changed! And though I grant in certain ways Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze, I view their words with much regret That they should come across so wet. Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk, Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke By roaming freely ‘cross the land From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand, No longer go “traditionally,” (By 4 x 4, or SUV) But ride along the harsh terrain By virtue of a camel train. And yes, ‘tis true that anybody Now can cross the Shannon wadi By walking without fear or dread Across the arid river bed And stay as dry as Israelites Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights. But sandy fields of Athenry, Where still the circling buzzards fly, You’ve only changed by dint of colour From verdant green to somewhat duller. The farmers still protest the rates Of subsidies for figs and dates. And still I see familiar faces At the dromedary races (Where, I grudgingly confirm, The going is routinely “firm”) Where two or three may come together, Still they moan about the weather, And how this year they’ll go to Spain To try and get a bit of rain. Alarmist eco-friendly warrior, Don’t you think we might be sorrier If our climate were endowed With drizzling rain and blackened cloud? How could we cope with sudden storms And sun that neither lights nor warms? How would we know what clothes to wear? How would the turbaned goat-herd fare If we were prone to sudden showers, Summonsed by almighty powers? Seditious fires should not be fanned Across our brown and pleasant land. TARQUIN’S ARK FROM ‘THE GUARDIAN WEEKEND’ My Week By Petronella Chalfont St Tracy Janet Fisher Mon 21st April 2008 a.m. Oh, Joy! Have found delicious characterful pied-a-terre in Spitalfields. All original features, including delightful brick privy in back yard. Kevin the estate agent says Victorian cockney argot for these sweet little houses was ‘slums.’ If offer successful, will rip out hideous water-guzzling flush lavatory in bathroom and restore privy to former glory. Tarquin, my ever-loving, already googling for tin bucket on ebay. Tarquin enthused re prospect of recycling all family poo into fuel for boat he is building in garage in preparation for predicted flooding of London. p.m. I de-louse Mandela the dachshund, terminating little visitors in bath. This puts Tarquin into blue fug, his Buddhist sensibilities thereby sorely offended. After supper contact little brother Seb on web cam. He is spending gap year in the Artic. Appears to be perched on slab of floating ice. Wearing ski mask over nose and mouth so voice somewhat muffled. Think he said he ate some blubber. Must keep from Tarquin. Tues a.m. Horrors! Camilla rings to tell me buffalo mozzarella not to be found in Spitalfields, even for ready money. After thirty mins meditation, followed by ginseng and liquorice infusion, I decide that one can, if needs be, live without buffalo mozzarella. Now kids late for school, and I for pilates class. Bundle Ovid and Ophelia into back of Ever-Loving’s new electric car. Deliver children to St Olaf’s and self to Sanctuary Grange a mere fifteen minutes late. p.m. Kevin rings to say offer for Spitalfields house gazump’d by local graffiti artist. Deep gloom. Tarquin suggests he taps venerable pa for hedge fund dosh. Phones stately pile and is told by Marjika, venerable pa’s Polish carer, that said ancient is out playing poker at local pub and third wife Mercedes is in Rio (no doubt spending aforementioned dosh). Gloom descends once more. Turn on web cam to see Seb balanced on considerably smaller slab of ice. Think he says is having great time, but looks somewhat alarmed. Weds a.m. Joy unconfined! Grafitti artist has secured retrospective at Tate Modern and decided to up sticks to St Tropez. Frantic dash to Waitrose for acceptable bottle of fizz to celebrate. p.m. Ovid check-mates girl in Albania in online chess tournament. Take children to see Spitalfields house. Joy does not abound. Ophelia peers into privy and makes gagging noises. Tarquin explains re poo recycling and Ophelia pronounces it ‘gross’ and informs us yet again that we have ruined her life. Ovid refuses to go inside house. Says it is scarier than ‘The Ring’ and smells of Granny Chalfont. Viewing aborted and drive back to Clapham passed in pursed-lipped silence. Thurs a.m. More gloom. Tarquin learns that planning permission for wind turbine in garden unlikely to be granted for Spitalfields house. Arrive home from school run to find him telling Council Planning Officer that the waters will rise and cover the earth, that he and all his seed will perish and his crops will wither in the field. Poor thing! I haven’t seen him so down-in-the-mouth since Chudbury Old Boys were defeated