Lucy Vickery

In Competition No. 2976 you were invited to submit an extract of a speech in which a well-known figure from history comments on a pressing item on today’s news agenda.   Rob Stuart gave Pythagorus’ view on the new Toblerone (not a fan); Frank Upton offered Thomas Crapper’s perspective on transgender public conveniences; and Michael McManus delivered St Paul’s Letter to the Climatians (‘let no rubbish escape recycling and resurrection). The winners take £25. The bonus fiver is Brian Allgar’s.   We, Henry, hereby do encourage thee To act against the dread LGBT. Unnatural! We’ve had a wife or two Who craved the nameless things that women do, Ofttimes requiring strange vibrating toys.

In Competition No. 2975 you were invited to supply your own nine-line twist on Robert Herrick’s ‘Upon Julia’s clothes’:   Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.   Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!   In a large and somewhat raucous entry, Herrick’s 17th-century restraint was cast aside in favour of full-on 21st-century vulgarity. Honourable mentions go to Basil Ransome-Davies, John Whitworth and Josh Ekroy. The winners, printed below, take £15 each. Whenas in shorts my Julia plays A set or two on summer days I think of Herrick’s, who wore stays.

In Competition No. 2974 you were invited to submit a resignation letter from God.   Despite mankind’s attempts to kill Him off, God has continued to bounce back. ‘The Almighty,’ as Terry Eagleton puts it in his book Culture and the Death of God, ‘has proved remarkably difficult to dispose of.’ But what if He decided one day that He’d had just about enough of us all (Gexit, as Ken Stevens termed it)?   Now seems as likely a time as any, so it’s over to you. The winners take £25 each. Over the years, the human race has been taking part in a momentous democratic process. It is right that we trust the people with these big decisions.

In Competition No. 2973 you were invited to give your thoughts, in verse or prose, on who the Person from Porlock might have been — assuming, of course, that there was such a person. Many thanks to John McGivering, who suggested this excellect competition. Some fingered, as De Quincey did, Coleridge’s doctor and laudanum source. Also in the frame were Jehovah’s Witness, PPI ambulance-chasers and the drugs squad. And many agreed with Stevie Smith: ‘As the truth is I think he was already stuck/ With Kubla Khan … When along comes the Person from Porlock/ And takes the blame for it.’ The winners take £25 each; Frank McDonald nabs £30. There came a man from Porlock And he knocked on Samuel’s door While he was hard at work.

In Competition No. 2972 you were invited to supply an ode on a Grayson Perry urn. Frank McDonald wasn’t keen: ‘Do Grayson Perry urns deserve an ode?/ Has modern art not shamed the Muse enough?/ That looks for beauty in a tortured toad/ And loads our galleries with frightful stuff?’ Elsewhere, the entry was chock-full of adroit Keatsian references. The deserving winners take £20 each.   A form of classic shape and grace, Here covered in graffiti style, Which offers us a Janus face, Half snarl, half smile. It looks at once both butch and fey; A line that joins the modish dots To illustrate a crafty way Of making pots. It’s true, of course, that ancient Greeks Made lust and war a common theme On vases not the chaste antiques Of Keatsian dream.

In Competition No. 2971 you were invited to submit poems written by Jeremy Corbyn. The seven printed below take £20 apiece but oh, for more space: there were so many terrific entries. Honourable mentions go in particular to Brian Murdoch, Paul Carpenter, John Whitworth, Rip Bulkeley and Josh Ekroy.  Shall I compare thee to Teresa May? Thou art more lovely and more socialist: More Corbynista thou than fashionista; More fair art thou to me, in every way. Stay by my side and be my Frida Kahlo; Oh, come and be my red under the bed, Or, in th’immortal words of Gary Barlow Stay with me, girl, we’ll rule the world instead. Join Strictly — give it everything you’ve got! Your grace would put Ann Widdecombe to shame — Go for it!

In Competition No. 2970 you were invited to supply an extract from an Ig Nobel Prize-winner’s speech that describes the ‘achievement’ (invented by you) being honoured. The Igs are spoof awards handed out annually at Harvard for scientific achievements that manage to be both hilarious and thought-provoking. In 2014’s Neuroscience category, for example, the award was scooped by Jiangang Liu et al. for their contribution to our understanding of what happens in the brains of people who see the face of Jesus in a piece of toast. And just last month, Egyptian urologist Ahmed Shafik was honoured in this year’s Reproduction category for his work testing the effects of wearing various-fabrics on the sex life of rats.

In Competition No. 2969 you were invited to submit a poem about autumn in the style of the poet of your choice. It was a stellar entry so I’ll keep it brief to make way for an extra winner. Those printed below take £20 each; D.A. Prince nabs £30. High fives all round. Oh Autumn, you are one of the loveliest of seasons And for this there are a multitude of reasons. You bring us apples, and windfalls hardly bruised at all Despite being associated with Eve, the Serpent and The Fall. Then there are blackberries to accompany them for puddings and tarts (At least until the Devil drags his tail across their fruiting parts, Because there are all sorts of folk tales and such, Even if nowadays we don’t believe them, much.

In Competition No. 2968 you were-invited to take the title of a short story by Ted Hughes, How the Whale Became, substitute-another animal or fish for ‘whale’ and provide a tale with that title. This comp was an absolute delight to judge. There were oodles of well-turned entries bursting with charm. Well done. Special mention go to C.J. Gleed, Michael McManus, Frank McDonald and Tracy Davidson. The winners take £25 each. The bonus fiver belongs to Bill Greenwell.   Call me Nana. I was born when my mother was being born, into one gender, no need for more, only the cycle, the cycle of endless begetting. When I was a few days old, my great-great-great-great-grandnymphs yelled, ‘We’re pregnant.’ And indeed they were, my beautiful matryoshki.

In Competition No. 2967 you were invited to submit an article written by the author of your choice under the headline ‘If I were Prime Minister’. In a fascinating 1959 essay written for The Spectator under that headline, Ian Fleming proposed, among much else, a combination of ‘benevolent Stakhanovism’ in the workplace and the conversion of the Isle of Wight into ‘one vast pleasuredome … where the frustrated citizen of every class could give full rein to those basic instincts for sex and gambling which have been crushed through the ages’. There were some equally arresting proposals in the entry courtesy of Bill Greenwell’s Nevil Shute, Hugh King, C.J. Gleed and Barry Baldwin’s Samuel Johnson, and G.M.