Competition

In Competition No. 2667 you were invited to supply a reflection, in verse, on Sunday morning. In Competition No. 2667 you were invited to supply a reflection, in verse, on Sunday morning. You split into two camps: some infused with the bleak spirit of Billie Holiday’s ‘Gloomy Sunday’ (‘Gloomy is Sunday with shadows I spend it all, / My heart and I have decided to end it all’); others full of the joys of lie-ins, an ocean of colour supplements, bacon and eggs, and Sunday worship. It was Wallace Stevens’s meditation that inspired this challenge, and Basil Ransome-Davies’s response to it earns him the bonus fiver. His fellow winners get £25. I read it first in trancelike puzzlement.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2666 you were invited to supply an example of pretentious tosh in the shape of a review of a TV or radio soap opera or any other piece of entertainment aimed at the mass market. It is tempting with this type of comp to go over the top and points were awarded to those competitors whose tosh, however affected and overblown, had at least the semblance of developing an argument. Patrick Smith and Adrian Fry were unlucky losers; the winners get £30 each except Brian Murdoch, who nets £35. I am not I, they are not they, Coronation Street is not Inkerman Street. Coronation Street is, however, an ongoing paradigm, a speculum humanae vitae, whose cobbles incorporate the Heideggerian necessity of existence.

In Competition No. 2665 you were invited to submit a lullaby suitable for the modern child. ‘But do lullabies lull?’ writes competitor W.J. Webster, who puts an adult fear of heights (not to mention a horror of half-rhymes) down to repeated exposure as a little’un to the strains of ‘Rock-a-bye baby’. Among the more nightmare-inducing elements that you weaved into your songs for the infant of today were global warming, economic meltdown, gastric bands and cyber childcare. There were more winners than space this week, so bad luck to D.A. Prince, George Simmers and Martin Parker, who narrowly missed out. Bill Greenwell pockets the bonus fiver while his fellow winners net £25 apiece.

In Competition 2664 you were invited to submit a dialogue, in verse or prose, between two parts of yourself at odds with one another. As usual, verse entries vastly outnumbered prose ones. In an excellent field, Brian Murdoch, Adrian Fry, Bill Greenwell and Fergus Pickering stood out. Basil Ransome-Davies scoops the bonus fiver for a hilarious exchange between id and superego. This is your superego calling, Who finds your conduct quite appalling. do da dirty do da sin dump da pussy in da bin To raise us from the primal swamp We must curtail the instinct’s romp. why dont we do it in da road up ya bum ya moral code A sense of civic duty needs To govern all our words and deeds.

In Competition No. 2663 you were invited to submit a politically correct version of a well-known fairy tale. The inspiration for this challenge was  Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life and Times by James Finn Garner, who recasts favourite yarns to take account of modern political sensibilities. In  Garner’s PC world, witches are ‘kindness impaired’ and Cinderella wears a robe ‘woven from silk stolen from unsuspecting silkworms’. Bill Greenwell pockets the extra fiver this week. His fellow winners, printed below, get £30 apiece. Honourable mentions go to G.M. Davis, Robert Schechter, Gillian Ewing and Marion Shore.

In Competition No. 2662 you were invited to submit a poem composed in the midst of a travel hold-up. The entry, a magnificent collective letting-off-of-steam, was peppered with exasperated references to apoplectic rage, bursting bladders and bickering children but these were tempered by those who acknowledged that there are benefits in being forced to take things more slowly. Basil Ransome-Davies was one of them, and he pockets the bonus fiver. The other winners, printed below, get £25 each. Honourable mentions go to D.A. Prince, Ray Kelley, Gail White, Bill Greenwell and Joan Harris. When trains are late you wait. There is no     choice.