in the all-Surrey Rugby League. p.m. Venerable Ma Chalfont phones to inform us that hoodies have invaded Ewell and that she has barricaded herself in the upstairs en suite with Pa’s mauser. Mandela throws up on the aga. Fri a.m. Tarquin refuses to come out of garage even for lunch of porcini mushrooms and butternut squash. Meet Camilla in new family-run Italian Restaurant opposite common for Fair Trade de-caff and focaccia. p.m. Olivia comes home late from school with barbed wire tattoo on neck. Tarquin calls her a chav and Olivia calls him a middle-class wanker. I suggest ginger and ginseng infusions all round to induce calm but Olivia storms out of house and Tarquin to garage. Ovid is check-mated by boy in Botswana and kicks Mandela, who throws up in the cous-cous. Turn on web to see Seb’s eyes and hat appearing above what seems to be white fog. He is waving his hands. Must contact internet provider. 3a.m. Am woken by smoke alarm. Trace to garage, where Olivia has set the boat ablaze. Sat a.m. Tarquin googling properties in Pyrenees, which, he says, may remain above sea level at least until Ovid’s gap year. Ophelia throws up on Mandela. p.m. Seb on six o’clock news. Missing in the Artic. Policeman phones to tell me Venerable Ma Chalfont in custody as she has apparently shot a young black man. Hey, ho! Another week. (Petronella Chalfont St Tracy is a freelance journalist and writer. Her first novel, ‘Sisters on The Edge’, an account of an imagined meeting between Virginia Woolf and Kylie Minogue, will be published by The Garlic Press in June.) LINK TO TRIM SWIFT FESTIVAL 2008 www.trimswiftfestival.com
Competition for Satirical Work in Commemoration of Jonathan Swift Subject: The Lisbon Treaty referendum: a Modest Proposal. or Global Warming – a Lot of Hot Air
WINNERS
3rd
A Modest Proposal- A Perfect Symmetry Marie Gallagher Being that the Union is founded on the values of respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, equality, the rule of law and respect for human rights, including the rights of persons belonging to minorities, I wish to make a modest proposal in relation to the fair and democratic spread of food supplies to lesser well off nations. This proposal has germinated in my mind for some time now, driven by the sad object of observing while travelling through our great, new, vibrant country, the growth of flesh upon the inhabitants. Sadly to say, but as a nation, we, in Ireland, are more likely to wobble and ripple as we progress our business than to move in any brisk way. This new found growth in weight and stature is deemed, in notoriously flippant fashion by the great and good in our media, as being the fault of “Modern Lifestyle.” A word is used to describe this plague that is sweeping through our nation. It is one that rolls off the tongue in a most alarming fashion and is in itself a parody of melody: “O –bes-ity.” Alas, the ghost of the famine years, the starving 1840’s, those skeletal spectres of our past, have been well and truly exorcised in the shape and girth of the bodies in which we, in modern Ireland, now find ourselves. Our already pressed health system is further squeezed by the presence of this near-epidemic. Forty percent of adults and children now suffer this modern illness and the imbalance of its very existence strikes the core of any fair minded citizen. While in many far-flung countries, people stretch out their hands for food supplies and forty thousand children under the age of five, die daily from malnutrition, within the so-called “Modern Lifestyles” of our great and new Ireland, we wear with pride our newly grown, rounded abdomens and perfectly formed “Spare Tyres.” The solution, like all good solutions is breathtakingly simple. Cosmetic surgery for the removal and refinement of body parts would assume a key role in the implementation of my proposal. The set up of clinics and testing of individuals by means of the measurement of Body Mass Index (BMI) followed by a recommendation from a medical expert would kick the procedure into motion. The discarded flesh would be cured and processed and using the expertise of the finest chefs in the land, transformed into meat products which would then be distributed amongst the poor and starving. Since this idea has occupied my mind, on many occasions I have mentally calculated the extent of foodstuffs that might be gleaned from a particularly large abdomen. An individual carrying five stone of extra flesh would by my estimation, after the necessary refinement of the removed flesh, produce three hundred jumbo sausages, four hundred of the finest back rashers and several heat-sealed containers of well-seasoned, savoury meat-balls. Within the framework of the EU Treaty and of course within this current amendment