This week’s poem was suggested by my mother, who found it in an old newspaper clipping. It is called “Dear Old Aunt Maud” and it was written by Bill Knott, the restaurant critic of The Telegraph at the time, who has gone on to write for The Financial Times, Bloomberg, and The Oldie, and is an ambassador for Action Against Hunger.

Next day, as you wade through the seasonal mess
Reflecting that nothing succeeds like excess:
All the food that you served, all the wine that you poured
And most of it swallowed by dear old Aunt Maud.
Bill Knott (1965—)

Poem 247. Dear Old Aunt Maud

Slices of cake and a half-eaten bird
The Queen gave her speech, but nobody heard
Except for the dog, who ran off with the ham
And dear old Aunt Maud, who woke up for a dram.

Leftover sprouts and cranberry sauce
Thank God for a dog who can eat like a horse
And Christmas cigars that no one will smoke
Except for Aunt Maud, who lights up for a joke.

Mince pies and sherry, Stilton and port
The table’s too long, or the cloth is too short
The kitchen’s a bomb site, the fridge is a mess
And dear old Aunt Maud has set fire to her dress.

Magnums of claret and flutes of Champagne
Bulgarian Cabernet washed down the drain
Decanters of brandy and bottles of stout
And dear old Aunt Maud suffers twinges of gout.

Turkish Delight and a surfeit of pud
“No really, I shouldn’t, but maybe I could”
Out comes the Scrabble and out come the cards
But dear old Aunt Maud wants a game of charades.

Chestnuts and pâté and slices of ham
Pickles and chutneys and strawberry jam
Walnuts, satsumas and grapes on the stalk
And the dog’s taken dear old Aunt Maud for a walk.

Next day, as you wade through the seasonal mess
Reflecting that nothing succeeds like excess:
All the food that you served, all the wine that you poured
And most of it swallowed by dear old Aunt Maud.

Christmas Day: the dinner, booze, and relatives. Bill Knott very ably conjures up a scene of excess and devastation as common in affluent households in the 1980s when the poem was written as it is now.

I think he gets the visuals about right: I can remember Nicola producing mountains of food for Christmas Day (and Boxing Day for that matter), though I don’t think we consumed anywhere near as much alcohol as the family in this tongue-in-cheek skit. Dear old Aunt Maud makes me think of Grandma in the Giles cartoons, though as the poem was in the Daily Telegraph, perhaps I shouldn’t be mentioning a Daily Express cartoon. Aunt Maud seems as indefatigable as Grandma, swilling down gallons of booze and platefuls of grub before wanting to play party games and being taken out for a walk by the dog.

I like it because it’s funny, it makes me think of the Giles cartoons which amuse me, and because the catalogue of food, drink and sundries reminds me that this has always been a season where those who had the wherewithal celebrated, while those who were without had precious little to cheer about. Sadly, this is still the case.

Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

Poem 247. Dear Old Aunt Maud

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