If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, or, being hated, don’t give way to hating, and yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, or watch the things you gave your life to broken, and stoop and build ’em up with worn out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose, and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, or walk with kings nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what is more you’ll be a Man, my son!
After publishing THE version, I then thought it would be fun for Gemini to write IF in the style of different famous people… can you guess who might write IF in the following styles… enjoy 😉
If – v2
If you can keep your cool, your magnificent cool, when all those loudmouths are losing their minds and pointing their skinny fingers right at the champ;
If you can believe in yourself when every single one of ’em doubts you, but still give ’em a little nod, ’cause even a fool can learn somethin’ sometimes;
If you can wait, and I mean wait, without gettin’ all antsy, or if they’re spouting lies about ya, you don’t drop to their level and start lying back, nah. Or if they hate on you, you don’t give ’em the satisfaction of hating ’em back. And always remember, don’t look too good, don’t talk too wise – let your actions do the talkin’, baby!
If you can dream – and not let those dreams become your master, ’cause dreams without work are just wishes, ain’t they?
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just float around like butterflies, but make ’em sting like a bee!
If you can meet with the glory of victory and the sting of defeat, and treat those two imposters, those two fakes, just the same. They’re both gonna happen, so handle ’em with class!
If you can stand to hear the truth you dropped, the truth that shook ’em, twisted by some con artists to trap the simpletons, or watch the things you poured your whole life into get busted up, and still get down there and build ’em back up with nothing but worn-out tools and pure will;
If you can stack up all your winnings, all your trophies, and put it all on the line, one big gamble, and if you lose, you just start over, right from the beginning, and never, ever, breathe a single word about that loss – that’s for chumps!
If you can force your heart, your nerves, your muscles – all of it – to keep goin’ long after they’re screaming no, long after they’re gone, and just hold on when there’s nothing left inside you except that voice, that powerful voice, screaming: “Hold on! Hold on!”;
If you can talk with the crowds, all the people, and keep your virtue, keep your honor, or walk with kings and still remember the little guy, still got that common touch;
If neither your enemies, who wanna see you fall, nor your loving friends, who sometimes trip you up by accident, can truly hurt you;
If all men look up to you, but none of ’em look too much, ’cause nobody’s bigger than the spirit, baby;
If you can fill every single unforgiving minute with sixty seconds of pure, undiluted effort, runnin’ that distance, giving it all you got, then let me tell you, son, the Earth is yours and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man. You’ll be the Man!
If – v3
If you can hold your nerve, mate, when the whole friggin’ world’s gone mental And they’re all pointin’ fingers, purely coincidental; If you can trust your gut when everyone’s doubtin’ your brain, But still give ’em a nod, ’cause they’re probably just insane;
If you can wait around, not gettin’ twitchy or bored, Or if they’re spoutin’ lies, don’t deal in that sordid word; Or if they’re throwin’ hate, don’t stoop to their level, no siree, And still don’t look too flash, or spout philosophy.
If you can dream big, yeah, but don’t let dreams run your show, Just fantasy and fluff, nowhere to really go; If you can think sharp, but don’t let thoughts become your fate, Just endless navel-gazin’, always livin’ too late;
If you can bump into triumph, a right proper cheer, And then disaster hits, fillin’ you with fear, And treat those two imposters, those absolute fakes, Just the same, mate, for goodness sakes!
If you can stomach the truth you’ve uttered, pure and profound, Twisted by some slippery sods, to trap the fools around; Or watch the things you’ve slaved for, smashed to bits, forlorn, And stoop right down and rebuild ’em, with tools all battered and worn;
If you can pile up your winnings, a glorious, shining heap, And stake the lot on one throw, secrets you’ll never keep, And lose it all, mate, back to where you began, And never breathe a whisper, not a single bloody plan;
If you can force your heart, your sinews, your weary, old bones, To serve your purpose, long after the last of your groans, And just keep clinging on when there’s nothing left inside, Except that bloody willpower, nowhere left to hide;
If you can chew the fat with crowds, keep your virtue intact and clean, Or stroll with royalty, without losing that common scene; If neither bitter foes, nor your dearest, loving friends, Can truly hurt ya, right up until the bitter ends;
If all men count with you, mate, but none too much, you see, ‘Cause clingin’ too tight, that’s just dependency; If you can cram that unforgiving minute, every tick, With sixty seconds of action, sharp and quick, Yours is the Earth, then, the whole shebang, my son, And what’s more, you’ll be a Man – proper job, well done!