known as the Lisbon Treaty, my proposal fulfils all the values of democracy and equality. No individual shall be exempt from the rigours of flesh testing under the “Body Mass Index” rule. And in a demonstration of leadership by example, I suggest that our Taoiseach, Mr Cowen, while he basks in the currently warm, honeymoon glow of the newly elected, be the first to step up to the podium. By my estimation, Mr Cowen would effortlessly produce a fine supply of jumbo sausages, chunky rashers and lip smacking meat balls. Not only would Mr Cowen be showing the greatest leadership example by being a pioneer in a revolutionary method of provision of food to starving people but the consequent ease with which belt-tightening might take place after such a cosmetic procedure could also, in a rapidly sliding economy, metaphorically speaking, be of assistance. People who heretofore would have slunk surreptitiously into a cosmetic clinic would arrive now with pride and openness, proclaiming their attendance, confident in the knowledge that their actions are not of abject vanity but the product of deep-seated philantrophy. In addition, as with all good business ideas, there are a number of “Knock-On" effects. A flourishing cosmetic surgery and food processing industry will bring increased employment, providing a welcome boost for our now faltering economy. A general improvement in well-being from national weight reduction would prevail throughout our land. The transformation of this human burden to the saving of lives is the ultimate in fair and equitable distribution of natural resources. Ladies and Gentlemen, I make my modest proposal, the over-indulgence of one nation being absolved to sustain another, a perfect symmetry. Addendum: The Reform Treaty, also known as the Treaty of Lisbon, contains a number of provisions. I propose the inclusion of a further amendment: That member states operate an equitable means of the spreading of food resources for the provision of sustenance to Third World countries. Global warming? What global warming? Peter Goulding This morning I awoke with grace Of God, the sun upon my face And, as the day was heaven-sent, I lay there in my canvas tent And marvelled at those bearded loons Who whistle eco-friendly tunes. For aeons now they have insisted Policies are grossly twisted, Repeating, yea, ad infinitum, We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em. They claim we should protect the masses From the scourge of greenhouse gases And “legislation needs reforming” Due to so-called global warming. (Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse! ‘Tis but a science-fiction farce That Cork and Galway may tomorrah Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah! ‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places Sport the very best oases, And people in glass houses oughta Smell the roses and the water) And thus I lay in contemplation Of the eco-situation, While outside, my well nourished ass Grazed lightly in the marram grass. Why, just last week, as I recall, I bought a paper at the stall Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar, And read how still those heat-deranged Green activists claim Ireland’s changed! And though I grant in certain ways Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze, I view their words with much regret That they should come across so wet. Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk, Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke By roaming freely ‘cross the land From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand, No longer go “traditionally,” (By 4 x 4, or SUV) But ride along the harsh terrain By virtue of a camel train. And yes, ‘tis true that anybody Now can cross the Shannon wadi By walking without fear or dread Across the arid river bed And stay as dry as Israelites Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights. But sandy fields of Athenry, Where still the circling buzzards fly, You’ve only changed by dint of colour From verdant green to somewhat duller. The farmers still protest the rates Of subsidies for figs and dates. And still I see familiar faces At the dromedary races (Where, I grudgingly confirm, The going is routinely “firm”) Where two or three may come together, Still they moan about the weather, And how this year they’ll go to Spain To try and get a bit of rain. Alarmist eco-friendly warrior, Don’t you think we might be sorrier If our climate were endowed With drizzling rain and blackened cloud? How could we cope with sudden storms And sun that neither lights nor warms? How would we know what clothes to wear? How would the turbaned goat-herd fare If we were prone to sudden showers, Summonsed by almighty powers? Seditious fires should not be fanned Across our brown and pleasant land. TARQUIN’S ARK FROM ‘THE GUARDIAN WEEKEND’ My Week By Petronella Chalfont St Tracy Janet Fisher Mon 21st April 2008 a.m. Oh, Joy! Have found delicious characterful pied-a-terre in Spitalfields. All original features, including delightful brick privy in back yard. Kevin the estate agent says Victorian cockney argot for these sweet little houses was ‘slums.’ If offer successful, will rip out hideous water-guzzling flush lavatory in bathroom and restore privy to former glory. Tarquin, my ever-loving, already googling for tin bucket on ebay. Tarquin enthused re prospect of recycling all family poo into fuel for boat he is building in garage in preparation for predicted flooding of London. p.m. I de-louse Mandela the dachshund, terminating little visitors in bath. This puts Tarquin into blue fug, his Buddhist sensibilities thereby sorely offended. After supper contact little brother Seb on web cam. He is spending gap year in the Artic. Appears to be perched on slab of floating ice. Wearing ski mask over nose and mouth so voice somewhat muffled. Think he said he ate some blubber. Must keep from Tarquin. Tues a.m. Horrors! Camilla rings to tell me buffalo mozzarella not to be found in Spitalfields, even for ready money. After thirty mins meditation, followed by ginseng and liquorice infusion, I decide that one can, if needs be, live without buffalo mozzarella. Now kids late for school, and I for pilates class. Bundle Ovid and Ophelia into back of Ever-Loving’s new electric car. Deliver children to St Olaf’s and self to Sanctuary Grange a mere fifteen minutes late. p.m. Kevin rings to say offer for Spitalfields house gazump’d by local graffiti artist. Deep gloom. Tarquin suggests he taps venerable pa for hedge fund dosh. Phones stately pile and is told by Marjika, venerable pa’s Polish carer, that said ancient is out playing poker at local pub and third wife Mercedes is in Rio (no doubt spending aforementioned dosh). Gloom descends once more. Turn on web cam to see Seb balanced on considerably smaller slab of ice. Think he says is having great time, but looks somewhat alarmed. Weds a.m. Joy unconfined! Grafitti artist has secured retrospective at Tate Modern and decided to up sticks to St Tropez. Frantic dash to Waitrose for acceptable bottle of fizz to celebrate. p.m. Ovid check-mates girl in Albania in online chess tournament. Take children to see Spitalfields house. Joy does not abound. Ophelia peers into privy and makes gagging noises. Tarquin explains re poo recycling and Ophelia pronounces it ‘gross’ and informs us yet again that we have ruined her life. Ovid refuses to go inside house. Says it is scarier than ‘The Ring’ and smells of Granny Chalfont. Viewing aborted and drive back to Clapham passed in pursed-lipped silence. Thurs a.m. More gloom. Tarquin learns that planning permission for wind turbine in garden unlikely to be granted for Spitalfields house. Arrive home from school run to find him telling Council Planning Officer that the waters will rise and cover the earth, that he and all his seed will perish and his crops will wither in the field. Poor thing! I haven’t seen him so down-in-the-mouth since Chudbury Old Boys were defeated in the all-Surrey Rugby League. p.m. Venerable Ma Chalfont phones to inform us that hoodies have invaded Ewell and that she has barricaded herself in the upstairs en suite with Pa’s mauser. Mandela throws up on the aga. Fri a.m. Tarquin refuses to come out of garage even for lunch of porcini mushrooms and butternut squash. Meet Camilla in new family-run Italian Restaurant opposite common for Fair Trade de-caff and focaccia. p.m. Olivia comes home late from school with barbed wire tattoo on neck. Tarquin calls her a chav and Olivia calls him a middle-class wanker. I suggest ginger and ginseng infusions all round to induce calm but Olivia storms out of house and Tarquin to garage. Ovid is check-mated by boy in Botswana and kicks Mandela, who throws up in the cous-cous. Turn on web to see Seb’s eyes and hat appearing above what seems to be white fog. He is waving his hands. Must contact internet provider. 3a.m. Am woken by smoke alarm. Trace to garage, where Olivia has set the boat ablaze. Sat a.m. Tarquin googling properties in Pyrenees, which, he says, may remain above sea level at least until Ovid’s gap year. Ophelia throws up on Mandela. p.m. Seb on six o’clock news. Missing in the Artic. Policeman phones to tell me Venerable Ma Chalfont in custody as she has apparently shot a young black man. Hey, ho! Another week. (Petronella Chalfont St Tracy is a freelance journalist and writer. Her first novel, ‘Sisters on The Edge’, an account of an imagined meeting between Virginia Woolf and Kylie Minogue, will be published by The Garlic Press in June.)
