benjames.org.uk

first performance: 6th May 2003

Written by Matthew Sangster and Ben James, with apologies to Pope, Pachelbel and Petula Clark. And everyone that we insult.

Of the Nature and State of Woman, with disrespect to Pembroke

Awake, oh Pembroke! leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us, and to die)

Expatiate free o`er all this scene of woman;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
A wild, where weeds and flow`rs promiscuous shoot;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.

Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield!

Yet we shall try, for your delight and thrill

To approach the giddy heights of Erskine-Hill

We speak first, of Ros above, a thesp below,
What can she reason, but from show to show?

Bright eyed she greets the play and aftershow

And blearly eyed the essay morning woe.

And that other honoured scion of Ben James,

Darling Elen from the land of dragon’s flames,

She is conversant in a Celtic Tongue

In Pembroke she’s not the only one.

(Colin)

A kiss on the cheek may be quite Med-e-eval

And Colin is a girl’s best friend

He used to teach Greek or language primeval

At least EME… somewhat zealously.

He like bowls and ancient scrolls

And he won’t lose his charms in the end

He is dandy and randy and likes his eye candy

Colin… is a girl’s… best… friend.

Of woman, what see we but his station here,
From which to reason, or to which refer?
Thro` worlds unnumber`d tho` the God be known,
`Tis ours to trace Colin only in our own.

Far as creation`s ample range extends,
The scale of sensual, mental pow`rs ascends:
Mark how it mounts to woman`s imperial race,
From the green myriads in the peopled grass.

For yes, the first year laze upon the green,

With books half open, eyes half closed… but keen.

Dear Lydia, Irish wit and charm and grace

And always with a smile upon her face.

Each Pembroke girl turns heads of college men,

Not least dear Cat, our blonde comedienne.

Her jokes not sweet but laced with cunning wit,

I was her mirror, long will remember it.

Our Libbi journalises Pembroke Street

To hard hitting Pembroke scandal adding meat.

Her and her lusty team you just can’t stop em,

As for previous editors, she’ll top ‘em.

The first year starlets gleam like glittering jewels,

Holly’s graced the stage with Panto fools,

And last week was a little Sarah Kaned

Aren’t first year English students all the same?

Now Ato through immensity can pierce,
See words on words compose one universe,
Observe how system into system runs,
What other planets circle other suns.

(The Ato Song)

He’s got rhythm, he’s got music

We got Ato

Who could ask for anything more?

He got cool vibes, triple bookings

We got Ato

Who could ask for anything more?

We now move on to further second years,

Like Charlotte, who, amidst a sea of beers

Plays pool, a lot, and often comes off best,

For balls move rather well at her behest.

And dancing Helen pirouettes right by,

Her sylphlike prancing seems to make her fly.

Tango, quickstep and the tarantella

She’d like to save the rainforest as wella.

Catherine is another Irish lass,

So to her health on instant raise your glass,

Her dulcet tones are positively lilting,

The set the heart apace, Welsh knees a-wilting.

But hark! A corded hero comes and grins!

Thoughts brimming with accounts and Eliot things

He’s like a teddy bear – the girls go gooey

He’s comforting like mother’s ratatouille.

(Mark)

When you're alone
and life is making you lonely
You can always go – to Wormald
When you've got worries,
all the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know - Wormald

Just go on right along there
For a cup of lovely tea
He’s got a little baby
And he’s named it after me.
How can you loo-sse?

The jumpers are fluffier there
You forget all your troubles,
forget all your cares
So see Wormald,
Things'll be great when you're
Wormald - no finer bloke, for sure
Wormald - everything's waiting for you.

From the tutor to our fellow finalists,

On whose tired faces exam fear persists,

We’ve spent three years together through the mill

And felt the righteous might of Erskine-Hill.

Olivia’s quite a quiet one, enigmatic

She once resided in Ben James’s attic

Her auburn curls are joyous to behold,

Whether hued all one or streaked with gold.

Tara’s locks have been great many hues

What next? Fluorescent purple or bright blues?

She’s bubbly, effusive, quite a mad ‘un,

When she’s in the room men’s hearts do Gladden.

Naama’s hair, though mostly raven black

Is sometimes streaked with colour down her back,

Her brilliance with art oft leads to dreaming,

Though on occasion she will Wake Up Screaming.

And while we’re talking hair we now should tell,

Of Doctor Cannon, straight from L’Oreal,

Sole fellow whose dress sense doth true transcend

The per-i-od through which their studies wend.

(Chris Can(n)on)

(to tune of Pachelbel’s canon)

Chris Chris Chris Chris Chris Chris Chris Ca-a-non (x4)

Of double Sophie now our song will speak,

Miss Elmhirst first, in forthright views not meek

She treads the boards, once waited for Godot,

He didn’t come – they went on with the show.

An actress too Miss Scott, with bigger hair,

Went to Taiwan and played Ophelia there,

Her singing is regarded high renown

What colour is her hair? It’s Newkey brown!

And on to Kate, oh Kate our erstwhile DoS,

Who last year with Duessa was well crossed,

From culture not so high we’ll take our tones,

And serenade her with the great Tom Jones:

(Kate)

I felt like shite on the night that I finished my essay

I saw the flickering shadows of doom on her blind

She said “Ben, this is awful.”

As she lambasted I watched and went out of my mind

My, my, my Kate Bennett

Why, why, why Kate Bennett

So before she comes to break down my door

Forgive me Kate Bennett I just couldn't read any more

A quieter Kate we have also among us,

Who cares not so much for fops, perukes and rumpus,

I haven’t seen her much since Fresher’s Week

P’raps Colin’s whisked her off to scrub his leek.

Allman by name, but really quite a lady,

Hails from the blighted north most truly shady,

In men and books our Helen knows o’er all,

The bigger that they come, the easier fall.

One Pembroke lady doth remain – Sinead!

Our year hath not the pleasure, I’m afraid,

In future years don’t worry, don’t feel blue,

Forthcoming years will surely diss you too.

One giant remains, bestriding college fair

A literary colossus with grey hair,

An intellectual mountain, if you will

If only he weren’t Howard Erskine-Hill.

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
And wait the mighty Howard and adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin`d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

He taught me Pope, and Wordsworth’s Prelude too,

That latter dreadful, to give him his due.

Prat Crit sessions were fortnightly merry,

For when the bell tolled seven, we got sherry.

And writers more, bold Swift and Dryden too,

This lowly satire bows to them, ‘tis true.

Another lady too – I will not miss er,

For I never finished dear Clarissa.

So to Howard we our grateful thanks extend,

And to his knowledge our weak necks do bend,

This tribute offer, a rather paltry fee,

For Crit, fine company, years of Paper 3.

(Howard)

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Pembroke’s grasses green
And was the noble book of Pope
On England's pleasant bookshelves seen

And did the scholarship divine
Pour forth from Howard’s noble quills
And was Jerusalem conceived of there
Among those dark Satanic mills

Bring me my book of lore most wise
Bring me the sherry I desire
Bring me the prints and tomes I prize
Bring me my chariot of fire

I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my scholarship be tame
'Til we have built Jerusalem
In Howard Erskine-Hill’s great name

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a English student, drags its drunk length along and on and on and on.