If – v4
Right, listen here, my darlings! Now, this is a little something that always makes me stop and think, usually over a large scone with far too much cream. It’s about what makes a truly proper person, not just a wobbly blancmange in a cardigan.
If you can keep your head when everyone else is flapping about like a startled pheasant and, rather inconveniently, pointing their accusatory little fingers straight at your rather magnificent nose;
If you can trust yourself when all the ninnies are doubting your utterly brilliant ideas, but still, you know, make a tiny allowance for their doubting too – because sometimes, just occasionally, even a broken clock is right twice a day, bless ’em;
If you can wait and not get all fidgety and cross-legged from the waiting – like waiting for a cake to rise, perhaps? – or, if someone’s been telling absolute porkies about you, you don’t start dealing in lies yourself, oh no. Or, if they’re throwing great big dollops of hatred your way, you don’t give way to hating back, because that’s just a waste of good energy, isn’t it? And yet, don’t go looking too terribly perfect, or talking like you’ve got all the answers, because nobody likes a show-off, do they?
If you can dream – and oh, I do love a good dream, usually involving vast quantities of chocolate and maybe a tiara – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d just be a big, impractical fluffy cloud, wouldn’t you?
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just swirl around like lukewarm dishwater, with no proper aim or conclusion;
If you can meet with triumph – like finally fitting into that dress you’ve been eyeing up – and disaster – like finding out the dress is actually a size 20 – and treat those two impostors just the same. Because honestly, life’s just a big old comedy of errors, isn’t it?
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by nasty little trolls to make a trap for innocent fools, or watch the things you poured your heart and soul into get utterly broken, and still, you know, stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got left is a rusty old trowel and a positive attitude;
If you can make one glorious heap of all your winnings – like a lucky dip at the village fete, perhaps? – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and then, oh dear, lose, and have to start again at your beginnings, and never, ever, breathe a word about your loss. Just a brave little smile and a quiet internal scream, that’s the ticket!
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to keep going long after they’ve officially retired to Barbados, and so hold on when there is absolutely nothing left in you except that tiny, stubborn spark of Will that whispers, or perhaps bellows: “Go on, you magnificent beast! Hold on!”;
If you can talk with crowds – a full house at the Palladium, perhaps! – and keep your virtue, stay true to your lovely self, or walk with kings – and I’ve had tea with a few, darling – and not lose the common touch. Still a sucker for a decent biscuit, you see.
If neither your foes, those grumpy Gussies, nor your rather loving friends – who sometimes, you know, just sometimes, give you a bit of a prod in the wrong direction – can truly hurt you;
If all people count with you, they all matter, but none too much, because one must maintain a certain emotional equilibrium, mustn’t one?
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty glorious seconds’ worth of distance run, making every moment count, then, my sweet pea, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or, far more importantly, a truly fabulous woman!
Right, now, who’s for another scone?
If – v5
My dear friends, in these somewhat… turbulent times, it behoves one to reflect upon the very essence of character. One often ponders, indeed, upon the qualities that truly define a man – or, indeed, a woman – of substance. And so, allow me to present, if you will, a few humble thoughts upon the matter, drawn from a rather insightful poetic musing.
If you can maintain a certain equanimity, a steadfastness of spirit, when all around appear to be losing their composure, and, rather inconveniently, laying the blame squarely at your door;
If you can trust in your own counsel when a great many express doubt, yet possess the magnanimity to acknowledge their misgivings – for even in dissent, one can sometimes find a kernel of… well, something;
If you can exercise patience, waiting without succumbing to weariness, or, being subjected to certain… inaccuracies, refrain from descending into falsehoods yourself. Or, if faced with animosity, resist the rather tempting urge to reciprocate. And yet, one must always strive not to appear overly virtuous, nor, dare I say, excessively sagacious. One mustn’t give off the impression of having swallowed the dictionary, as it were.