In Competition No. 2661 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘The Day of Doom’. As Google will tell you in a trice, the title is that of an epic poem about Judgment Day by the 17-century New England minister Michael Wigglesworth. Puritans lapped up its florid account of a wrathful God meting out punishment to the sinning hordes and the first edition — 1,800 copies — sold within a year, which was remarkable at the time. So, not the most uplifting subject matter, but it obviously continues to compel, producing a large entry full of originality and spark. On especially strong form were John Whitworth, Nigel Harding, Nick Hubbard, Margaret J. Howell, Adrian Fry and W.J. Webster, who were all unlucky losers.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2660 you were invited to submit a poem in praise of a bodily part that has been overlooked by poets. You turned out in force to celebrate the unsung heroes of our anatomy. Sonnets to the spleen rubbed shoulders with paeans to the pancreas and odes to organs I’d never heard of. Some made me queasy, others — Mick Poole, especially — made me chortle; but everyone impressed, so congratulations all round. The winners, printed below, earn £25 each and G.M. Davis pockets £30. There are those whose gonads ripple at the mention of a nipple, While others prize the knuckle or the heel, And although the thought may pain us there are some who view the anus As their cherished anatomical ideal.

In Competition No. 2659 you were invited to take the title of a well-known novel and write an amusing poem with the same title. There are some long lines this week, which leaves space only to mention unlucky losers Mae Scanlan and Max Ross. The winning six get £25 each; Frank McDonald nabs £30. Anna Karenina used to cause Lenin a few sleepless nights when he took her to bed; and though he saw Tolstoy as big as the Bolshoi he thought it revolting his books weren’t red. Glum Dostoyevsky considered her risqué and called her shenanigans flighty and vain; and he was astonished at how she was punished: a cleaver should cleave her, not wheels on a train.

In Competition No. 2658 you were invited to submit a bedroom scene written by a novelist who would not normally venture into such territory. A wise choice, it seems: even literary giants come a cropper when writing about sex. John Updike was shortlisted four times for one of Britain’s least coveted literary prizes, the Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction award, eventually scooping a lifetime achievement award. You rose to the challenge admirably. The winners earn £25 each and the bonus fiver goes to Chris O’Carroll.

In Competition No. 2657 you were invited to imagine what merry band Chaucer might bring together if he were writing today. It was another bumper entry this week, and you fell into two camps. There were those who reasoned that were Chaucer writing today he’d probably use modern English. Others, though, couldn’t resist the lure of Middle English, which was used to great comic effect. As spelling in the 14th century was a fluid affair (despite Chaucer’s attempts to standardise it), I didn’t worry too much on that score. What was more important was to capture the wit and vibrancy of his writing, and many of you did so admirably. Commendations go to unlucky losers Marion Shore, Brian Murdoch, Gerard Benson, Bill Greenwell, Paul Griffin and G.W.

In Competition No. 2656 you were invited to submit a dialogue between two well-known figures from different centuries, each using the argot of the time. You responded to this challenge with your usual verve and skill, and I especially liked Frank McDonald’s conversation between Julius Caesar and Churchill (Templumcollis) on the trials of wartime leadership. The winners, printed below, get £30 each and the bonus fiver goes to Brian Murdoch for an entertaining exchange between literary giants about Britain’s woeful performance in sport and song, of the sort that is to be heard in pubs up and down the land. GC: ‘By Christes bludde and Goddes bones, saye me, Shakespeare, what men in Engeland nowadaye tell sootheliche of sporte and of playe.

In Competition No. 2655 you were asked to submit a poem about a mundane household task such as boiling an egg or changing a light bulb in the style of a poet of your choice. Pastiche always pulls in the crowds, and true to form the entries came flooding in. Commendations go to Virginia Price Evans, Paul Griffin, Martin Parker, Gee McIlraith and Tim Raikes, all of whom were unlucky losers. But a pat on the back all round: entries were almost uniformly magnificent and it was extremely tough to choose only a handful. The winners are printed below and earn their authors £25 each. The bonus fiver belongs to George Simmers.

