Serious Injury to a Soldier: a story

Stephen Collins had had a hard life. His mother had died when he was very young and his father, a sergeant-major in the Army, never thought that his son would ever come to anything. Stephen was constantly berated by his father for not being manly enough – in other words for not being a carbon copy of himself.

It was therefore out of a sense of devilment that Stephen chose his career path. He joined the Army, and was even accepted into his father’s old regiment – the Blues and Royals of the Household Cavalry – but not as a fighting soldier. Instead he trained as a nurse and became a medical orderly. His father was therefore always faced with the dilemma of whether to think of his son as a brave soldier or an effeminate nurse.

Being a nurse did not exempt Stephen from the physical training needed to accompany fighting men into battle. He would be of no use to anyone if he could not carry a wounded man back to the safety of a field hospital. He therefore went through a whole series of training exercises, on the Brecon Beacons and elsewhere, that would have defeated many a lesser man. He also learned to shoot, and was reckoned to be one of the best shots in his unit.

The training was not merely for the purpose of preparing soldiers for potential conflicts, because at that time – the early months of 1982 – big trouble was brewing in the South Atlantic. Nobody had heard of the Falkland Islands before this time, but anyone who was alive then would never forget them. The military junta that ruled Argentina invaded the islands and the British Government, led by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, decided that the only justifiable answer was to declare war and send a large task force – comprising all the Armed Services – to seize back the islands and return them to their status as a British colony.

Stephen therefore fully expected to be part of this force, but fate was to decide differently and in a particularly bizarre way. While standing guard outside an important building at Windsor’s Combermere Barracks, he only took a passing interest in the maintenance work being done on the nearby expanse of lawn. However, as the large lawnmower passed within a few yards of him it picked up a stone that flew across and hit Stephen with the force of a bullet. It went into his right calf muscle and spun around inside his leg.

At the time he was not aware that the stone had caused so much damage, but during the night he was in so much pain that he had to be admitted to hospital where an operation was performed to cut out the dead tissue.

That put an end to any prospect of Stephen being sent to the Falklands. Indeed, he was still in hospital when casualties of the war started arriving back in the country a few weeks later. He was in Ward 10A of the Cambridge Military Hospital which specialised in dirty wounds and infections. Some of his fellow patients were in a bad way, having lost limbs or been the victims of anti-personnel mines.

Most of the patients bore their wounds with great composure and courage, despite knowing that they would never be able to resume the lives they had known. There was even room for humour, and Stephen was the unwitting cause of one of the funnier moments of the Falklands aftermath.

The Falklands War led to a huge surge of public support for the soldiers, much of it sponsored by newspapers such as the Sun and Daily Mirror. People were very generous, and items such as colour TVs and sound systems turned up on the ward as a result. Cigarettes and beer – which are not normally regarded as suitable items for hospital patients – also appeared, and it was the beer that led to the incident involving Stephen.

One day they were visited by a full colonel, who took the beer donations as his opportunity to make a name for himself as a caring, sharing commander who fully understood his men. He therefore armed himself with a couple of bottles as he approached each bed, chatted to the patient and handed over the beer. Each man told his story about where and how he had been wounded, telling the tale about what had happened at Tumbledown Mountain, or aboard the Sir Galahad that had taken a direct hit with the loss of 48 lives.

And then the colonel reached Stephen’s bed.

"Where were you hit, soldier?” he asked. “How did it happen? Were you at Bluff Cove or Goose Green?”

“Not Goose Green, sir. Windsor Green” said Stephen.

“I don’t understand”, said the colonel as he handed him the beer. “Was that a private name for one of the actions?”

“No sir. Windsor. Where the Queen lives.”

“What? So how you were wounded? A mishap on the firing range?”

“No sir. A lawnmower accident.”

“A lawnmower?” The colonel was getting cross.

“Yes sir. A large Atco. I never saw it coming.”

The colonel was clearly in no mood for timewasters. He promptly snatched back the beer and marched off down the ward.

If laughter is the best medicine, the roar of it that convulsed the ward after the colonel had left must have done as much good as Stephen might have achieved had he actually seen any Falklands action. Needless to say, Stephen did not go short when it came to sharing out the beer.

© John Welford

In the Library: a story

I was working in the university library, doing a spot of shelving, when I came across a mobile phone that somebody had left on one of the shelves. Just as I was about to pick it up, with a view to taking it to Lost Property, it started to ring. A hand reached past me and picked up the phone. A finger pressed the green button and a man started to speak into it.