If you can dream, certainly, but not allow those visions to become your absolute master, lest one drifts off into realms of pure fancy, detached from the… practicalities of life;
If you can think, deeply and profoundly, but ensure that thought itself does not become your sole objective, your ultimate aim, lest one becomes entirely lost in abstraction;
If you can encounter triumph – the grand celebratory flourish, perhaps a fine garden party – and disaster – a rather unforeseen downpour, perhaps, or a regrettable incident with a prize-winning marrow – and treat those two imposters with precisely the same measured composure and grace;
If you can bear to hear the very truths you have spoken, those pronouncements of genuine intent, distorted by unscrupulous individuals to ensnare the less discerning; or, to witness the very endeavours to which you have dedicated your energies, indeed, your life’s work, utterly dismantled, and yet stoop down, with a certain quiet determination, and endeavour to rebuild them, even with the most rudimentary and well-worn of instruments;
If you can consolidate all your winnings, your successes, your hard-won gains, into one considerable heap, and then, with a certain daring, risk it all on one turn of fortune’s wheel, and lose, completely, only to commence again from your very beginnings, and never utter a single syllable, not one, about that rather inconvenient setback;
If you can compel your inner resolve – your very heart, nerve, and sinew – to serve your purpose long after they have, quite frankly, expressed their exhaustion, and thus, simply hold on, when truly there is nothing left within you, save for that indomitable Will, which quietly, yet firmly, reiterates: “Hold on! Do carry on!”;
If you can engage with the general public, the broader populace, and retain your innate virtue, your fundamental goodness, or indeed, walk amongst the highest echelons, with all their attendant pomp and circumstance, and not, for a moment, lose that essential common touch;
If neither your adversaries, those who might wish you ill, nor your dearest, most loving friends, who can sometimes be, shall we say, a touch overzealous, can truly cause you deep and lasting hurt;
If all individuals matter to you, are held in certain regard, but none, absolutely none, matter so much as to become an undue influence upon your own judgment;
If you can fill that most unforgiving of minutes, every fleeting second, with sixty seconds’ worth of purposeful endeavour, of a diligent and well-directed effort… then, my dear boy, or indeed, young lady, the Earth is yours. And, quite literally, everything that resides within it. And what’s more – and this, I believe, is the crucial point – you will have truly become a Man. A person of consequence.
Indeed. One does hope this offers some clarity.
If – v6
(Ronnie Barker, looking earnest, perhaps holding a pipe, begins slowly)
Ronnie B: Now then, if you can, when all around you are losing their marbles, and pointing their collective finger, rather rudely, in your general direction… yes. And blaming you, specifically.
(Ronnie Corbett, beside him, adjusts his glasses, leaning in conspiratorially)
Ronnie C: Aye, if you can keep your head, you see. Not like that fella down the pub, the one who tried to juggle three pints and his wallet. Lost all three, and the wallet too. Never found that wallet, mind. Head was definitely lost that night.
Ronnie B: Quite. And if you can trust yourself, completely, when all other chaps, and indeed, chapesses, are doubting your every move, every decision, every… well, everything. But, you must make a small allowance, a tiny bit of leeway, for their doubting too. Because sometimes, you know, they’re not entirely wrong. Just mostly.
Ronnie C: Mostly. Like my auntie Mildred. Always doubted my grand plans for a pigeon-racing syndicate. Said it would end in tears. And it did. The pigeons cried, mostly. When they saw the bill for the feed. So she wasn’t entirely wrong, bless her.
Ronnie B: If you can wait, patiently, for a considerable period of time, and not become weary by this waiting. Or, if one finds oneself subjected to untruths, to outright fibs, one must not, under any circumstances, resort to the same deceit. And if, perchance, one is the unfortunate recipient of hatred, one must not, absolutely not, reciprocate that emotion. And yet, crucially, one must not appear too terribly virtuous, nor sound excessively knowledgeable.
Ronnie C: No, no. Don’t want to look like you’ve swallowed the Oxford English Dictionary, do you? Just like young Arthur down our street. Started using words like ‘penultimate’ and ‘ameliorate’ after he bought that new encyclopaedia. His mother clipped him round the ear and told him to stop showing off. Said he sounded like a clever Dick. He did.
Ronnie B: If you can dream, grand dreams, fantastical dreams even, but crucially, not permit those dreams to become your absolute master. No, no.
Ronnie C: Because then you’d be wandering around in your pyjamas all day, wouldn’t you? Dreaming you’re a spaceman. And then you’d trip over the cat. And that’s not very masterful, is it?
Ronnie B: And if you can think, deeply, profoundly, but avoid letting those very thoughts become your sole objective, your only aim.
Ronnie C: Otherwise you’d just sit there, thinking. And thinking. And then you’d miss tea. And nobody wants to miss tea. Especially if it’s got biscuits.
Ronnie B: If you can encounter triumph, glorious, resounding triumph, and also disaster, utter, unmitigated disaster, and treat those two imposters, those two absolute rascals, with precisely the same measured indifference.
Ronnie C: Just like my cousin Barry. Won the lottery, right? Bought a solid gold toilet seat. Next week, his house burned down. Had to use the neighbour’s outside privy. Said it was all the same in the end. Bit smelly, mind. But the principle was there.
