Lucy Vickery

In Competition No. 2922 you were invited to invent new garments and provide definitions. Thanks to the reader who, inspired by the emergence of the ‘slanket’, the ‘cardi-gown’ and the ‘onesie’, suggested this excellent comp. It has been claimed that we have Sir Winston Churchill to thank for the onesie, which can be traced back to his siren suit. Britain’s wartime leader designed this all-in-one with practical considerations in mind, but ended up with quite a collection in a variety of colours, patterns and fabrics. He once wore one to the White House, and so impressed the president’s wife that she said she was having one made for her husband. Both Brian Murdoch and W.J.

In Competition No. 2921 you were invited to write a clerihew about a fictional character. The clerihew is a comic four-line (AABB) biographical poem characterised by metrical irregularity and awkward rhyme. The first line is often the subject’s name. Or, to put it another way: E.C. Bentley Quite accidently Invented this form of wit, And this is it. (Anon) Here is another Bentley-inspired clerihew, this one written by Michael Curl: E.C. Bentley Mused while he ought to have studied intently; It was this muse That inspired clerihews. There was much to applaud in an entry full of wit and whimsy. Those printed below fought off stiff opposition to bag £8 per clerihew. Crow didn’t want it so. Given another chance he wouldn’t choose to be muse to Ted Hughes. D.A.

In Competition No. 2920 you were invited to submit an extract from a novel written by a rock star of your choosing. I was pleased that Adrian Fry went for Tom Waits, whose storytelling genius shines out on the likes of the grimly hilarious ‘Frank’s Wild Years’. But as Morrissey’s recent stinker demonstrates, being able to write decent song lyrics doesn’t guarantee literary success. Gerda Roper, Mark Shelton and C.J. Gleed were unlucky losers. The winners pocket £25 each. Bill Greenwell takes the bonus fiver. You know what it is to go thru the body of the beast, right? The heart, the crimson muscle, beating around you with soft & universal lamentations? All right, we shall go on. Into the blue mists, the territory of the Egyptian newt.

In Competition No. 2919 you were invited to write a poem that begins with the first line or two lines of a well-known poem but then takes off in a new and unexpected direction. It was an exceptionally crowded field this week and the winners below fought off strong competition to take £20 each. Basil Ransome-Davies pockets the bonus fiver. What is this life if, full of care, We’ve skid marks in our underwear Like script on cabalistic scrolls To trace the passage of our souls? The chthonic streaks, the karmic smears Stir to the surface latent fears Of Hell for acolytes of sleaze Who stain their pristine BVDs. To crack these runic secrets might Disclose an everlasting night, A sulphuretted pit of doom, The horror in the laundry room.

In Competition No. 2918 you were invited to submit a poem composed entirely of three-letter words. ‘This is the most difficult comp you have set and has driven me mad!’ said Adrian Fry. It was a nasty assignment, I admit, but it could have been so much worse. Take John Fuller’s wonderful poem ‘The Kiss’: not only is it made up entirely of three-letter words; it also has three words per line in three three-line stanzas. Given the potentially dispiriting technical nature of the challenge, I was surprised by both the number of entries and the standard (high). There was a lot of skill and wit on show and it was unusually difficult to separate submissions into winners and losers.

In Competition No. 2917 you were invited to submit a reply from Andrew Marvell’s coy mistress. Marvell’s mix of cajoling wit and harsher truths failed to persuade the Australian (male) poet A.D. Hope. Here’s an extract from his blistering reply, ‘His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell’, published in 1978: Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu The contemporary American poet Annie Finch wasn’t having any of it either. Her equally stinging riposte begins: ‘Sir, I am not a bird of prey:/ a Lady does not seize the day.

In Competition No. 2916 you were invited to recast a well-known scene from literature to reflect the fact that its author has signed a sponsorship deal with a well-known brand. The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party provided the perfect platform for Mr Kipling; Sydney Carton’s execution was the ideal shop window for Sabatier and Brooks of Sheffield; and Lady Macbeth cracked open the Wet Ones. The winners take £25 each. George Simmers pockets the bonus fiver.   She watched Mellors take the kettle from the stove and warm the pot. He was a small man, yet wiry, and strong, and opened a packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestives with one forceful gesture. With infinite delicacy, he then offered the biscuits as they were, in the packet.

In Competition No. 2915 you were invited to submit limericks featuring a well-known artist and a destination of your choice. This challenge was spawned by a limerick Robert Conquest wrote about Paul Gauguin: When Gauguin was visiting Fiji He said things are different here, e.g. While Tahitian skin Calls for tan spread on thin You must slosh it on here with a squeegee.  Brian Allgar penned this response: Mr Conquest, your limerick’s cheaty — Stop writing mendacious graffiti! In Fiji? What rot, For the tropical spot Where Paul Gauguin arrived was Tahiti.  It was a record-breaking entry size-wise and there was oodles of wit, skill and originality on display (though I lost count of the number of times ‘Giotto’ was rhymed with ‘blotto’).

In Competition No. 2914 — which was inspired by a speech given by the late Sir Keith Joseph in which he said that the government was trying to ‘Bennboozle’ the country — you were asked to submit coinages inspired by today’s politicians, supplying full dictionary definitions and illustrative examples of their use. As is often the case with this sort of competition, many of you were thinking along similar lines. Charles Curran, Barry Baldwin and R.M. Goddard all coined harmanise though with varying definitions, and kendalliance and corbynate also cropped up several times. I liked Basil Ransome-Davies’s faragiste (a chancer or failed opportunist, one who does not live up to his own publicity); D.A.

In Competition No. 2913 you were invited to submit an extract from the school report of a well-known author, living or dead. Teachers often get it wrong, of course. Eight-year-old Charlotte Brontë was described by hers in less than glowing terms: she ‘writes indifferently’ and ‘knows nothing of grammar, geography, history or accomplishments’. In 1943 Beryl Bainbridge, aged nine, elicited the following tart assessment: ‘Though her written work is the product of an obviously lively imagination, it is a pity that her spelling derives from the same source.’ And according to P.G. Wodehouse’s 1899 report from Dulwich College, he had ‘the most distorted ideas about wit and humour’. In a strong field, D.C.H.