Lucy Vickery

In Competition No. 2637 you were invited to take an existing word and alter it by a) adding a letter; b) changing a letter; and c) deleting a letter; and to supply definitions for all three new words. This challenge is a shameless rip-off of the legendary change-a-letter competition over at the Washington Post’s ‘Style Invitational’, where ingenious new permutations of this crowd-pleaser appear at regular intervals and attract a mammoth postbag. Judging by the bombardment of entries from some quarters, it proved equally popular with Spectator competitors, one of whom described it as ‘unnervingly addictive’. As often happens, there were many more worthy winners than there is space for.

In Competition No. 2636 you were invited to submit either a victory song or a loser’s lament composed by one who regularly enters this competition. All in all it was a lively and entertaining entry. And while there were fond references aplenty to the good old days — ‘Bono sub regno Jaspistou I’d gain,/ The occasional cheque for my toil, tears and pain...’ laments Martin Woodhead — when good sense and justice prevailed, the current incumbent stands accused of a litany of crimes, including having a tin ear and no sense of humour. Bill Greenwell, He Who Almost Always Wins, featured in many entries, as did several other serial winners, but Bill’s victory song narrowly missed the cut. Josephine Boyle and Chris O’Carroll were also unlucky.

In Competition No. 2635 you were invited to incorporate the following homophones into a poem bemoaning the general decline in standards of literacy: ‘elicit’, ‘illicit’, ‘lesson’, lessen’, ‘Dane’, ‘deign’, ‘dissent’, ‘descent’. From time to time, a challenge triggers rumblings of discontent in the competitive ranks, and to judge by the exasperated note accompanying one entry — ‘you can’t imagine how much I hate this comp’ — this was one of them.

In Competition No. 2634 you were invited to submit an obituary of a well-known figure, past or present, as they themselves might have written it. In a strong field, the entry was split fairly evenly between prose and poetry. Many poets have penned their own epitaph. Malcolm Lowry’s memorable six-liner begins thus: ‘Malcolm Lowry/ Late of the Bowery/ His prose was flowery/ and often glowery...’ Thank you, Gerard Benson, for drawing it to my attention. On the prose side, Baron Archer of Weston-super-Mare was a predictably popular subject. As befits one not short on self-belief, his obits are object lessons in accentuating the positive. I liked Michael Cregan channelling R.D.

In Competition No. 2633 you were invited to submit a poem lamenting the loss of a small but important object. As I dart around like a headless chicken attempting to track down the latest small but seemingly crucial missing item, the words of ‘One Art’, Elizabeth Bishop’s powerfully understated villanelle, ring in my ears: The art of losing isn’t hard to master so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master... These flurries of panic seem to punctuate my day with increasing regularity as time passes but to judge by your entries I am not alone.

In Competition 2632 you were invited to supply the wording of the classified ad that is least likely to elicit a response. Thanks to John Papworth, who suggested this challenge, and to W.J. Webster, who drew my attention to the winning entry in a similar competition that appeared in another publication some decades ago: ‘Halitosis? Acne? Dandruff? Send s.a.e. for free samples.’ Memorable stuff but yours were equally impressive. Inspired, perhaps, by the proximity of Valentine’s Day, many competitors submitted lonely-hearts ads of the alarmingly deluded ‘unattractive ageing loser seeks extremely attractive, much younger female’ variety. Funny to a point, but I preferred Basil Ransome-Davies’s more subtle but somehow equally scary approach.

In Competition No. 2631 you were invited to submit a poem on a subject of your choice in which the last two words of each line rhyme. There was an element of ambiguity in the wording of this challenge, and a handful of you read it as meaning that the last two words of a line should rhyme with the last two in the line below (rather than the last two words rhyming with each other). All entries were considered. I was actually thinking along the lines of George Herbert’s ‘Heaven’ (although in that poem the echo rhyme is given its own line),  and then of course there are the triple rhymes — a rhyme too far for some, perhaps — of Thomas Hood’s ‘A Nocturnal Sketch’, which a few competitors alluded to.