A Modest Proposal- A Perfect Symmetry Marie Gallagher
Being that the Union is founded on the values of respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, equality, the rule of law and respect for human rights, including the rights of persons belonging to minorities, I wish to make a modest proposal in relation to the fair and democratic spread of food supplies to lesser well off nations. This proposal has germinated in my mind for some time now, driven by the sad object of observing while travelling through our great, new, vibrant country, the growth of flesh upon the inhabitants. Sadly to say, but as a nation, we, in Ireland, are more likely to wobble and ripple as we progress our business than to move in any brisk way. This new found growth in weight and stature is deemed, in notoriously flippant fashion by the great and good in our media, as being the fault of “Modern Lifestyle.” A word is used to describe this plague that is sweeping through our nation. It is one that rolls off the tongue in a most alarming fashion and is in itself a parody of melody: “O –bes-ity.” Alas, the ghost of the famine years, the starving 1840’s, those skeletal spectres of our past, have been well and truly exorcised in the shape and girth of the bodies in which we, in modern Ireland, now find ourselves. Our already pressed health system is further squeezed by the presence of this near-epidemic. Forty percent of adults and children now suffer this modern illness and the imbalance of its very existence strikes the core of any fair minded citizen. While in many far-flung countries, people stretch out their hands for food supplies and forty thousand children under the age of five, die daily from malnutrition, within the so-called “Modern Lifestyles” of our great and new Ireland, we wear with pride our newly grown, rounded abdomens and perfectly formed “Spare Tyres.” The solution, like all good solutions is breathtakingly simple. Cosmetic surgery for the removal and refinement of body parts would assume a key role in the implementation of my proposal. The set up of clinics and testing of individuals by means of the measurement of Body Mass Index (BMI) followed by a recommendation from a medical expert would kick the procedure into motion. The discarded flesh would be cured and processed and using the expertise of the finest chefs in the land, transformed into meat products which would then be distributed amongst the poor and starving. Since this idea has occupied my mind, on many occasions I have mentally calculated the extent of foodstuffs that might be gleaned from a particularly large abdomen. An individual carrying five stone of extra flesh would by my estimation, after the necessary refinement of the removed flesh, produce three hundred jumbo sausages, four hundred of the finest back rashers and several heat-sealed containers of well-seasoned, savoury meat-balls. Within the framework of the EU Treaty and of course within this current amendment known as the Lisbon Treaty, my proposal fulfils all the values of democracy and equality. No individual shall be exempt from the rigours of flesh testing under the “Body Mass Index” rule. And in a demonstration of leadership by example, I suggest that our Taoiseach, Mr Cowen, while he basks in the currently warm, honeymoon glow of the newly elected, be the first to step up to the podium. By my estimation, Mr Cowen would effortlessly produce a fine supply of jumbo sausages, chunky rashers and lip smacking meat balls. Not only would Mr Cowen be showing the greatest leadership example by being a pioneer in a revolutionary method of provision of food to starving people but the consequent ease with which belt-tightening might take place after such a cosmetic procedure could also, in a rapidly sliding economy, metaphorically speaking, be of assistance. People who heretofore would have slunk surreptitiously into a cosmetic clinic would arrive now with pride and openness, proclaiming their attendance, confident in the knowledge that their actions are not of abject vanity but the product of deep-seated philantrophy. In addition, as with all good business ideas, there are a number of “Knock-On" effects. A flourishing cosmetic surgery and food processing industry will bring increased employment, providing a welcome boost for our now faltering economy. A general improvement in well-being from national weight reduction would prevail throughout our land. The transformation of this human burden to the saving of lives is the ultimate in fair and equitable distribution of natural resources. Ladies and Gentlemen, I make my modest proposal, the over-indulgence of one nation being absolved to sustain another, a perfect symmetry. Addendum: The Reform Treaty, also known as the Treaty of Lisbon, contains a number of provisions. I propose the inclusion of a further amendment: That member states operate an equitable means of the spreading of food resources for the provision of sustenance to Third World countries.
Global warming? What global warming? Peter Goulding This morning I awoke with grace Of God, the sun upon my face And, as the day was heaven-sent, I lay there in my canvas tent And marvelled at those bearded loons Who whistle eco-friendly tunes. For aeons now they have insisted Policies are grossly twisted, Repeating, yea, ad infinitum, We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em. They claim we should protect the masses From the scourge of greenhouse gases And “legislation needs reforming” Due to so-called global warming. (Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse! ‘Tis but a science-fiction farce That Cork and Galway may tomorrah Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah! ‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places Sport the very best oases, And people in glass houses oughta Smell the roses and the water) And thus I lay in contemplation Of the eco-situation, While outside, my well nourished ass Grazed lightly in the marram grass. Why, just last week, as I recall, I bought a paper at the stall Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar, And read how still those heat-deranged Green activists claim Ireland’s changed! And though I grant in certain ways Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze, I view their words with much regret That they should come across so wet. Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk, Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke By roaming freely ‘cross the land From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand, No longer go “traditionally,” (By 4 x 4, or SUV) But ride along the harsh terrain By virtue of a camel train. And yes, ‘tis true that anybody Now can cross the Shannon wadi By walking without fear or dread Across the arid river bed And stay as dry as Israelites Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights. But sandy fields of Athenry, Where still the circling buzzards fly, You’ve only changed by dint of colour From verdant green to somewhat duller. The farmers still protest the rates Of subsidies for figs and dates. And still I see familiar faces At the dromedary races (Where, I grudgingly confirm, The going is routinely “firm”) Where two or three may come together, Still they moan about the weather, And how this year they’ll go to Spain To try and get a bit of rain. Alarmist eco-friendly warrior, Don’t you think we might be sorrier If our climate were endowed With drizzling rain and blackened cloud? How could we cope with sudden storms And sun that neither lights nor warms? How would we know what clothes to wear? How would the turbaned goat-herd fare If we were prone to sudden showers, Summonsed by almighty powers? Seditious fires should not be fanned Across our brown and pleasant land. TARQUIN’S ARK FROM ‘THE GUARDIAN WEEKEND’ My Week By Petronella Chalfont St Tracy Janet Fisher Mon 21st April 2008 a.m. Oh, Joy! Have found delicious characterful pied-a-terre in Spitalfields. All original features, including delightful brick privy in back yard. Kevin the estate agent says Victorian cockney argot for these sweet little houses was ‘slums.’ If offer successful, will rip out hideous water-guzzling flush lavatory in bathroom and restore privy to former glory. Tarquin, my ever-loving, already googling for tin bucket on ebay. Tarquin enthused re prospect of recycling all family poo into fuel for boat he is building in garage in preparation for predicted flooding of London. p.m. I de-louse Mandela the dachshund, terminating little visitors in bath. This puts Tarquin into blue fug, his Buddhist sensibilities thereby sorely offended. After supper contact little brother Seb on web cam. He is spending gap year in the Artic. Appears to be perched on slab of floating ice. Wearing ski mask over nose and mouth so voice somewhat muffled. Think he said he ate some blubber. Must keep from Tarquin. Tues a.m. Horrors! Camilla rings to tell me buffalo mozzarella not to be found in Spitalfields, even for ready money. After thirty mins meditation, followed by ginseng and liquorice infusion, I decide that one can, if needs be, live without buffalo mozzarella. Now kids late for school, and I for pilates class. Bundle Ovid and Ophelia into back of Ever-Loving’s new electric car. Deliver children to St Olaf’s and self to Sanctuary Grange a mere fifteen minutes late. p.m. Kevin rings to say offer for Spitalfields house gazump’d by local graffiti artist. Deep gloom. Tarquin suggests he taps venerable pa for hedge fund dosh. Phones stately pile and is told by Marjika, venerable pa’s Polish carer, that said ancient is out playing poker at local pub and third wife Mercedes is in Rio (no doubt spending aforementioned dosh). Gloom descends once more. Turn on web cam to see Seb balanced on considerably smaller slab of ice. Think he says is having great time, but looks somewhat alarmed. Weds a.m. Joy unconfined! Grafitti artist has secured retrospective at Tate Modern and decided to up sticks to St Tropez. Frantic dash to Waitrose for acceptable bottle of fizz to celebrate. p.m. Ovid check-mates girl in Albania in online chess tournament. Take children to see Spitalfields house. Joy does not abound. Ophelia peers into privy and makes gagging noises. Tarquin explains re poo recycling and Ophelia pronounces it ‘gross’ and informs us yet again that we have ruined her life. Ovid refuses to go inside house. Says it is scarier than ‘The Ring’ and smells of Granny Chalfont. Viewing aborted and drive back to Clapham passed in pursed-lipped silence. Thurs a.m. More gloom. Tarquin learns that planning permission for wind turbine in garden unlikely to be granted for Spitalfields house. Arrive home from school run to find him telling Council Planning Officer that the waters will rise and cover the earth, that he and all his seed will perish and his crops will wither in the field. Poor thing! I haven’t seen him so down-in-the-mouth since Chudbury Old Boys were defeated in the all-Surrey Rugby League. p.m. Venerable Ma Chalfont phones to inform us that hoodies have invaded Ewell and that she has barricaded herself in the upstairs en suite with Pa’s mauser. Mandela throws up on the aga. Fri a.m. Tarquin refuses to come out of garage even for lunch of porcini mushrooms and butternut squash. Meet Camilla in new family-run Italian Restaurant opposite common for Fair Trade de-caff and focaccia. p.m. Olivia comes home late from school with barbed wire tattoo on neck. Tarquin calls her a chav and Olivia calls him a middle-class wanker. I suggest ginger and ginseng infusions all round to induce calm but Olivia storms out of house and Tarquin to garage. Ovid is check-mated by boy in Botswana and kicks Mandela, who throws up in the cous-cous. Turn on web to see Seb’s eyes and hat appearing above what seems to be white fog. He is waving his hands. Must contact internet provider. 3a.m. Am woken by smoke alarm. Trace to garage, where Olivia has set the boat ablaze. Sat a.m. Tarquin googling properties in Pyrenees, which, he says, may remain above sea level at least until Ovid’s gap year. Ophelia throws up on Mandela. p.m. Seb on six o’clock news. Missing in the Artic. Policeman phones to tell me Venerable Ma Chalfont in custody as she has apparently shot a young black man. Hey, ho! Another week. (Petronella Chalfont St Tracy is a freelance journalist and writer. Her first novel, ‘Sisters on The Edge’, an account of an imagined meeting between Virginia Woolf and Kylie Minogue, will be published by The Garlic Press in June.)
