Sir J Betjeman : Some Literary Criticism

Indoor Games near Newbury    by Sir John Betjeman

 - a poem for Julia

 

In common with a strangely small number of people I dislike Betjeman's poems.

Here's a picture of the infernal John Betjeman laughing. How dare he?

Presumably it's because he has just inflicted another poem on the English-speaking peoples.

 

 

Indoor Games near Newbury :  this is the biscuit-taker among Betjeman's many unspeakably horrid poems. Quoting directly from it has long been banned here on pain of repercussions, but an oaf can destroy my day by merely alluding to the frightful work. Eg. yesterday during a pleasant walk in Culbone my son said "Look, Mother! Woodland Elf!" thereby causing me to spend the rest of the afternoon kicking the heads off daffodils and snarling at passers-by.

 

Though it pains me to sully G-AHLK with it, here is

Indoor Games near Newbury, with some comments by me added in red.

 

In among the silver birches,
Winding ways of tarmac wander  Rather laboured alliteration don't you think?

And the signs to Bussock Bottom,
Tussock Wood and Windy Break,  This annoys me. Surely anyone who lived in houses with these names would change them? If not then Power of Attorney should be activated and their finances looked after by persons with better judgement.

Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches,  Gabled lodges - not architecture's finest hour, and thus not something we want brought to our attention thank you.
Catch the lights of our Lagonda 

As we drive to Wendy’s party,
Lemon curd and Christmas cake.  Lemon curd? At that time of year?

Rich the makes of motor whirring,  Rich the makes of motor... hmm I bet he was thrilled with that line and thought it sounded tremendously poetic. Well done, Sir John.

Past the pine plantation purring  Alliteration again. I hate pine plantations, and rhyming couplets.

Come up, Hupmobile, Delage!

Short the way your chauffeurs travel,  Short the way... yes I thought as much. He was so pleased with 'rich the makes of motor' he's used the construction again.

Crunching over private gravel

Each from out his warm garage.  Out OF his warm garage please. You need a course of instruction at the G-AHLK Dept of Modern English.

Oh but Wendy, when the carpet
Yielded to my indoor pumps  Pumps, oh LORD... what sort of Little Lord Fauntleroy are you, Sir John? Proper men wear shoes.

There you stood, your gold hair streaming,  What's she doing - standing in a wind tunnel?

Handsome in the hall light gleaming

There you looked and there you led me
Off into the game of clumps.

Then the new Victrola playing  ***Rhyming Couplet Alert***

And your funny uncle saying

“Choose your partners for a foxtrot!

Dance until it’s tea o’clock!

Come on young 'uns, foot it featly!”  Ought this man really to be at large?

Was it chance that paired us neatly,  Oh NO, it's a rhyming TRIPLET.

I, who loved you so completely,

You, who pressed me closely to you,
Hard against your party frock?  It's probably better if I keep my comments to myself here. The image is SICKENING.

“Meet me when you’ve finished eating!”  A proper trollop, that Wendy.
So we met and no one found us. 

Oh that dark and furry cupboard
While the rest played hide-and-seek!

Holding hands our two hearts beating  Well I should hope their silly hearts were beating. That's what hearts are for.
In the bedroom silence round us, 

Holding hands and hardly hearing
Sudden footstep, thud and shriek.

Love that lay too deep for kissing -

“Where is Wendy? Wendy’s missing!”  Yes well long may she remain missing.

Love so pure it had to end.  Ridiculous, and defeatist. This bloke is hopeless.

Love so strong that I was frighten'd  What a wimp! Brace yerself, man.

When you gripped my fingers tight and  If that isn't the most insufferable rhyming couplet ever written then I'm the King of Siam.

Hugging, whispered “I’m your friend.”  Oh for pity's sake. This is too ghastly to be borne.

Goodbye Wendy! Send the fairies,
Pinewood elf and larch tree gnome,  AUGHH. Metoclopramide, nurse... hasten.

Spingle-spangled stars are peeping  NO! NO! They aren't peeping. They haven't got eyes. People old enough to be conducting love affairs should know better than to use soppy verbs like 'to peep' anyway.

At the lush Lagonda creeping

Down the winding ways of tarmac
To the leaded lights of home.

There, among the silver birches,  ***Rhyming Couplet Alert***

All the bells of all the churches

Sounded in the bathwaste running  Distasteful reference to bath water represents more information than we can stomach. The word bathwaste offends me, as do many other words in this piece.
Out into the frosty air. 

Wendy speeded my undressing,  Here we go again. Rhyming Triplet Alert

Wendy is the sheet’s caressing

Wendy bending gives a blessing,  Wendy bending? What is this man ON?

Holds me as I drift to dreamland,
Safe inside my slumberwear.  Since we already know that the protagonist wears 'indoor pumps' at parties, I suppose we should not be surprised to find him later drifting to dreamland in slumberwear. But can any work containing the word "slumberwear" really be deemed poetry?

 

This poem may be skilfully executed, but it summons up an era and a milieu which are surely best forgotten. There isn't any benefit in portraying them, and it's unhealthy to dwell on them.
One can see that War Poetry, which also conjures unpleasant visions, does so with a purpose - to protest against the horrors of war - and so we must put up with it. But for Indoor Games near Newbury I can see no justification.



 

It puzzles me that Betjeman is referred to as a National Treasure. We should be lynching the brute, not lauding him.