Competition

In Competition No. 2586 you were invited to submit a convincing apology, on behalf of the banking industry, for the financial meltdown. Overall, the standard was high. Basil Ransome-Davies went into contrition overdrive, managing to cram no fewer than 16 impressively insincere-sounding instances of the word ‘sorry’ into his entry. By ‘sorry’ number seven I was ready to forgive anything. But while Basil seemed to go on and on, William Danes-Volkov kept it brief, making the point that, as a banker’s apology is bound to be short, if not non-existent, the haiku is the most appropriate form: Money fell like leaves Yours was swept, piled and burned My bonus is safe.

In Competition No. 2585 you were invited to submit the memoirs of ten famous figures from history or ten well-known fictional characters, using only six words. In response to a ten-dollar bet that he couldn’t write a six-word short story, Hemingway came up with the haunting mini-masterpiece ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn’. Which, as well as inspiring this challenge, spawned an enormously successful contest, run by the online magazine Smith, that invites readers to tell their life story in half-a-dozen words. Autobiography is not traditionally associated with brevity but perhaps keeping it concise is the way to go in an age of shrinking attention spans. Which is not to say that the briefest of sketches cannot give the reader hours of speculative fun filling in the gaps.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2584 you were invited to contribute to the wave of Darwin mania sweeping the globe by submitting limericks to mark the bicentenary of the naturalist’s birth. Limerick comps are guaranteed to pull in the punters and this one prompted a flood of biblical proportions, with a lot of unfamiliar names — from the United States, in particular. There is room for only 17, which meant that many worthy contenders didn’t make the cut. So in the interests of making way for as many winners as possible, I’ll put a sock in it. Those printed below are rewarded with a princely £8 apiece.

In Competition No. 2583 you were invited to provide an extract from one of the following chapters which appear in a real work of modern literary criticism: ‘Noddy: Discursive Threads and Intertextuality’; ‘Sexism or Subversion: Querying Gender relations in The Famous Five and Malory Towers’. I was pulled up by one regular competitor (obviously not a member of the Noddy Club) for setting two challenges, within a relatively short space of time, requiring knowledge of Enid Blyton’s oeuvre. While often panned by adults, Blyton’s books are enormously popular with children.

In Competition No. 2582 you were invited to submit proverbs for the 21st century. Reading the entry brought to mind the magnificently mangled proverbs of Patrick O’Brian’s Captain Jack Aubrey (‘There’s a great deal to be said for making hay while the iron is hot’; ‘A bird in the hand waits for no man’). Your nuggets of contemporary folk wisdom made rather more sense, though. It was a large postbag bristling with wit and cynicism. That scourge of the television schedules, the celebrity chef, was a popular target. Brian Murdoch sums it up neatly: ‘Too many cooks. Period’. An equally hot topic was the credit crunch and its related horrors.

In Competition No. 2581 you were invited to take a passage from a classic of French literature and recast it in Franglais. The challenge was inspired by Miles Kington’s masterly The Franglais Lieutenant’s Woman and Other Literary Masterpieces, and the standard was top-tiroir. You inflicted mongrel French and English on the literary classics to great comic effect. Here is G.M. Davis’s version of the opening to Rimbaud’s ‘A Season in Hell’: ‘Il y a yonks, si je remember correctement, j’avais it large, avec beaucoup de bons mates and beaucoup de plonk flowing...’ Formidable! There were some unfamiliar names sprinkled among the seasoned veterans. A commendation goes to Jane Robertson, while the winners, printed below, net £25 each.

In Competition No. 2580 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘New Year Letter’, concluding with the words ‘under the familiar weight of winter, conscience and the state’. This couplet opens Auden’s long and oft-maligned verse epistle ‘New Year Letter’. Writing in the New Statesman in 1941, G.S. Fraser complained that he’d read the poem ‘five times with a mixture of astonishment, boredom, pleasure and increasing scepticism’ and had still been unable to fathom the author’s philosophical position. A large and varied entry puzzled and occasionally bored but overall it made for a pleasing read. There were star turns from William Danes-Volkov, Andrew Mason, Shirley Curran and D.A.