Global warming? What global warming? Peter Goulding This morning I awoke with grace Of God, the sun upon my face And, as the day was heaven-sent, I lay there in my canvas tent And marvelled at those bearded loons Who whistle eco-friendly tunes. For aeons now they have insisted Policies are grossly twisted, Repeating, yea, ad infinitum, We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em. They claim we should protect the masses From the scourge of greenhouse gases And “legislation needs reforming” Due to so-called global warming. (Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse! ‘Tis but a science-fiction farce That Cork and Galway may tomorrah Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah! ‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places Sport the very best oases, And people in glass houses oughta Smell the roses and the water) And thus I lay in contemplation Of the eco-situation, While outside, my well nourished ass Grazed lightly in the marram grass. Why, just last week, as I recall, I bought a paper at the stall Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar, And read how still those heat-deranged Green activists claim Ireland’s changed! And though I grant in certain ways Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze, I view their words with much regret That they should come across so wet. Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk, Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke By roaming freely ‘cross the land From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand, No longer go “traditionally,” (By 4 x 4, or SUV) But ride along the harsh terrain By virtue of a camel train. And yes, ‘tis true that anybody Now can cross the Shannon wadi By walking without fear or dread Across the arid river bed And stay as dry as Israelites Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights. But sandy fields of Athenry, Where still the circling buzzards fly, You’ve only changed by dint of colour From verdant green to somewhat duller. The farmers still protest the rates Of subsidies for figs and dates. And still I see familiar faces At the dromedary races (Where, I grudgingly confirm, The going is routinely “firm”) Where two or three may come together, Still they moan about the weather, And how this year they’ll go to Spain To try and get a bit of rain. Alarmist eco-friendly warrior, Don’t you think we might be sorrier If our climate were endowed With drizzling rain and blackened cloud? How could we cope with sudden storms And sun that neither lights nor warms? How would we know what clothes to wear? How would the turbaned goat-herd fare If we were prone to sudden showers, Summonsed by almighty powers? Seditious fires should not be fanned Across our brown and pleasant land.
Global warming? What global warming?
Peter Goulding This morning I awoke with grace Of God, the sun upon my face And, as the day was heaven-sent, I lay there in my canvas tent And marvelled at those bearded loons Who whistle eco-friendly tunes. For aeons now they have insisted Policies are grossly twisted, Repeating, yea, ad infinitum, We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em. They claim we should protect the masses From the scourge of greenhouse gases And “legislation needs reforming” Due to so-called global warming.
(Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse! ‘Tis but a science-fiction farce That Cork and Galway may tomorrah Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah! ‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places Sport the very best oases, And people in glass houses oughta Smell the roses and the water)
And thus I lay in contemplation Of the eco-situation, While outside, my well nourished ass Grazed lightly in the marram grass. Why, just last week, as I recall, I bought a paper at the stall Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar, And read how still those heat-deranged Green activists claim Ireland’s changed! And though I grant in certain ways Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze, I view their words with much regret That they should come across so wet.
Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk, Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke By roaming freely ‘cross the land From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand, No longer go “traditionally,” (By 4 x 4, or SUV) But ride along the harsh terrain By virtue of a camel train. And yes, ‘tis true that anybody Now can cross the Shannon wadi By walking without fear or dread Across the arid river bed And stay as dry as Israelites Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights.
But sandy fields of Athenry, Where still the circling buzzards fly, You’ve only changed by dint of colour From verdant green to somewhat duller. The farmers still protest the rates Of subsidies for figs and dates. And still I see familiar faces At the dromedary races (Where, I grudgingly confirm, The going is routinely “firm”) Where two or three may come together, Still they moan about the weather, And how this year they’ll go to Spain To try and get a bit of rain.
Alarmist eco-friendly warrior, Don’t you think we might be sorrier If our climate were endowed With drizzling rain and blackened cloud? How could we cope with sudden storms And sun that neither lights nor warms? How would we know what clothes to wear? How would the turbaned goat-herd fare If we were prone to sudden showers, Summonsed by almighty powers? Seditious fires should not be fanned Across our brown and pleasant land.
