The past is a foreign country
we get to rule as we wish.
It is as we say it was and
as we sit back to have some wine, talk some wine
who can say
it was not?
Is there a bigger birthright
for the Englishman
or woman
than to sit back
and talk
about the Good Old Days?
We had proper writing
then, not
blogs and vlogs and tocs.
We had craftsmen, artists, labourers
(and copyeditors and editors and a column a week.)
History treats talent like the TfL does buses
doesn’t it
sometimes two a minute
sometimes two a day.
It’s funny how many buses turn up
when you can live on 600 words a week
like in the Good Old Days.
There was no vulgarity
then.
Things didn’t smell of lemon and herbs,
Or have medium structure,
Or long aftertaste,
again and again.
(Why would anyone want to know how wine tastes?)
We wrote for the mind and the soul,
we had poetry and thought,
artistry and hard work.
And we never wondered
why so many wines
seemed to end up on page
like the something or other
of young girls
in the Good Old Days.
We didn’t have scores,
back then.
No barbarism of
X better than Y
Y better than Z.
Is Z better than X?
(Who can do algebra on the fourth glass?)
(Or on the first.)
We were bards and minstrels
not accountants.
Who are we to say what is best?
And if we were ever asked
and asked again
we knew the answer lied
with whom it should,
dead French Emperors and
alive English merchants.
Life was simpler
in the Good Old Days.
We had proper exams
we had scholars
then.
Isn’t it so much more challenging
when you have to call
if the thing in your glass
is the Bordeaux you had at lunch
or the Burgundy at dinner.
(And the sparkling, was it Champagne or the other one?)
We did proper research
before writing
then.
And if we didn’t
who was there to say
and when
and how.
You could write any old crap
and have it thrown away
with yesterday’s fish and chips
and nobody would ever know.
Oh how we laughed
with the Letters to the Editor
in the Good Old Days.
Americans knew their place
in wine, if in nothing else,
then.
Isn’t it rare to find a Rome
looking for an Athens
or at least,
a Syracuse.
And the French loved us
then
(who else was there? The Germans?)
And we could laugh at the Spanish
and patronise the Italians.
We all looked the same, thought the same
but we were diverse
in school ties,
a bit.
It was so nice,
it was always 1925
in the Good Old Days.
And we had Australia
and Australians
and Australia’s Australian PRs.
Isn’t it lovely
to be on an airplane
and have joy and have fun
(our seasons in the sun.)
All one…
