It may have been some childhood reading of prisoner of war stories that fuelled a question that has stayed with me for years. If I was incarcerated without recourse to any other form of entertainment, what cultural gems would I be able to access from my memory?
In Victorian times it was normal to have a repertoire of songs and poems which could be performed at will to delight friends and family in the parlour between games of Charades and pass-the-parcel.
I suspect many mature readers still recall poems learned by rote as children, like The Listeners by Walter de la Mare
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
How about Shelley’s Ozymandias?
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies,
Yes, I thought you’d know it.
Personally, I can recite the entire poem Silly Old Baboon by Spike Milligan as a party piece, along with Monty Python’s sketch about an elderly German gentleman with a name that takes a full twenty seconds to say. And I’ll never forget the antipodean bonds formed on my OE when a bunch of Kiwis all flawlessly recited ‘We are the blokes from down on the farm, we really know our cheese.’
Yep, that’ll keep me entertained when I’m banged up in solitary. Or when sunstrike wipes out any electronic play-back device.
But I fear our culture is declining. Those from later generations may not be lucky enough to have such literary gems in their heads and will have to make do with words like -
What do they make dreams for
When you got them jeans on
What do we need steam for
You the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky
Hey, hey, hey
You wanna hug me
Hey, hey, hey
What rhymes with hug me?
Hey, hey, hey
Ah yes, the classy refrains from Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. Give me Spike Milligan any day.
In Victorian times it was normal to have a repertoire of songs and poems which could be performed at will to delight friends and family in the parlour between games of Charades and pass-the-parcel.
I suspect many mature readers still recall poems learned by rote as children, like The Listeners by Walter de la Mare
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
How about Shelley’s Ozymandias?
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies,
Yes, I thought you’d know it.
Personally, I can recite the entire poem Silly Old Baboon by Spike Milligan as a party piece, along with Monty Python’s sketch about an elderly German gentleman with a name that takes a full twenty seconds to say. And I’ll never forget the antipodean bonds formed on my OE when a bunch of Kiwis all flawlessly recited ‘We are the blokes from down on the farm, we really know our cheese.’
Yep, that’ll keep me entertained when I’m banged up in solitary. Or when sunstrike wipes out any electronic play-back device.
But I fear our culture is declining. Those from later generations may not be lucky enough to have such literary gems in their heads and will have to make do with words like -
What do they make dreams for
When you got them jeans on
What do we need steam for
You the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky
Hey, hey, hey
You wanna hug me
Hey, hey, hey
What rhymes with hug me?
Hey, hey, hey
Ah yes, the classy refrains from Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. Give me Spike Milligan any day.
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