Ronnie B: If you can bear to hear the unvarnished truth you yourself have spoken, twisted, quite deliberately, by unscrupulous knaves, to fashion a snare for the unwary fools. Or, to witness the very things to which you have dedicated your entire existence, broken, utterly shattered. And yet, still bend down, metaphorically speaking, and rebuild them, using only tools that are well and truly past their best.
Ronnie C: Like trying to fix a leaky tap with a spoon and a bit of string. It’s character-building, you see. Builds character. And a very wet floor. But character, mainly.
Ronnie B: If you can consolidate all your winnings, every penny, every prize, into one single, glorious heap, and then, with a flourish, risk it all on one solitary turn of pitch-and-toss. And then, lose. Completely. And commence again from your absolute beginnings. And never, not once, breathe a single word about your colossal loss.
Ronnie C: Not a peep! Not even a quiet groan into your pillow. My Uncle Fred tried that once. Lost his entire collection of porcelain gnomes. Never mentioned it again. Though he did start humming ‘The Bare Necessities’ a lot. Subtly, you understand.
Ronnie B: If you can compel your heart, your very nerves, and your sinews – the very essence of your being – to continue to serve your purpose long after they have, frankly, given up the ghost. And thus, hold on, when truly, there is nothing left within you, save for that indomitable Will, which whispers, or perhaps shouts: “Hold on! Hold on!”
Ronnie C: It’s like trying to get a rusty old car up a hill. You know it’s probably going to conk out, but you just keep pushing. And hoping. And praying it doesn’t roll backwards into a ditch. That’s the key, you see. Not ending up in the ditch.
Ronnie B: If you can engage in discourse with vast crowds of people, and yet retain your fundamental virtue, your inherent goodness. Or, indeed, walk amongst kings, with all their pomp and circumstance, and not, for a moment, lose that essential common touch.
Ronnie C: No snobbery, you see. Still able to enjoy a good cuppa tea with a biscuit. Even if the king’s got fancy biccies. A biscuit is a biscuit, after all. Unless it’s a Jaffa Cake. That’s different.
Ronnie B: If neither your adversaries, your foes, nor even your most cherished, loving friends, can cause you genuine, lasting hurt.
Ronnie C: Because sometimes, the friends are worse, aren’t they? They know where to poke you. Like my wife. She knows exactly which button to press. Usually the one marked ‘do not press’.
Ronnie B: If all men, every single one, count with you, are valued by you, but none, absolutely none, count too much.
Ronnie C: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, do you? Especially if it’s got a hole in the bottom. And the eggs are already cracked. Terrible business, that.
Ronnie B: If you can, with precision and determination, fill that unforgiving minute, every single second of it, with sixty seconds’ worth of diligent, purposeful endeavour, of distance run…
(Both Ronnies lean forward, eyes twinkling)
Ronnie B: …then, my boy…
Ronnie C: …or girl, mind…
Ronnie B: …the Earth is yours. And, indeed, everything that resides within it.
Ronnie C: The lot! All of it! Even that bit under the sofa you’ve been meaning to hoover.
Ronnie B: And what’s more, infinitely more important, you’ll be… a Man. My son.
Ronnie C: Or a proper good egg, if you’re a lass! Good night!
(They smile, perhaps a wink, as the lights fade)
If – v7
Alright, listen up, because this isn’t just some old poem, it’s basically the unwritten rules for not being a basic bitch, written by some dude a hundred years ago. And honestly? Still applies.
If you can keep your head when everyone else around you is having a full-blown meltdown – probably because their latte wasn’t hot enough or something equally tragic – and they’re all, like, pointing their fingers right at you, darling, because obviously, it’s always your fault;
If you can trust yourself when every single person is giving you that side-eye and questioning your life choices, but you still, you know, make allowance for their doubting too, because sometimes, even a broken clock makes for good content, right?
If you can wait and not get all antsy and desperate-looking from waiting – like waiting for that influencer sponsorship to drop, honey – or, if someone’s been peddling absolute lies about you, you don’t lower yourself to their level and start lying back. No. And if they’re throwing shade, you don’t give way to hating them, because frankly, it takes too much energy. And yet, don’t look too perfect, or sound too wise, because nobody likes a humblebragging try-hard.
If you can dream – like dreaming of a solid gold yacht and a lifetime supply of designer handbags – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d just be, like, that weird aunt who talks to her cats about her “vision board.”