 We don’t normally approve of people making and taking mobile phone calls in the library stacks, but it was too late to stop this one. The volume setting on the phone was quite high, and I was therefore able to hear both sides of the conversation that followed.

 “Hi there”, said the man, who looked to be a postgraduate student from an Arab country, of which the University had recruited a considerable number in recent years. He was well dressed and had an expensive looking diamond ring on his marriage finger. His perfect white teeth flashed as he smiled broadly on hearing a deeply accented female voice that said “Hello darling” to him.

 “I’m on the Selfridge’s website”, she said, “and I want your opinion”.

 “Sure”, he replied.

 “I’ve found this lovely bag. It’s a Valentino, just what I need, but it costs nearly £3,000. I thought I’d better check with you before I order it. It is your credit card after all”.

 “No problem”, said the man.

 “And I also thought I’d check the P&O site to see what we can do for next year’s cruise. I know you said we should economise this time, and just do seven nights in the Med, but how about 62 nights round the World, via Singapore, Sydney, Wellington, Hawaii and Barbados? I could book it now if you like, only £9,600 for each of us?”

 “Sounds great”, said the man, “You just go ahead and do that”.

 As you can imagine, I was agog at overhearing this conversation and all thoughts of interrupting it had left my head, especially as the lady with the dusky voice had not finished yet.

 “You know you said I needed a little car to run around in while you’re busy at the University?” she said.

 “Sure”, said the man. “Anything for you.”

 “Well, I’ve come across this wonderful Mercedes Roadster that would absolutely fit the bill. Mind you, it might be a bit more expensive than you were expecting, at £48,000.”

 The man did not seem to be at all perturbed. The teeth and the ring flashed in unison as he purred down the line: “Nothing’s too much for my darling wife. Of course you must have it. Only – I am in the library at the moment, and the librarian is giving me a strange look, so I’d better hang up now.”

 With that, the man ended the call and turned towards me. By this time his audience had grown somewhat, as every student within earshot had gathered round to listen to what was going on.

 “I’m so sorry”, said the man. “You were just about to take this phone to Lost Property, weren’t you? Do carry on - I’m sure the owner, whoever it is, will be very keen to get it back”.

© John Welford

The Tailor of Horsemarket

This is a story that is part fact and part fiction. My great-great-grandfather would have been at work in his tailor's shop in Horsemarket at the time of Charles Dickens's visit to Barnard Castle, but whether the two ever met is pure speculation!

The Tailor of Horsemarket

On the 2^nd of February 1838 a tailor was hard at work at the front of his shop in Barnard Castle’s Horsemarket when he looked up to see two smartly dressed young men watching him through the window. He beckoned them to come inside.

“Good morning”, he said in his strong County Durham accent, “You don’t look to be from round these parts. I’m not sure that my skills are up to making clothes like you two are wearing.”

“That’s not a problem.” said one of the visitors. “I hope you don’t mind being watched, but you reminded me of a time in my own young life when I worked in a factory window and everyone stared at me from the street. May I ask your name?”

“My name’s John Welford. And you?”

“This is Charles Dickens, the writer”, said the other young man. “Surely you have read The Pickwick Papers?”

“I don’t read”, said the tailor. “I’ve had to work hard all my life – no time for an education”.

“Please excuse my friend Mr Browne”, said Dickens, “his early years were not quite as poverty-stricken as yours or mine. He is an artist who goes by the name of Phiz and he has kindly agreed to illustrate my latest novel.”

“So what service can I give you?” asked John Welford. “I am neither a writer nor an artist, merely a tailor”.

Charles Dickens explained. “You spoke a moment ago about education, and that is what concerns us. I read recently about a court case that took place a few years ago in which a schoolmaster from around here, William Shaw, was accused of terrible cruelty to the boys at his school, some of whom went blind. I have since found out that children are sent up here because schools like Shaw’s give no holidays and parents who want to forget about their children can do so for years at a time. I want to write about these schools and get them closed down if I can, but in order to do that I need to know exactly what is going on. It is local people like you who hear stories, and so if you know anything I’d like to hear it”.

“Oh I can tell you some stories all right”, said John Welford, who had not stopped sewing since his visitors had entered the shop. “But I can tell you one thing to start with, and that is that William Shaw is by no means the worst of the schoolmasters – he’s just the only one who’s been caught.”