In Competition No. 2579 you were invited to submit a poem in praise of or denouncing the world wide web. In his book The Cult of the Amateur, Andrew Keen, thorn in the side of Web 2.0, rails against the calamitous effects of user-generated web content on our culture, bemoaning the emergence of ‘digital narcissism’ and the resulting proliferation of inane and banal content in cyberspace. On the whole, you agree with him, although there are a few fans out there. Brian Murdoch begins: ‘I think I should like to perform a celebratory pirouette/ to honour the w.w.w. aka the internet...’. It was a strong field this week. Mary Holtby and Josh Ekroy deserve a special mention but the winners, printed below, get £25 each. Bill Greenwell nabs the extra fiver.

In Competition No. 2578 you were invited to imagine the speech that Shakespeare, as a boy, might have delivered as he was slaughtering a calf. This challenge was inspired by John Aubrey’s portrait of the young bard in Brief Lives: ‘His father was a butcher, and I have been told heretofore by some of the neighbours, that when he was a boy he exercised his father’s trade, but when he killed a calf he would do it in a high style, and make a speech.’ You plundered the works of the adult Shakespeare with inventiveness and to great effect. Michael Brereton’s slaughterhouse oration was accompanied by scholarly analysis. Part of his footnote reads: ‘...

In Competition No. 2577 you were invited to supply definitions of five types of anything you chose. As the eagle-eyed among you will have spotted, Jaspistos set an almost identical assignment a few years ago, inspired by Sydney Smith’s six types of handshake. On that occasion, Noel Petty scooped the bonus fiver for his definition of six ways of sitting down. Here is a snippet: ‘the “block-and-tackle”, when the full weight is taken by the arms and the body very slowly lowered into position, accompanied by the somewhat otiose information that the subject is not as young as he used to be’. This time round, Adrian Fry nets the extra fiver. His fellow prizewinners, printed below, get £30 each.

In Competition No. 2576 you were invited to submit New Year’s resolutions of well-known figures past and present. There can be no finer example to the goal-setting constituency than Jaspistos who, in his late forties though not necessarily at New Year, resolved to do three things which he had regarded with particular dread: to attend an encounter group, to make a parachute jump, and to answer a sex advertisement in person. He achieved all three and emerged in one piece, which puts to shame those unimaginative souls who annually pledge to lose weight, assert control over their finances, find a soulmate, and perhaps do some sort of voluntary work. I liked Derek Morgan’s Samuel Plimsoll: ‘Draw a line and move on’, and W.J.

In Competition No. 2575 you were invited to submit a carol entitled ‘The Last Noel’. Noel for me generally goes like this: I make a brief, half-hearted stand against the evils of what now passes for Christmas and then succumb, with abandon, to avarice, gluttony and sloth. By the time I’d finished reading the entry, which ranged from the grim to the apocalyptic, any feelings of bah, humbuggery that I may have been nursing had been swept aside and I found myself overwhelmed by appreciation for Christmases past. Commendations to Alan Millard, Mae Scanlan, Alanna Blake and John Samson. The winners, printed below, get £25 each and the bonus fiver belongs to Shirley Curran. Thank you all for your entries over the year, which are a pleasure and a privilege to judge.