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just spiral into a full-blown existential crisis over whether you should get bangs again;
If you can meet with triumph – like that perfectly filtered selfie getting a thousand likes – and disaster – like accidentally posting an unedited one – and treat those two imposters just the same. Because honestly, it’s all just pixels in the end.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by trolls in their mum’s basement to create some kind of clickbait trap for the terminally online, or watch the things you poured your precious time and Botox into get utterly broken, and yet, you still stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got left are worn-out tools and pure, unadulterated spite;
If you can make one fabulous heap of all your winnings – like all that sweet, sweet comedy money – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and then, poof, it’s gone, and you have to start again at your beginnings, and never, not once, breathe a word about your loss. Just a serene smile and a very expensive therapy bill.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your purpose long after they’ve officially clocked out and moved to Tulum, and so hold on when there is absolutely nothing left in you except that tiny, relentless voice that screams: “Don’t you dare give up, you absolute legend! Hold on!”;
If you can talk with crowds – like a sold-out theatre of adoring fans – and keep your virtue, maintain your brand integrity, darling, or walk with kings – and I’ve met a few minor royals, surprisingly down-to-earth – and not lose the common touch. Still appreciate a good Nandos, you know.
If neither your foes, those jealous little piranhas, nor your loving friends – who sometimes, bless their hearts, give the worst advice imaginable – can truly hurt you;
If all men count with you, they’re all, like, fine, but none too much, because emotional codependency is just not a look, is it?
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty glorious seconds’ worth of distance run, making every single one count, then, my sweet, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or, far more importantly, a woman who absolutely slays.
You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dry cleaner’s appointment.
If – v8
If you can keep your friggin’ lid on when everyone else is losing theirs, swearin’ like a docker and pointin’ the finger right at you, yeah?
If you can trust yourself when all the wankers doubt ya, but still have a bit of a chuckle at their stupid faces, ’cause they’re probably wrong anyway;
If you can wait and not get a nervous twitch from waiting, or if some lying git spins a yarn about ya, you don’t start spouting lies back, do ya? Or if some knobhead hates your guts, you don’t go hatin’ them back, and still, don’t look like you’re too clever for your own good, or talk like you swallowed a dictionary.
If you can dream – but not let them daft dreams take over your life, like winning the lottery every day, eh?
If you can think – but not let your thoughts just wander off into la-la land, wasting your bleedin’ time;
If you can meet with a big win at the bookies and a proper disaster, like the missus finding your secret stash, and just treat ’em both like a bad curry – they’ll pass, won’t they?
If you can stand there and hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by some sly bastards to catch out the simpletons, or watch the things you worked your arse off for get proper broken, and still bend down and try to fix ’em with a rusty spanner and a bit of spit;
If you can pile up all your winnings from the bingo and risk the lot on one spin of the wheel, and lose, and just start again from sod all, and never moan about it, not a bloody peep;
If you can force your knackered old ticker, your nerves, and your saggy bits to keep going long after they’ve had it, and just keep on when there’s nothing left in ya except that voice in your head screamin’: “Don’t be a soft lad, keep going!”;
If you can chat with the common folk down the pub and still act decent, or walk with them fancy sorts and not forget where you came from, eh?
If neither your enemies nor your so-called mates can properly get to ya;
If everyone reckons you’re sound, but nobody thinks you’re the bee’s knees, ’cause that’d be showing off, wouldn’t it?
If you can fill every single bloody minute, that unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds of grafting your guts out, then son, the whole friggin’ Earth’s yours, and everything in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a proper Man, not just some wet lettuce!
If – v9
Alright, lovely, lovely people! Now, you know me, Les. Not quite Kipling, but I’ve had a few moments in my time. And this poem, “If,” it really gets you thinking, doesn’t it? About what it takes to be, you know, you. So, here’s my take, with a bit of a laugh, a bit of a sigh, and maybe a quick glance at the autocue…
If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs, probably because they’ve forgotten their lines or the cue card’s upside down, and they’re all blaming you, eh? Typical!
If you can trust yourself when everyone else is looking at you like you’ve just walked off ‘Family Fortunes’ with a negative score, but still, you know, make allowance for their doubting too, because sometimes, just sometimes, they might have a point. Only sometimes, mind!
If you can wait and not get a nervous twitch from waiting – like waiting for your name to be called for the panto audition, eh? – or, if someone’s been telling porkies about you, you don’t start telling lies back. No, no. And if you’re getting a bit of stick, don’t start hating ’em back. And yet, don’t look too pleased with yourself, or talk like you’re some kind of genius. Bit like me trying to do Shakespeare, really.
If you can dream – like dreaming of a number one single, wouldn’t that be nice? – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d be living in cloud cuckoo land, wouldn’t you?