And so the tailor worked on while the writer and the artist sat on a bench and he told them everything he knew about the local schools, based on what his customers had passed on to him over the years. He told them about the abuse, the savage beatings, the terrible food, the starvation rations and the frequent administration of “brimstone and treacle”. He also told them that they should visit the local churchyard where they would find the graves of children who had died from their treatment.

“Some of these schools are hell-holes. I’m glad I’m a poor man and can’t afford to send my son George to one of them.

“And do the boys howl! Folk say they can hear the screams from half a mile away when the birch is being applied. Whack! Whack! Whack! For hour after hour! There’s precious little learning done, I can tell you.”

When the tailor had finished, Charles Dickens and Hablot Browne took their leave. Before he did so, Dickens turned to John Welford and asked him: “Did you say that your son George doesn’t go to school?”

“That is true, Mr Dickens. The Vicar will take pupils for reading and writing lessons at his Sunday School, and treat the youngsters as a Christian should, but I can’t even afford the few pennies he charges.”

“I hope you can do so one day, Mr Welford. Being able to read opens so many doors, and your son could have a great future ahead of him”.

As they walked over the road back to their hotel, the King’s Head, John Welford’s words went through Charles Dickens’s mind. “Do the boys howl?” he said. “That sounds like a good name for the school in my new book – how do you like the sound of ‘Dotheboys Hall’?”

“That sounds fine”, said Hablot Browne. “And what name do you propose for your schoolmaster? You can’t call him William Shaw.”

“I thought I’d call him Squeers”, said Dickens. “How about ‘Welford Squeers’ as a way of acknowledging the help of our new friend?”

“You can’t use his name for a character like Shaw!” said Browne. “How about ‘Wackford’ instead?”

So that was what Charles Dickens did. Wackford Squeers became the head teacher at Dotheboys Hall and the new novel started production before the month was out.

Not long after, a slim package arrived at the tailor’s shop in Horsemarket. It contained the first monthly part of Nicholas Nickleby and a shiny new shilling. John Welford had to ask the Vicar what was written on the accompanying note and was told that Charles Dickens had sent the shilling as payment for lessons for young George. Every month a new instalment and another shilling arrived, and George, helped by the Vicar, was soon able to read the story to his father.

Eleven years later a much less welcome visitor came to Barnard Castle. This was cholera, which killed 145 people in the town, including John Welford. He was buried in the mass grave that was eventually marked by a simple stone cross outside the parish church, and his family is recorded as having been aided by the Cholera Relief Fund that was established to replace the bedding and blankets that had to be burned in the belief that this would stop the spread of the disease.

George Welford survived and in time passed on his new love of learning to his own son, Alexander, who became a Primitive Methodist Minister and left Barnard Castle to take his ministry to other parts of England. Alexander’s clock still ticks away as his own grandson, another John, writes this story in a room lined with books, including some by and about Charles Dickens, including one with the name John Welford on the title page.

© John Welford

I Looked Over the Edge and Gasped

(This story comes from a challenge to write 1000 words beginning with "I looked over the edge and gasped".)

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I looked over the edge and gasped. Far below were jagged rocks and an angry sea – certain death were I to fall over. But what was the choice? Behind – chasing me to the edge – was a herd of cows that saw me as their enemy. My choice was to be trampled to death or take my chance with the rocks and the sea.

But it wasn’t the rocks that had prompted my gasp. It was the herd of fears that were climbing the cliff and coming in my direction. They were the fears I remembered from my past, that had terrified me at some stage in my life and which my subconscious mind had never allowed me to forget.

I could see my five-year-old self on my first day at Stanley Green Infants School. My mother had left me at the school gate, thinking that I would be in safe hands from that point on. What she didn’t know was that this was the gate that the older children used, and that younger kids who approached from this direction had to walk through a playground full of giants in order to reach their own assembly point. These monsters were six-year-old children who had been going to school for a whole year and were highly trained in the art of bullying five-year-olds – very scary!

A much more tangible fear then rushed up the cliff towards me. I was on my bike, aged about 13, and was cycling along the main road through Hamworthy heading for the Fire Station. I was in the Scouts and taking a course leading to the Firefighters Badge, so this was a regular Friday evening trip for a few weeks that year. However, I had just reached the junction with Lake Road when I realised that the guy on a motorbike turning out of Lake Road had not seen me and was not going to stop. Years before I had witnessed an accident when a cyclist had been badly injured after being hit by a motorbike, and now it was my turn to be left as a mangled heap in the middle of the road.