In Competition No. 2574 you were invited to take a poem, or a fragment of a poem, and anagrammatise it to make a new poem. Some of you were unsure exactly what it was I was after. I was asking you to break down a poem, or part of it, into its constituent letters and rearrange those letters to make a new poem. Judging by the unprecedentedly low turnout, and by some of your comments, this was a daunting assignment. ‘If only one had nothing else to do!’ wrote Mary Holtby; while Basil Ransome-Davies expressed the hope that the comp was as hard to adjudicate as it was to do. Well, I was prepared to share your pain, Basil, but was spared, thanks to a technologically able well-wisher, who came up with a computer program for checking anagrams.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2573 you were invited to submit the synopsis of a sequel-that-was-never-written to a well-known novel. Sequels to books and films have a poor reputation, the assumption being that, with the odd exception (The Godfather: Part II, for example), they will almost certainly fall short of the original. I learned this lesson early having looked forward with rabid excitement to Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, which failed to live up to its predecessor. You were all on sparkling form this week. In John O’Byrne’s follow-up to Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield’s repressed incestuous desire finds its true expression and he marries Phoebe, but lives unhappily ever after.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2572 you were invited to provide a rugby- or football-style song for another sport. After I’d set the assignment, it occurred to me that it runs counter to the spirit of football chants and rugby songs, which seem to arise spontaneously on the terraces and in the pub rather than being laboriously composed at home by dedicated chant-writers. The best are almost always lewd and often downright offensive — as W.J. Webster commented, they make Jonathan Ross sound prim — and while they are undoubtedly funny when heard in context, they look crass on the page.

In Competition No. 2571 you were invited to submit an extract from the life story of a famous figure from history written in the style of a contemporary misery memoir. The seemingly insatiable appetite for tales of other people’s torment and degradation that keeps ‘mis lit’ at the top of the bestseller lists is as depressing as the subject matter of the books themselves, which may be why, overall, you were on less sparkling form than usual this week. As one might expect, the Tudors loomed large, but I was surprised no one chose Job, surely the original misery memoirist.

In Competition No. 2570 you were invited to take any song by the Beatles or by Elvis Presley and rewrite it in the style of the poet of your choice. It’s a long way from Scotty Moore to Middle Scots but that didn’t stop Penelope Mackie, who submitted a fine rendition of ‘All Shook Up’ in the style of William Dunbar. I was also impressed by Chris O’Carroll’s ‘Yellow Submarine’ by Walt Whitman: ‘We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine./ Do I repeat myself? Very well then I repeat myself./ We all live...’ etc. etc.  Well done, too, to Ray Kelley, Michael Cregan, Gerard Benson, Julie Kane, Frank McDonald, W.J. Webster, Martin Parker, John Whitworth, David Silverman and Jill Green.

In Competition No. 2569 you were invited to describe a modern social ill of your choice in the style of Charles Dickens. Ills singled out included bellowing down mobile phones in public, elusive plumbers, and that scourge of the modern age, the potato wedge. Many entries ably demonstrate what George Orwell describes as Dickens’s ‘undisguised repulsion’ at proletarian roughness. Josephine Boyle captures Dickens at his moralising best, while D.A. Prince, on bad language, nimbly slips in a topical slant: ‘Filth even on the answering devices of frail grandfathers...’. Great stuff. Bravo to those narrowly pipped to the post: the above-mentioned, as well as Adrian Fry, Brian Murdoch, Paul Griffin, Frank McDonald and P.C. Parrish.

In Competition No. 2568 you were invited to submit, in verse or prose, a profile of the typical Spectator competitor. The picture that emerges is not all together flattering: a monomaniacal oddbod, almost certainly male (even if he uses a female name) and no longer in the first flush of youth, who nurses a simmering resentment at a] the world’s failure to acknowledge his true literary genius and b] the inexplicable absence of his entry in a given week from the winning line-up. ‘A fusion of deranged conceit and volcanic anxiety verging on paranoia,’ writes Basil Ransome-Davies, and he should know. Some of you put forward the theory that there is only one competitor who enters under a variety of pseudonyms.

In Competition No. 2567 you were invited to submit a letter of application for a job of your choosing written by a character from a novel or poem who would appear to be a very unpromising candidate. Thank you to Michael Cregan — the idea for this comp is one of his, tweaked by me. Keith Norman made a persuasive pitch on behalf of the Pied Piper of Hamelin for the post of Head of Music at Eton: ‘I can, with all confidence, promise to take your entire student body with me in whatever I undertake...’, while Andrew Mason’s Ancient Mariner, applying to be Seabird Conservation Officer — ‘If you do give me the job, I can assure you that I will give it my very best shot...’ — made me groan and smile in equal measure.