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just go round and round like a washing machine on spin cycle, with no aim in sight;
If you can meet with triumph – like winning ‘Celebrity Big Brother’! – and disaster – like when that giant prop fell over on stage – and treat those two impostors just the same. Because one minute you’re up, next minute you’re down, that’s showbiz, innit?
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by some mischievous sorts, to try and catch out the innocent, bless ’em, or watch the things you’ve worked your socks off for get completely broken, and still, you know, stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got left is a sticky-backed plastic and a bit of hope;
If you can make one big heap of all your winnings – like a jackpot on the fruit machine, eh? – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and then, boom, you lose, and you have to start again at your beginnings, and never, ever, breathe a word about your loss. Keep a straight face, Les, keep a straight face!
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to keep going long after they’ve packed up and gone home, and so hold on when there’s nothing left in you except that little voice, that tiny whisper, saying: “Go on, Les, hold on! Don’t be a divvy!”;
If you can talk with crowds – like a sell-out gig in Blackpool, lovely! – and keep your virtue, stay true to yourself, or walk with kings – and I’ve met a few! – and not lose the common touch. Still fancy a chip butty, you know.
If neither your foes, those grumpy critics, nor even your loving friends – who sometimes give you a bit of a poke, bless ’em – can hurt you;
If all men count with you, they all matter, but none too much, because you can’t rely on anyone too heavily, can you? It’s all about you, really. (Only joking… mostly!)
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, making every second count, then, my son… or daughter, or anyone watching… yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or a proper good egg, eh?
And that’s the bottom line! You’ve been a lovely audience! Cheerio!
If – v10
Right, alright, settle down. It’s not exactly a chocolate fudge cake recipe, this, but it’s about what it takes to get through life without, you know, completely losing the plot. And trust me, I’ve seen a few plots lost in my time.
If you can keep your head when everyone else is having a proper melt-down, probably over something utterly trivial like a misplaced biscuit tin, and they’re all looking at you like you’re the one who ate the last Hobnob;
If you can trust yourself when everyone else is eyeing you suspiciously, wondering if you’ve finally gone mad, but still, you know, make a bit of allowance for their doubting too, because let’s face it, some days, even I wonder;
If you can wait and not get all antsy and twitchy from waiting – like waiting for the kettle to boil when you’re desperate for a cuppa, eh? – or, if someone’s been telling absolute whoppers about you, you don’t start telling lies back. Honestly, it’s too much effort. And if they’re throwing shade, don’t give way to hating them, because frankly, life’s too short, and there’s usually a good telly programme on. And yet, don’t go looking like you’re Mother Teresa, or talking like you’ve got all the answers. Nobody likes a smarty pants.
If you can dream – like dreaming of a world where all trousers have elasticated waists and unlimited cake – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d just be a bit… unhinged, wouldn’t you?
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just go round and round like a spin cycle on a cheap washing machine, achieving absolutely nothing;
If you can meet with triumph – like finding a fiver in an old coat pocket – and disaster – like stepping in something unpleasant on the pavement – and treat those two imposters just the same. Because, really, it all ends up in the wash, doesn’t it?
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by some sneaky so-and-so’s to try and trip up the unwary, or watch the things you’ve poured your limited energy into get completely broken, and still, you know, stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got is a bent fork and a piece of hope;
If you can make one glorious heap of all your winnings – like a lucky bingo score, perhaps? – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and then, bang, you lose, and you have to start again at your beginnings, and never, not even a whisper, breathe a word about your loss. Just a brave face and a silent longing for chocolate.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they’ve sent in their notice and retired to a quiet beach somewhere, and so hold on when there is absolutely nothing left in you except that tiny, stubborn voice that grumbles: “Oh, for goodness sake, hold on!”;
If you can talk with crowds – like a Friday night comedy gig, all bright lights and slightly sticky floors – and keep your virtue, stay true to yourself, love, or walk with kings – and I’ve met a few, they’re just like us, but with better hats – and not lose the common touch. Still appreciate a good chip shop, you see.
If neither your foes, those irritating people who just won’t leave you alone, nor your loving friends – who sometimes, bless their cotton socks, try your patience something rotten – can truly hurt you;
If all people count with you, they’re all, you know, people, but none too much, because getting too attached can be awfully draining, can’t it?
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, making every single one count, then, my dear, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or, far more likely, a thoroughly decent woman.
Now, who’s got the biccies?
If – v11
Right. Listen. This is important. Or not. Depends, doesn’t it? On whether the moon’s made of cheese, or if my trousers are on back to front. Which they might be. Haven’t checked.