These fears were coming at me in no particular order. Next it was a moment at Oakdale Junior School, aged seven, when I had been caught talking in class and threw a complete wobbly because Mrs Moore had only seen me telling me Michael Burgess to shut up and Michael was the real culprit because he had started it. Our classroom was in a hut across the road from the main school and Mrs Moore used her phone to summon Mr Boyd, the head teacher, who everyone knew had a cane in his office that he used on very naughty children. When Mr Boyd arrived he grabbed hold of my arm and dragged me back to his office. I was literally kicking and screaming – I landed a pretty good kick on Mr Boyd’s shin. The worst was bound to happen now.

The next fear was a real life-threatener. I was driving along the A36 towards Salisbury, at the time when I was working at the Technical College and spent the weekends with my wife-to-be in Weston-Super-Mare. On this Monday morning I was running late and got stuck behind a slow-moving lorry. Surely there would be a chance to overtake at some point? At last the opportunity presented itself – I pulled out and made my move. However, round the next bend came an even larger lorry, heading straight for me, and I realised that I had made a wrong decision. My elderly VW Beetle simply did not have the acceleration to overtake in time and my only chance was for the drivers of both lorries to slam on their brakes and let me squeeze through the narrow gap that presented itself. Would they or wouldn’t they?

Throughout school and college I had performed in a number of plays and Gilbert and Sullivan operas, and a whole crop of fears revolved around forgetting my lines or falling over the furniture. Singing the Admiral’s patter song in HMS Pinafore was a particular fear – there were six verses and every possibility of getting them in the wrong order. However, the fear that came closest to me up the cliff was from a much earlier performance, when it was not my mistake but a fellow actor’s that nearly did for me. This was during my second year at Poole Grammar School and our English teacher wanted to present a translated medieval French play – the Farce of Master Pierre Pathelin – in front of the whole school. I somehow landed the part of the judge. During the trial scene, in which the plot elements come together and all is resolved, one of the other boys jumped about ten lines, leaving me with a real dilemma. Should I carry on with the line that followed the one he should have spoken or the one that followed the one he actually used? Either way the result could have been utter confusion but I had no time in which to decide the best course. 

And then another fear popped its head over the cliff edge and I was again back to very early childhood and on a family picnic in a field somewhere in Dorset. During the picnic a herd of sheep had come into the field and were now ranged across the path leading to where we had parked the car. I was utterly terrified of those fierce white wooly beasts and had no recourse other than tantrum mode.

On that occasion the sheep, not surprisingly, fled in just as much panic as I was displaying, although their alarmed “baas” only added to my terror. However, those baas seemed to be coming from all round me – not only from the cliff but behind me. I looked round and saw that the angry cows had metamorphosed into sheep. There was no longer anything to fear.

None of those early fears had been fulfilled. I was not bullied by six-year-olds, Mr Boyd did not cane me, I escaped from the bike accident with only a few bruises and my stupid overtaking move taught me a useful lesson and made me a better driver. I never forgot my lines and nobody seemed to notice the Pierre Pathelin hiccup. 

Nightmares are just that – transitory fears that have gone in the morning. However, you can learn from past fears and apply the lessons to the future - if you’ve got any sense.

© John Welford

The Doctor Looked at Me

This story started with a challenge to write something original beginning with the line: "The doctor looked at me - he wasn't smiling".

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The Doctor looked at me. He wasn’t smiling. Laughing his head off would be a more accurate description.

“Are you serious?” he said, “You want to hire the Tardis and me for a day so that you can give William Shakespeare a history lesson?”

“That’s the plan”, I said. “Dear old Bill wrote some wonderful plays, but he was a bit wayward with his facts. I think it would help him to see things in perspective if he knew what really happened. I’m not suggesting that we get him to rewrite his plays, merely that we snatch him from a time shortly before he died – after he had finished writing – and let him know the truth so that he doesn’t die in ignorance.”

So that’s what we did. We parked the Tardis round the back of his house in Stratford-on-Avon in April 1616 and surprised him when he popped out for a quick visit to the privy.

“Who the Hell are you?” he said, having apparently forgotten to speak in Shakespearean English.

