Aussies are naive in thinking Britain’s just like going home,
That it’s just like Oz, but older – welcome waits where e’er you roam.
We shop at Tesco, ride the buses, dine and even drink the beer.
Everything seems quite familiar -- travel’s just a doddle here!
So off we stride, puffed up with pride (which always goes before a fall)
And abruptly find we’re strangers in a strange land after all.
Town and village names make sense to no one but a native Brit;
And if the place sounds quite outrageous, what of those who live in it?
Hickling, Dorking, Didling, Mucking – just how does one dork or hickle?
Blickling, Climping, Fulking, Woking – fie on those who fulk and blickle!
The hapless tourist, scanning roadmaps, cannot help but be appalled,
Wondering if their destination really is like what it’s called.
Does the real estate game boom in Wyre Piddle or Pratt’s Bottom?
Do the white-shoe salesmen thrive in Glapwell, Goonbell, Cark and Potton?
Boohay, Boohay, burning bright in the forests of the night,
Whoever gave thy name to thee deserves their anonymity!
Who explored the Fishpond Bottom, Mousehole, Looe and Wookey Hole?
Who the craftsmen who invented the Lumbutt and the Mankinhole?
Do parents threaten Nether Wallop to their naughty offspring still,
Or promise them that, if they’re good, then one day they will see Toy’s Hill?
Who knew the tipsy Parson Drove a full Curload of Black Dog strays
Off to Curland and Dog Village, from Beer Vicarage one day?
Did Old Gore make the Butchers Cross, or was it Ham that made them frown?
Were they Cowbit? Did the Cowbridge only lead to Donkey Town?
Do Sheepwash farmers hire hands who learnt their trade in Enterpen?
Burnt Houses folks – were they the forebears of those hardy Burntfoot men?
What’s the best bet for a chap who wants to catch the ladies’ Eye?
Earthy, like Stud Green and Tumble, or elegant, like Matching Tye?
Should males approaching mid-life crisis flock to Studland’s sanctuary,
Slowly fade in bleak Grimoldsby, or go straight to Old Sodsbury?
Folks who’ve been Knockdown and Hurtmore -- do they head for Cripplesease?
Just how Clapworthy is Poxwell? Is Upper Dicker just a tease?
It’s no wonder Aussie tourists can’t wait to get off the plane,
Back to old familiar places, ones with normal-sounding names,
Like Betoota, Borroloola, Boggabri and Dunnedoo,
Wangaratta, Errabiddy, Cocklebiddy, Jamberoo,
Geebung, Gerrigong, Wodonga, Indooroopilly, Ulladulla,
Humpty Doo, Warracknabeal, Dubbo, Cunna-bloody-mulla,
Mutdapilly, Koolyanobbing, Burpengary, Mundijong,
Wagga Wagga, Oodnadatta, Nar-Nar-Goon, and Humpybong.
How would you prefer to answer, when you’re asked where you are from?
Cringe and mutter “Piddletrenthide”, or loud and proud say “WONGLEPONG!”
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Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,
I do like to be beside the sea!
I do like to stroll along the Prom, Prom, Prom
When the gale-force winds blow like an atom bomb!
Oh, I do like to play at Snakes and Ladders
While the pensioners doze from lunch ‘til tea,
And the cabaret decide that they’d better go and hide
Beside the seaside, beside the sea!
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Who was she, what was she like?
[Mildred]
She must have had sisters, and a mother (at least to begin with),
[a daughter of]
certainly a Father, a pious scholar
[The Right Reverend etc,
Lord Bishop of Carlisle]
and, one presumes, a gentleman.
[of Rydall Hall, Baronet].
A genteel God-fearing dutiful daughter, then, and later wife
[Edward Stanley of Ponsonby Hall Esquire]
and widow.
[Relict of the above].
Mother as well,
[an affectionate Parent]
who in motherhood knew both joy
[whose maternal tenderness…]
and loss,
[the only Surviving of her Issue]
and, as mothers do, found the strength to bear the one with the other
[exemplary Fortitude & christian Resignation]
because she must.
What of Edward Stanley Esq.?
Was he a kind and loving husband, who grieved with her at each fresh loss,
or yet another cross to be borne
[in trying scenes of domestic Affliction]?
When he finally was gone, was she bereaved or relieved?
How long did she live a widow?
[Died 1789, aged 71].
Was there a time at least when she was simply
Mildred Stanley, herself,
not daughter, wife or mother of the above;
or did she meekly
[christian Resignation]
remove herself to the Dower House of Ponsonby Hall
and into the shadow of
[her only Son]
George Edward Stanley Esquire,
to whom, at least
[in grateful Remembrance]
the memory of her, on her own
(no listing of the virtues of the elder Stanley),
mattered enough to be preserved in stone
[caused this Monument to be erected]
though she herself was not
[mingled here with Dust and Ashes].
I wonder though, was it humility,
hubris, or a sudden panicked awareness
[such Alas! Is the humbling lot]
of his own mortality, that caused George Edward
[the only Surviving of her Issue]
to have his own name also graven here?
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We’re heading home to Aussie on the London red-eye flight:
Our hearts are very heavy – nor are we two bloody light!
As our “hostess with the mostest”, Jean has cared for us too well,
But it’s worked both ways for her and Ed – their diet’s shot to hell.
They watch their weight religiously, using Canderel and Flora,
But Jean’s willpower melts like jelly when a gateau’s set before ‘er.
Jean can’t resist a bargain, see, so Tesco lines its coffers
While her plastic card runs red-hot with cheap deals and special offers.
Our Eddie’s keen to shed some bulk off tummy, thighs and hips,
So he only has two serves of pud., and no gravy on his chips.
Our Jean’s a champion singer, too, and her talent’s much sought after:
Folks’ eyes light up when Jeannie’s voice rings out and lifts the rafters.
Her spouse’s eyes do things as well, when his darling’s voice he hears:
They gently close, then roll heavenward when “Ed-DIEE!” strikes his ears.
Ed has the patience of a saint, I’ve heard our Tony say,
(But then, compared to Tony, Ghengis Khan would seem that way):
He lovingly hangs garlands so our Yule is bright and gay;
And nurtures potted hyacinths so they’ll bloom for Christmas Day,
All clustered in the conservatory, sheltered from frost and dew,
To scent the air and please the eye with pink, and white, and blue.
But what is that malodorous lump, among the blossoms spotted?
It’s our Tony, hibernating – and well and truly potted!
But now it’s time for us to say goodnight, God bless, good-bye,
With hopes we’ll see you all again in Aussie, bye and bye.
So in farewell, I’ll leave you with a few well-chosen words:
If kind hearts are more than coronets, then bugger the House of Lords!
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