If you can keep your head when everyone else’s has flown off like startled budgies, probably because the cat’s stolen their dentures, and they’re all blaming you. Yes, YOU! The innocent bystander who just wanted a nice cup of tea and a quiet lie down.
If you can trust yourself when all the other blithering idiots doubt you – the poor, deluded souls – but, and this is crucial, make allowance for their doubting too. Because, bless their cotton socks, they are idiots, so you can’t really expect much, can you?
If you can wait and not get a nervous twitch that makes your left eye do the rumba, or, if some conniving toe-rag is telling pork pies about you, don’t deal in lies yourself. No, no, keep it clean. Or, if they’re hating you, don’t hate them back. Just give them a very long, silent stare until they feel awkward. And yet, don’t look like you’ve just solved the riddle of the universe, or talk like you’re about to write a very boring book.
If you can dream – like dreaming you’re a giant, sentient turnip, for instance – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d be a turnip. And who wants to be a turnip? Except other turnips, perhaps.
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just wander off into the existential abyss of a lost sock;
If you can meet with triumph – like finding a fiver down the back of the sofa – and disaster – like discovering it’s actually a piece of crumpled tissue – and treat those two imposters just the same. Because, in the end, they’ll both probably lead to a trip to the local boozer.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken – which, let’s face it, was probably brilliant – twisted by knaves (terrible people, usually with greasy hair) to make a trap for fools (who are everywhere, by the way). Or watch the things you gave your life to – like that perfectly constructed pile of empty biscuit packets – broken, and yet, you stoop and build ’em up again, with nothing but a bit of string, a half-eaten sandwich, and sheer, bloody-minded idiocy.
If you can make one glorious heap of all your winnings – probably from a very dodgy game of snap – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose. Poof! Gone! And start again at your beginnings, probably in your underwear, and never breathe a word about your loss. Just hum a little tune and pretend you meant to do that.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew – whatever those are, probably squishy bits – to serve your turn long after they’ve packed their bags and emigrated to Bolivia, and so hold on when there is absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, left inside you except that tiny, infuriating little voice which says: “Oi! Hold on! Don’t be a prune!”
If you can talk with crowds – a bit like this, really, just without the smell of feet – and keep your virtue (if you had any to begin with), or walk with kings – preferably without stepping on their ermine – and not lose the common touch. Still capable of appreciating a good fart joke, you see.
If neither your foes (the ones who steal your milk) nor your loving friends (the ones who borrow your money and forget to give it back) can truly hurt you;
If all men count with you, they’re all, you know, there, but none too much, because too many people make your head spin. And then it falls off again.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute – that’s 60 seconds, apparently, who knew? – with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, preferably away from anything resembling responsibility, then, my boy (or girl, or dog, or badger, I’m not fussy), yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, which sounds rather messy. And what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or, if you prefer, a rather dashing spoon.
If – v12
Alright, pet? Grab yourself a brew, maybe a biscuit, and let’s have a little natter about this poem. Kipling, bless him, had some good ideas, but he probably didn’t have to deal with self-checkout machines or putting on Spanx. So, here’s my take on it, for us normal folk.
If you can keep your head when everyone around you is absolutely losing theirs – probably because their Wi-Fi went down or they ran out of wine – and they’re all blaming you, eh? Typical! They always blame you, don’t they?
If you can trust yourself when all your mates are looking at you like you’ve got three heads and an extra chin, but still, you know, make a bit of allowance for their doubting too, because sometimes, just sometimes, even a blind squirrel finds a nut, don’t they?
If you can wait and not get all fidgety and start picking at your cuticles from waiting – like waiting for a good sale to start, eh? – or, if someone’s been telling absolute fibs about you, you don’t start telling lies back. Honestly, it’s too much effort. And if they’re throwing shade, don’t give way to hating them, because frankly, hate just gives you wrinkles, and we’ve got enough to be getting on with. And yet, don’t go looking too perfect, or talking like you’re some kind of guru. Nobody likes a smug git.
If you can dream – like dreaming of a giant, never-ending buffet, wouldn’t that be lovely? – but not let those dreams become your master. Because then you’d just be wandering around in your pyjamas, trying to eat the sofa.
