How Not to Become Lord of the Singhs,
or A Tribute to British Cuisine
Sardar Singh*, a cheerful bloke
of British food found much to joke.
Salads bereft of any dressing
and Yorkshire pudding that left him guessing.
Toad-in-the-hole gave him a scare,
and to taste a haggis** he’d never dare.
When faced with a plate of leathery meat
he would always beat a fast retreat
He simply did not understand
how a cuisine could be quite so bland.
Though always willing to try a dish,
he drew the line at fingered fish.
When served up with a Spotted Dick
his “no, thank you” was always quick.
His reaction was distinctly flustered
when urged to taste their lumpy custard.
The ploughman’s lunch served in a pub
and admired by all as hearty grub,
had the problem that, once past the lips,
it stayed forever on the hips.
But of delicacies that failed to please
worst of all were mushy peas.
Not far behind came soggy greens,
closely followed by sweet baked beans.
At home and sitting down to tea
he hardly could contain his glee
as he told his wife he would promote
a cuisine that resembled haute.
He explained that, if he made a move,
he could surely British food improve.
And, who could tell, might earn such fame
that everyone would know his name.
Forget the bangers*** that would explode
he’d feed them dishes a la mode.
His plan, about which she should not worry,
was to get the natives to eat curry.
His success was more than he had hoped
with so much business he hardly coped.
Fish and chips went down the spout
as orders soared for tandoori take out.
Customers rushed his food to savour
and swore they’d never known such flavour.
As his chicken masala won renown
all his competitors he beat hands down.
He had suggested to his spouse
that they leave behind their terrace house.
So they moved into a swank abode
and in a Jaguar they now rode.
He had now become completely hell bent
on making himself an English gent.
Could he, he wondered, pull it off?
And turn himself into a toff?
He had heard that money spent by Blair
to cut and coif wife Cheri’s hair,****
had left the Party so short of cash
it was rushing headlong towards a crash.
He was told that if a loan he could afford,
it would surely bring a fine reward.
So, with his very best gold-tipped pen,
he wrote a cheque out there and then.
His recompense was drawing near
when he heard he would become a peer.
As many had gone that way before
it was a custom no-one could deplore.
Sadly for him, when vowing to outlaw all trace of sleaze,
and his complaining voters to appease,
Tony had sworn that, once at the helm,
of corrupt practices he’d rid the realm.
The Committee appointed to approve each name
Exclaimed: “Shock, horror! It’s a crying shame.
Selling honours is out of date
even to a very wealthy mate”.
This, alas, caused our Sardar’s dream to vanish
as thoughts of a peerage he had to banish.
Though he’d risen to lead the curry kings
he could never now be Lord of the Singhs.
* One of those who appeared on the List is an Indian curry king, although he is not a Sikh as the name Singh would suggesty
** Haggis – it is really better not to know what this is
*** Bangers – sausages whose skins explode when
put in hot fat
****Cherie’s hair. At a Labour Party conference thousands
of pounds of party funds were spent to fix Cherie Blair’s hair