TARQUIN’S ARK
FROM ‘THE GUARDIAN WEEKEND’
My Week
By Petronella Chalfont St Tracy
Janet Fisher
Mon 21st April 2008
a.m. Oh, Joy! Have found delicious characterful pied-a-terre in Spitalfields. All original features, including delightful brick privy in back yard. Kevin the estate agent says Victorian cockney argot for these sweet little houses was ‘slums.’ If offer successful, will rip out hideous water-guzzling flush lavatory in bathroom and restore privy to former glory. Tarquin, my ever-loving, already googling for tin bucket on ebay. Tarquin enthused re prospect of recycling all family poo into fuel for boat he is building in garage in preparation for predicted flooding of London.
p.m. I de-louse Mandela the dachshund, terminating little visitors in bath. This puts Tarquin into blue fug, his Buddhist sensibilities thereby sorely offended. After supper contact little brother Seb on web cam. He is spending gap year in the Artic. Appears to be perched on slab of floating ice. Wearing ski mask over nose and mouth so voice somewhat muffled. Think he said he ate some blubber. Must keep from Tarquin.
Tues
a.m. Horrors! Camilla rings to tell me buffalo mozzarella not to be found in Spitalfields, even for ready money. After thirty mins meditation, followed by ginseng and liquorice infusion, I decide that one can, if needs be, live without buffalo mozzarella. Now kids late for school, and I for pilates class. Bundle Ovid and Ophelia into back of Ever-Loving’s new electric car. Deliver children to St Olaf’s and self to Sanctuary Grange a mere fifteen minutes late.
p.m. Kevin rings to say offer for Spitalfields house gazump’d by local graffiti artist. Deep gloom. Tarquin suggests he taps venerable pa for hedge fund dosh. Phones stately pile and is told by Marjika, venerable pa’s Polish carer, that said ancient is out playing poker at local pub and third wife Mercedes is in Rio (no doubt spending aforementioned dosh). Gloom descends once more. Turn on web cam to see Seb balanced on considerably smaller slab of ice. Think he says is having great time, but looks somewhat alarmed.
Weds
a.m. Joy unconfined! Grafitti artist has secured retrospective at Tate Modern and decided to up sticks to St Tropez. Frantic dash to Waitrose for acceptable bottle of fizz to celebrate.
p.m. Ovid check-mates girl in Albania in online chess tournament. Take children to see Spitalfields house. Joy does not abound. Ophelia peers into privy and makes gagging noises. Tarquin explains re poo recycling and Ophelia pronounces it ‘gross’ and informs us yet again that we have ruined her life. Ovid refuses to go inside house. Says it is scarier than ‘The Ring’ and smells of Granny Chalfont. Viewing aborted and drive back to Clapham passed in pursed-lipped silence.
Thurs
a.m. More gloom. Tarquin learns that planning permission for wind turbine in garden unlikely to be granted for Spitalfields house. Arrive home from school run to find him telling Council Planning Officer that the waters will rise and cover the earth, that he and all his seed will perish and his crops will wither in the field. Poor thing! I haven’t seen him so down-in-the-mouth since Chudbury Old Boys were defeated in the all-Surrey Rugby League.
p.m. Venerable Ma Chalfont phones to inform us that hoodies have invaded Ewell and that she has barricaded herself in the upstairs en suite with Pa’s mauser. Mandela throws up on the aga.
Fri
a.m. Tarquin refuses to come out of garage even for lunch of porcini mushrooms and butternut squash. Meet Camilla in new family-run Italian Restaurant opposite common for Fair Trade de-caff and focaccia.
p.m. Olivia comes home late from school with barbed wire tattoo on neck. Tarquin calls her a chav and Olivia calls him a middle-class wanker. I suggest ginger and ginseng infusions all round to induce calm but Olivia storms out of house and Tarquin to garage. Ovid is check-mated by boy in Botswana and kicks Mandela, who throws up in the cous-cous. Turn on web to see Seb’s eyes and hat appearing above what seems to be white fog. He is waving his hands. Must contact internet provider.
3a.m. Am woken by smoke alarm. Trace to garage, where Olivia has set the boat ablaze.
Sat
a.m. Tarquin googling properties in Pyrenees, which, he says, may remain above sea level at least until Ovid’s gap year. Ophelia throws up on Mandela.
p.m. Seb on six o’clock news. Missing in the Artic. Policeman phones to tell me Venerable Ma Chalfont in custody as she has apparently shot a young black man. Hey, ho! Another week.
(Petronella Chalfont St Tracy is a freelance journalist and writer. Her first novel, ‘Sisters on The Edge’, an account of an imagined meeting between Virginia Woolf and Kylie Minogue, will be published by The Garlic Press in June.)
www.trimswiftfestival.com