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just spin round and round like a faulty tumble dryer, achieving absolutely nothing;
If you can meet with triumph – like finding a matching pair of socks in the laundry basket – and disaster – like finding out you’ve put a dark wash in with your whites – and treat those two imposters just the same. Because honestly, it all comes out in the wash… eventually.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by some online trolls in their mum’s basement to make a trap for innocent folk, or watch the things you poured your heart and soul into get utterly broken, and still, you know, stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got left is a blunt spoon and a bit of a can-do attitude;
If you can make one glorious heap of all your winnings – like all that lovely bingo money – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and then, poof, it’s gone, and you have to start again at your beginnings, probably with a cuppa and a good sigh, and never, ever, breathe a word about your loss. Just a brave little smile and maybe a quiet swear word under your breath.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your purpose long after they’ve packed their bags and gone on a permanent holiday to Benidorm, and so hold on when there is absolutely nothing left in you except that tiny, stubborn voice that grumbles: “Oh, for goodness sake, hold on! There’s cake later!”;
If you can talk with crowds – like a lovely sold-out theatre, all looking at you! – and keep your virtue, stay true to yourself, love, or walk with kings – and I’ve met a few famous people, they’re just like us, but with better teeth – and not lose the common touch. Still fancy a good chippy, you know.
If neither your foes, those irritating people who tut loudly behind you in the queue, nor your loving friends – who sometimes, bless their hearts, give the worst fashion advice – can truly hurt you;
If all people count with you, they’re all, you know, there, but none too much, because getting too clingy is just a bit much, isn’t it?
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, making every single one count, then, my love, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man! Or, far more importantly, a woman who’s got her own glorious, slightly chaotic, act together.
Right, I’m off for that biscuit. You fancy one?
If – v13
Alright, listen up. Now, this ain’t just some bleedin’ poem, this is proper life advice, innit? From a geezer who’s seen a bit of everything. Kipling, he knew a thing or two. It’s about being a man, a proper fella, in a world full of… well, you know.
If you can keep your head when all around you are losin’ theirs and lookin’ at you like you’ve nicked their last bottle of milk, and blamin’ it all on you;
If you can trust yourself when every Tom, Dick, and ‘arry doubts you, but still, you know, make allowance for their doubtin’ too – ’cause sometimes, even a broken clock’s right, ain’t it?
If you can wait and not get all fidgety and twitchy from waitin’ – like waitin’ for your bloody cue on set, eh? – or, if someone’s tellin’ porkies about ya, you don’t drop to their level and deal in lies. Nah. And if they’re hatin’ on ya, you don’t give way to hatin’ back, ’cause that’s just a waste of good energy. And yet, don’t go lookin’ too clever, or talkin’ like you’ve got all the answers. Nobody likes a smart arse.
If you can dream – like dreamin’ of a nice little place in the country, or a couple of Oscars, eh? – but not let those dreams become your master. ‘Cause then you’re just floatin’ about like a balloon, ain’t ya?
If you can think – and not let those thoughts just go round and round like a record stuck in a groove, with no proper aim;
If you can meet with triumph – like a big opening night, all flash and glamour – and disaster – like a film that goes straight to DVD – and treat those two imposters just the same. ‘Cause it’s all part of the game, innit? The ups and downs.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken twisted by some geezers to make a trap for the dim-witted, or watch the things you gave your life to get broken – like a beloved prop, or your favourite director’s chair – and still stoop and build ’em up again, even if all you’ve got is a bent nail and a bit of spit;
If you can make one bleedin’ heap of all your winnings – all your earnings, every penny – and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, and lose the lot, and start again at your beginnings, probably with nothin’ but the shirt on your back, and never breathe a word about your loss. Not a peep.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew – all the bits that keep you goin’, you know – to serve your turn long after they’re cryin’ out for a sit down, and so hold on when there’s absolutely nothin’ left in ya except that voice, that little bit of Will that says: “Come on, son! Hold on!”;
If you can talk with crowds – a big audience, all lookin’ at ya – and keep your virtue, stay decent, you know, or walk with kings – and I’ve met a few in my time – and not lose the common touch. Still like a proper pint, you see.
If neither your foes, the ones who wanna see you fall, nor your loving friends, who sometimes, bless ’em, give you a bit of a prod in the wrong direction, can truly hurt you;
If all men count with you, you value everyone, but none too much, ’cause you can’t be leanin’ on people too much, can you? Gotta stand on your own two feet.
If you can fill the unforgiving minute – that’s sixty seconds, that is – with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, making every bloody second count, then, my son, yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, and what’s more, you’ll be a Man. A proper man.
And that’s the job. Now, where’s the tea?
Hope you enjoyed that 😉
Thank you.
Jon
Answers in white text below…
rudyard kipling, muhammad ali, john cooper clarke, dawn french , king charles III, two ronnies, kathrine ryan, chubby brown, les dennis, jo brand, sarah milligan, michael caine
Very appropriate for the present times