In Competition No. 2654 you were asked to submit a piece of lively and plausible prose, the first word beginning with ‘a’, the second with ‘b’, and so on, throughout the alphabet. Then to start again from ‘a’ and continue up to a maximum of 156 words. This was a real stinker, I admit. There were slip-ups from experienced competitors (Mary Holtby, Nicholas Hodgson), and many entries petered out into exhausted and exasperated silence well before the 156-word limit (though there was no obligation, of course, to reach it). As Basil Ransome-Davies so eloquently put it: ‘Basta! You will go to hell for this one.’ Well, Bazza, you can blame Cervantes, who, John Whitworth tells me, invented this game.

In Competition No. 2653 you were invited to submit a poem, written in the metre of Longfellow’s ‘The Song of Hiawatha’, describing Hiawatha’s experiences at his computer. Longfellow’s epic, with its readily imitated metre, has spawned countless parodies. This is from the Literary Digest in 1925: ‘Have you ever noticed verses/ Written in unrhymed trochaics/ Without thinking as you read them,/ This was swiped from “Hiawatha”?’ And in an introduction (written in trochees) to his fine contribution to the genre, ‘Hiawatha’s photographing’, Lewis Carroll made the following observation: ‘In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy.

In Competition No. 2652 you were invited to submit an extract from the autobiography of a sportsman packed with as many clichés as possible. The World Cup will no doubt provide a feast of words and phrases that have had the life squeezed out of them, as well as ample opportunity to mock players and pundits for their unimaginative use of language. But no less a literary giant than Kazuo Ishiguro has come to the defence of footballing clichés, describing them as poignant and beautiful. ‘At the end of the day’ was singled out by the Booker prize-winning author as an expression of stoic ruefulness that comes close to reflecting the true human condition.

In Competition No. 2651 you were invited to submit limericks that are also tongue-twisters. Thanks to J. Seery for suggesting this fiendish assignment. It is not easy to produce a true tongue-twister within the confines of the meter and rhyme scheme of the limerick. Perhaps the suggestion was inspired by Lou Brooks’s Twimericks: The Book of Tongue-Twisting Limericks, which I happen to have been reading to my young son. He finds my pitiful attempts at articulating ‘Flapjack Jack flipped flat flapjacks at Phil’ hilarious, but ‘Flapjack Jack’ is a piece of cake compared with some of your offerings. Gillian Ewing, Jane Dards and Virginia Price-Evans all reduced me to lisping incoherence.

In Competition 2650 you were invited to submit a letter from a publisher rejecting the Book of Genesis or Revelation. You lambasted both for a lack of coherent plot and narrative inconsistencies, and prescribed extensive editing. There were redeeming features, though: Paddy Briggs applauded the ‘geriatric sex narrative’ in Genesis, while J. Seery found much to commend — ‘Noah’s robust response to environmental challenge has current market appeal...’ — but ruled out publication on the grounds of ‘the author’s unwillingness to undertake the usual promotional tours’.

In Competition 2649 you were invited to submit a news bulletin on the outcome of the general election delivered by a well-known figure from history. Well done, everyone: it was a strong entry and a pleasure to judge. Narrowly missing a place in the winning line-up were Bill Greenwell, J. Seery, Shirley Curran, P.C. Parrish and John Whitworth. Those who made the final cut earn £25 each and Brian Murdoch nets the extra fiver. News reaches me in the Elysian Fields of the outcome of the senatorial competition in our remote province of Britannia. Every haruspex had correctly foreseen a triumvirate outcome with ensuing confusion, nor was this surprising, given the portents in the prior days and weeks.

In Competition 2648 you were invited to recast Kipling’s ‘If’ addressed to women. The nation’s favourite poem (rescued from a wastepaper basket, to which Kipling had consigned it in disgust, and reassembled by his formidable wife) was famously branded as ‘sententious’ by Orwell, but has illustrious champions none the less. Geoffrey Wheatcroft  argues that ‘it is only sententious if you have been taught to think so, if you see it as another admonition to play up, play up, and play the game, if you associate it with housemasters and scoutmasters and the sporting spirit. Not for the first time, it is easier to see what it really means if you aren’t English.’ It certainly brought out the best in you.