[1522] Slough

Continuing the theme...

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
  Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
  Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town --
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
  For twenty years,

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
  In women's tears,

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
  And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
  They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
  To Maidenhead

And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
  But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
  And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
  The earth exhales.

	-- John Betjeman

My thanks to Frank O'Shea (the instigator of our current theme -- "The Poet
Cranky") for re-introducing this poem to me. (I'd read it in the past, but
for some reason it failed to stick in my mind).

Betjeman has been described as the poet of nostalgia, but what I like about
today's poem is not so much the fond remembrance of things past which runs
like an undercurrent through almost all his work, as it is the unabashed
loathing with which the poet describes the industrial wasteland that Slough
has become. I do enjoy an old-fashioned, no-holds-barred rant...

thomas.

[Links]

Here's some more about Slough:
  http://www.fact-index.com/s/sl/slough.html

Here's a biography of John Betjeman:
  http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/brookej/btjmn/index.htm

[this poem is archived, accessible and awaiting your comments at]
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1522.html
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From: "Amanda McGowan" <Amanda_McGowan@>

Wonderful. I was fortunate/unfortunate enough to live in Slough for
seven months of my life. Whilst there, I read an advertisement in the
local paper. It was placed by the council and was trying to entice
businesses to move to Slough. At the start of the advertisement it had
the first line of this poem. 

From: "gerald" <hodgesweldingtapes@>

From Gerald McCunn

In my youth, I lived near and worked in Slough. It had - and still has -
a huge, multi-racial immigrant population and a vibrant, successful
economy offering well-paid employment at all levels. It produces goods
and services essential to everybody's well-being and comfort. Despite
his charming, assumed detachment from the prosaic, Betjeman was a
wealthy subscriber to the consumer society. Betjeman did not live in
Slough or from it.This poem is not even graced with "nimbyism". It is
plain "knocking".

I acknowledge the talent and have always enjoyed the poetry of Betjeman
but it all too frequently describes a world of drones. The beauty of
industry is an acquired taste but those, such as Betjeman, who face
television cameras, wear clothes, ride in cars, consume pharmaceuticals
or ride in wheelchairs, should endeavour to acquire it.

Slough is in fact a fine microcosm of what British society should be.

From: "P. Srikant" <srikant_p@>

David Brent's masterly analysis of this poem in the
BBC television series "The Office" (series 1, cut
short in what was broadcast, but present in full as an
extra scene in the DVD) can be found at 

http://homepage.mac.com/elliottday/theoffice/quotes1.html

    “This is the poem Slough, by Sir John Betjemen,
probably never been here in his life. ‘Come friendly
bombs and fall on Slough, it isn’t fit for humans
now.’ Right, I don’t think you solve town planning
problems by dropping bombs all over the place, he’s
embarrassed himself there. Next ‘In labour saving
homes with care, their wives frizz out peroxide hair,
and dry it in synthetic air, and paint their nails-’
they wanna look nice, what’s the matter, doesn’t he
like girls? ‘And talks of sports and makes of cars,
and various bogus Tudor bars, and daren’t look up and
see the stars, but belch instead.’ What's he on about?
What, has he never burped? ‘Come friendly bombs and
fall on Slough, to get it ready for the plough. The
cabbages are coming now, the earth exhales-’ He’s the
only cabbage round here. And they made him a knight of
the realm. Overrated.”




		
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