Whitworth in France
 

Yes indeedy and oui mes braves, that is where I shall be for the next week. And, as is well known, the French have only just obtained the electric light, so I will be far from any computer. See youse all in a week, or une semaine as I believe they put it.

Ok, I'm taking over this forum. I think we should all write poems (16 lines max) imagining Whitworth in France.

I can't ! I'm laughing too hard at the thought of the poems that will appear here.

OK, just to get mine in here before Roger and Marion and those dudes put up an act too hard to follow.

***********
You will have a oui big mess, my brave John
if you start out insulting them this way.
They will not take it as a friendly come-on
The French do not know how those games to play.

Though they may be (and are) computer-challenged
they are bookoo well-read and know it all.
And if you don't believe me, you can ask them.
They have been knowing all since Adam's fall.

And they can cook. That's why you're going, no?
And they have wines and cheeses in each stall.
And each has taste and class, each has a bon mot
And if that's not enough, they know it all.

And if that's not enough, the native lingo
though nasal, is the second best on earth.
Just don't extol Anglaise or mutter bingo.
How can the French not salut M. Whitworth?

Flush with euros, Whitworth lands,
Like the Normans in reverse.
Frenchmen stand with open hands
Out to lighten Whitworth's purse.

Whitworth eyes some wine and bread
And stares wistfully at cheese
While exchange rates fill his head,
Mingling with the tasty breeze.

Whitworth tries to watch tv,
But the shows sound Frenchified.
Whitworth now observes that he
Soon will see his patience tried.

Whitworth's brought a book to read,
An historical romance.
Will the second Charles succeed?
All our ears are turned toward France.

Monsieur Jean Wheetworth, bienvenue!
C'est a dire, we welcome you!
We know you'll find our French cuisine
nothing less than tres divine--
especialmente when compared
to your bloody English merde.
Ah! Les fish et les fromages!
Les meats, les salads, les potages!
Les escargots!--not for les wussies!
Go on! Try one! Don't be a pussie!
Dessert! Et puis, do not forget,
un cafe and une cigarette.
Alors! You wave la main and choke
et kvetchez you can't stand le smoke!
Then let us direct you, notre ami,
to le nearest Mickey D.

Marion,

It's overused and clichéd and so worn down that it's almost meaningless in most cases, but I have to say it here because here it's literally true:

LOL

Best laugh of the week.

Thank you!

Steve C.

p.s. Editing back. Janice, Sam, I was in such a hurry to respond to Marion that I didn't even scroll up to see the first post and so I missed yours. Much enjoyed as well. Janice, the repetition of "And if that's not enough, they know it all" at the end of S3 makes the poem. You might almost switch things around a bit so you can end on it. At any rate, saying it once is deliciously obnoxious. But it's the repeating it that's the killer.

Oh, and Marion are you deliberately throwing some Spanish in in L5? It looks like Manuel has crossed the channel from Faulty Towers for the summer or something. At any rate . . . "bloody merde"?!? Ooooouuuuch!

Stephen,
J'adore le franglais! Couldn't resist.
Glad you enjoyed it.
Merci buckets,
Marion

I knew you would do something unbeatable, Marion, and I would be inhibited to even dip a toe in the waters after you have done your triple backflip from the high board.

As Steve says LOL, literally, I did.

That green mist you see following you is my envy, John.

Plus! Plus !

Regard cet homme oo talks in rhyme
avec les mains to 'elp along
'is droll deportment. Every time
'e tips too much, se mettre dedans!
Bifteck aux pommes frites, something nous
eat all the time, 'e will not do.
'E shows off: “Vite, garbure aux fèves
et puis le Gigot au genièvre.
Du pain, du vin and s’il vous plait
un sac au chien for takeaway.”
Les Anglais think belle France is where
we all mange pissaladière.
Mais bifteck aux pommes frites et bière
is what we’re noshing over 'ere.
Coq au vin is rooster stew,
so épigrammes d’agneau to you.

Whitworth in France.

He strolls along the Bois de Boulogne
his pockets are jingling--he’s on his own.
He pauses a moment outside The Lido
and gets a beckon that tweaks his libido.
He toddles in and takes a pew--
he’s joined in a flash--she’s an ingénue ,
a dear, sweet thing--to think men bought her!
Why, this little treasure could be his daughter.
A desire to save her wells in his heart.
“Let’s go to my room” he inveigles the tart.
She flashes a thigh as they share a taxi,
and her décolletage which also distracts. He
intended to read her a Gideon Bible
he’d found in his room, alas, a foible
(he's predisposed to a dram of absinthe)
allows him to fall off his newly found plinth.
She’d brought some along (she knows what she’s at).
In a couple of snifters he’s laid out flat.
The morning comes and the ingénue
Gigi has vanished! His wallet has too.
When he curses La Damn Belle Sans Merci
for weaving her spell on the Rue de Paree.

Janet, the Japanese consider nothing quite so ridiculous as the japonisme-besotted foreigner who comes to them looking for tea ceremonies and then gets upset when it turns out everyone's having coffee and doughnuts instead. They have their own special word for the breed: henna gaijin . . . "weirdo foreigner." The subject of countless jokes on late-night TV. (No relation to the hair-colouring agent, though.)