“This is the Doctor and I’m just some bloke from the 21^st century”, I said. Oddly enough, he seemed to find this statement far less puzzling than I would have expected. I suspect that he had been getting seriously sozzled on ale for the preceding hour or two - hence the need for the privy visit – and so was able to take such extraordinary statements at face value.

“What’s this odd-looking box?” he asked. “Is it a new sort of privy? I really need a pee.”

“Pop inside and have a look”, said the Doctor, “It’s the second door on the left and mind you flush it when you’ve finished”.

As soon as William had disappeared through the door of the Tardis the Doctor and I followed him in and therefore had him trapped when he had finished in the loo. Once we had calmed him down and got him used to the idea of the Tardis being bigger on the inside than the outside, I told him that the plan was to put him right over some of his historical facts.

I had originally thought about going back to the time of Julius Caesar and showing him that clocks didn’t strike three or any other hour in Ancient Rome, on the grounds that they hadn’t been invented yet, but this seemed a bit negative to me and not a very good use of the Tardis, so I reckoned on starting with a trip to London in pursuit of the truth about King Richard III and the Princes in the Tower.

We therefore landed in a pleasant looking room in the Constable’s house at the Tower of London, which was where King Richard’s two nephews, Edward and Richard, were being looked after in a reasonable degree of comfort. When the Tardis door opened there were the two princes, staring in astonishment at the mid-20^th century Police telephone box that had suddenly appeared in their room.

Naturally we had to go through the same explanations for the princes that we had for William Shakespeare, and they also wanted to use the onboard loo, but once all that was done we needed to explain a few things to them about their likely fate if they stayed where they were.

“But I’m the King”, said young Edward. “Uncle Richard has just placed us here so that all the arrangements can be made for my coronation. I shall have a long and glorious reign as King Edward V.”

“But what you don’t know”, I said, “is that your lovely Uncle Richard is – as we speak – getting Parliament to pass a law that says that your mummy and daddy weren’t really married and that therefore the two of you are - pardon the word – bastards”.

“What?” said Edward, “So you mean to say that he’s going to be King instead of me? The bastard!”

“To be perfectly accurate”, said William, “He’s not the bastard – you are.”

 “And it also proves”, he said, turning to me, “that I wasn’t wrong about King Richard. He did seize the throne and murder the princes.”

“Murder?” said young Prince Richard. “But I don’t want to die. What can we do?”

“You can escape”, I said, “courtesy of the good Doctor here and this box, which is called the Tardis, by the way.”

We therefore hustled the boys aboard and soon whisked them away from the Tower to freedom.

“You see”, I said to Bill Shakespeare, “history only relates that the boys disappeared from the Tower. You, and many other people, assumed that they had been murdered but there was never any proof. Now you know what really happened.”

“I see”, said William, “but what happened to them after they escaped?”

“I’ll show you,” I said. “I think you’ll like this bit”.

We landed in a forest somewhere in the heart of England. We ushered the boys off the Tardis and I gave them instructions about what they should do next. I told them that it was essential that they forgot all about their past lives and told nobody who they really were. They should also split up, because there was too great a risk of them giving the game away if they were overheard talking to each other and let slip some incriminating details.

They didn’t much like the last bit, but accepted it as necessary for their safety.

We watched from a safe distance as the boys wandered off and were met by two families who were taking a stroll in the woods. Before long the boys had gone off with them, one to each family.

“So are they safe now?” asked William. “Is that the end of the story?”

“Not quite”, I said. “You see, the boys are going to be adopted by those families, whose names are Shakespeare and Arden. Young Edward Shakespeare will grow up and have a family of his own, as will Richard Arden. They will have grandchildren – John and Mary – who will marry each other and a have a child called …”

“William!” said William. “You mean that I am descended from the Princes in the Tower? That’s wonderful news!”

William buzzed with excitement as we made the journey back to his own time.

“You know”, he said, “when you arrived I was just about to go down to the pub to meet my old playwriting mates Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton. I can’t wait to tell them my news. Perhaps we can write a new play between us that tells the true story about the princes and William Shakespeare’s ancestry.”

But of course that never happened. That was the day on which William Shakespeare was taken violently ill – maybe the result of too much alcohol and over-excitement – and he died a few days later without having had the chance to tell anybody.

Thus the story never got told – until now, that is.

© John Welford

Fairies Versus Witches: a story

Macbeth had a bit of a shock as he crossed the blasted heath. There – gathered round a camp fire – were three mysterious other-worldly figures, namely Oberon, Titania and Puck.