Jim, nicely done. I'd applaud, but I wouldn't want to give our poor John the clap, hein?

Anyway, Sam you said it. Plus! Plus! Bombs away!


Les spéciaux

Ah les voilà, enfin! Les spéciaux arrivent!
Bonjour Monsieur Whitwort', Madame, I believe . . .
vous trouverez tout préparé à vot' goût,
avec bottes de cuir et fouets en bambou.
Nous sommes très discrets, et----pardon? Ah, non non,
pas d'erreur, je l'ai par coeur, et même le ton
avec lequel vos amis (yesterday on the phone)
m'ont dit, "Whitwort', you know, gets all of his fun
from whipping of arses in well turned-out feet --
at t'rills and amusements he begs to be beat!
He rouses great passions, gets big bucks perverse,
adorns English leathers, will bed-her the worst!

So look out for Whitwort', his pen is in han',
the Internet's consummate Ératomane!"

Étienne de C.

.

Jim,

You've got it! And if I may say so, I think you could top the final couplet easily, and you should.

I wrote four lines rhyming some French words and then got bored with it. Not that either the challenge or John is boring (neVAIR!), but I'd rather be in France than write about John W. in France...

This is as far as I got

Please tell me porquoi
Whitworth is abroad.
Is he at a spa?
Is he being thawed?
Should we hip-hurrah?
Should we applaud?

which is a lot further than I got!

Ce qui est une valeur d'esprit?
More than your boring Sorbonne degree!

Sour Raisins?

Regardez le crap, Jean, we have written ici,
quand vous were out partying en gay Paree.
C'est justes desserts, when you laissez your flock
pour faire whoopie en France, retourner a such schlock!

And don't think hiding in Paree excuses
you from any cricketing abuses.
Delaying tactics used by Mr Strauss
were understood in this Australian house.
Attacks of vapors, medical attention,
diversions too predictable to mention.
Time moves in ways mysterious but wait,
another day too dread to contemplate.
The boomerang of fate is not found wanting,
it curves to test your nerves with Ricky Ponting.

http://www.smh.com.au/news/sport/cri...337053867.html
Ahem! I spoke too soon. What a disaster!
Howls of derision, hoots of Pommy laughter.

Monsieur Wheetworth, gare aux souris...

Monsieur Wheetworth, while you're away,
voila comment les mice will play.
And who takes over while you carouse?
D'accord! Sam Gwynn -- le Alpha mouse.

Marion, if I had to pick someone to take with me on a desert island, I would pick you. I would be laughing all the time when I wasn't straining to see a sail on the horizon.

Alpha mouse indeed. You made my day.

Thanks Terese, I believe the couplet reflects my intentions better now.

Janice,

A desert island sounds nice. I can't think of anyone I'd rather go with than you (with the possible exception of James Franco):D

Move over Gilligan!

The CLAP Mr Collington. I'll have you know I was staying with my wife and my sister.Now which...?

Thank you all for the poems which are in my memory locked. Sam has the best of it, of course. But actually the holiday was very cheap and I came back with forty Euros. Perhaps it's because it doesn't lookm like money. Note for Sam the gambler. Theer are many CASINOS here but they all turn out to be Supermarkets. For the record I was not in Paree (where it always rains in my experience) but down South by a river called the Ardeche. Good place to be, I tell you. People very nice indeed, children well-behaved, teenagers likewise (can you believ it?). All the men look like ageing Belmondos and walk out with very small dogs. 'Bonsoir Monsieur. Vous avex un chien tres commode!'

I have to say the food is better than ours. I'm not talking abouit the CUISINE, but the fruit and vegetables. Peaches and nectarines and apricots you don't get anywhere else (except Italy), tomatoes the size of cricket balls. And sausages!!!

I bathed in the river every day, together with many french people and their dogs. The river was surrounded by very noisy frogs, just waiting to be deep fried.

Frech trains are the finest in the world, A series of double-decker buses that move at 200 miles per hour.

As for the cricket, Janet, it looks OK to me. Oz on the run. As for complaing about timewasting, what you have to do is bowl them out. As we are about to. Watch and learn. Strauss for ever! I also like our bald wicketkeeper with the iron gloves. Poor old Rickie. He wasn't caught. He was lbw. Note for non-cricketers. You really don't want to know

John,
Welcome back.
New Zealand rivals France and Italy when it comes to stone fruit. (The South Island that is.) And the volcanic soil north of Wellington grows vegetables with that miraculous Italian flavour. (Pity about the cooks--well there are some terrific cooks there now, but our old mums used to boil everything.)

Yes Australia is a bit sad in the cricket department. I listen uncomprehendingly with an earphone when I can't sleep and I can tell by the cheers from the stand that England is doing well. I thought it was going a bit far when one of the commentators called Ponting "Australia's Napoleon";-)

(I love French cooking. I was kidding.)

I yield the forum back to le maitre.