“Wotcha”, said Oberon, “How are you doing?”

“What are you doing here?” asked Macbeth. ”I was expecting witches, not fairies.”

“Union rules”, said Titania. “We’re all members of the NUSB”.

“That’s the National Union of Supernatural Beings”, Puck added. “The witches are due their tea break so we’re filling in while they have it. Don’t worry, they’ll be back later.”

“And in the meantime”, said Oberon, “We’re at your service”.

“If I recall correctly”, said Macbeth, “You’re in the love potion business, and I don’t think that’s something I need.”

“We have a few other sidelines”, said Titania. “How about three wishes?”

“Three wishes?” said Macbeth. “I don’t recall Bill Shakespeare mentioning fairies granting wishes. That’s pantomime stuff.”

“How do you know he didn’t write pantomimes in his spare time?” said Puck. “He might have done for all you know”.

“Anyway”, said Oberon, “that’s the deal. We will grant you three wishes, subject to the usual rules.”

“Which are?”

“No wishing for more wishes, and be very careful what you wish for. We tend to take people at their word in this business, and things don’t always turn out as expected.”

“Mind you”, said Titania, “We’ve had quite a few successes and many of our clients have walked away very happy”.

“Such as?”

“Well”, said Oberon, “There was that guy from Liverpool who wanted the Blues to win the Premiership. And another guy from North London said exactly the same thing, oddly enough. We made sure that a team wearing blue did actually win, so both of them got what they wanted ... I think”.

“And what about all those people from America with funny voices?” said Titania. “They all wanted to be the ‘Republican nominee’ – whatever that is – and it was a bit tricky because they couldn’t all have their wish granted.”

“So what did you do?” asked Macbeth. “I wish you’d tell me, then I might have a clue how to phrase my own three wishes.”

Oberon was only too happy to explain. “We simply said that the Republicans would get the right guy if they played their cards right. We sat each of them down and played a few hands of whist. They soon got the message – namely that the trump card always wins”.

“And were they happy with that?” Macbeth asked.

“Well”, said Puck, “The guy with the silly hair was – I’m not so sure about the rest.”

“OK”, said Oberon, “Maybe we’d better hear what your two wishes are”.

“Two?” said Macbeth. “I thought you said I had three”.

“You weren’t listening, were you”, said Titania. “You’ve already used up one wish by saying ‘I wish you’d tell me’, so you’re definitely down to two now”.

“That’s not fair!” said Macbeth. “I wish you’d just be straight with me and not play all these tricks.”

“My God, you’re so stupid” said Titania. “And that’s being as straight as I can manage. Is it any wonder you don’t survive Act Five?  That’s two wishes down, one to go. Be very careful now.

“I just wish …” said Macbeth.

“Ye-ss?” said the fairies in chorus.

“ … I’d never set eyes on any of you!” said Macbeth.

“Your wish is our command” said Oberon, as he and the other fairies disappeared with a faint ‘pop’ and their places were taken by the witches that Macbeth had been expecting to meet in the first place.  

“Phew!” said Macbeth. “You don’t know how relieved I am to see you. At least with you witches I’ll get some straightforward predictions with no silly games. Everything you say will be straight down the middle and utterly devoid of hidden meanings.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said the leader of the witches. “When it comes to witches versus fairies you can always trust a witch. Mind you, I do have to agree with Titania on one fundamental point.”

“Which is?” asked Macbeth.

“You really are incredibly stupid”.

© John Welford

A poem about cheese

“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” G K Chesterton

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The challenge is to tell a tale

That makes one long for Wensleydale,

Or maybe pen a line or two

That calls for Brie or Shropshire Blue.

Of course it never should be said

That there’s no place for Leicester, Red.

And could you ever be so silly

Not to try a good Caerphilly?

Was ever soul so lost or deader

That would ignore the claims of Cheddar?

The land of Shakespeare, Blake and Milton

Is famed for Lancashire and Stilton.

Perhaps it’s once more time to foster

A taste for good old Double Gloucester.

It surely would be far from fair

To spurn a piece of Camembert.

Or will you go for something rarer

Like Trappista or Graviera?

Some folk say you can’t do better

Than Mozzarella, Yarg or Feta.

Can I hear you shouting louder

For Emmental, Edam or Gouda?

Or are you only merely thinking

Bishops should be eaten Stinking?

One only hopes that lines like these

Have made you want to eat some cheese.

 © John Welford