In Competition No. 2630 you were invited to imagine that a literary giant of the pre-television age is guest TV critic on The Spectator, and submit an extract from his or her review. As Emma Woodhouse says, ‘One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.’ So what would the literary greats of the past have thought of 21st-century viewing habits; what, I wonder, would Miss Austen herself have made of a dripping Colin Firth emerging from the lake at Pemberley in a telly adaptation of Pride and Prejudice? In a small but impressive entry, the poets were in fine voice. Here’s a snippet from Frank McDonald as Chaucer describing the debut of SuBo: ‘One juriste yclept Simon, smoothe lyke oil,/ asked “What’s yer name?

In Competition No. 2629 you were invited to submit a palinode (a poem retracting a previously expressed opinion) on behalf of a well-known poet. Haunted by the success of his much-reproduced quatrain ‘The Purple Cow’, Gelett Burgess wrote a palinode to strike fear in the hearts of anthology-compilers: ‘Ah, yes! I wrote the purple cow,/ I’m sorry now I wrote it!/ But I can tell you anyhow,/ I’ll kill you if you quote it!’ This week the equally oft-anthologised ‘Sea Fever’, ‘Dover Beach’, ‘If’ and ‘This Be the Verse’ produced some robust recantations in an entry of record-breaking size.

In Competition 2628 you were invited to submit a contemporary version of the 18th-century satirical song ‘The Vicar of Bray’. The model for the Vicar was purported to be Simon Aleyn, a 16th-century parish priest of Bray, who hung on to office by cheerfully reinventing himself to fit in with the prevailing orthodoxy. He found a defender, though, in the 1930s, in the shape of George Orwell, who was moved, by a magnificent yew he had planted in the churchyard at Bray, to write in an essay entitled ‘A Good Word for the Vicar of Bray’, ‘a beautiful tree, which has rested the eyes of generation after generation and must surely have outweighed any bad effects which he produced by his political quislingism’.

In Competition 2627 you were invited to submit a rhyming prophecy for 2010. The entry was short on optimism but bursting with wit and ingenuity. Hats off to Mae Scanlan, a more-or-less lone Pollyanna in a sea of Cassandras, who foresees global peace and economic prosperity. She narrowly missed out on joining the winners, printed below. It’s £25 each and an extra £5 to Noel Petty. Happy New Year! January opens sunny, Bankers vote for parsimony, BBC sacks Ross (‘not funny’), Burmese colonels all resign. Waving fields of green shoots sighted, City overtake United, Ferguson says ‘Great! Delighted!’, Climate change declared benign.   GDP continues palmy, Scientists turn back tsunami, Afghans form a model army, Taleban apologise.

In Competition No. 2626 you were invited to submit a thank-you letter for an especially hideous or inappropriate present, which manages to be diplomatic while fending off future offerings along the same lines. A respondent to a BBC poll on ungratefully received Christmas presents was given a ‘handsome but visibly used hair comb’ by an eccentric if well-meaning relative. One can only imagine his efforts to shoehorn his features into the appropriate blend of delight and gratitude. It helps, of course, if the giver of the gift is not present for the unveiling, but this still leaves the thorny problem of the thank-you letter. Which is where you come in. The entry was a masterclass in tact and diplomacy. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each.

In Competition 2625 you were invited to submit a poem in praise of any well-known person named John (a real person, living or dead, or a character from literature). The verse tributes poured in, to Johns I had heard of — Prescott, the Baptist, Donne — and those I had not: ‘John Harington, my jo, John,/ You’re a hero to my mind/ For inventing water closets,/ Great good for all mankind...’ (Josephine Boyle). R.S. Gwynn’s fine contribution was inspired by a multitude of Johns; from Braine and Wain to Lennon and Dryden. And snapping equally insistently at the heels of the winners were David Silverman, Janet Kenny, Sylvia Fairley, Mark Weeks and Susan McLean, with an uplifting celebration of John Thomas.

In Competition 2624 you were invited to submit a poem in the style of the legendary William Topaz McGonagall on an issue of contemporary relevance to the Scots. Hailed by the TLS as ‘the only truly memorable bad poet in our language’, McGonagall built his reputation on appalling yet beguiling works of inadvertent comic genius. Neither plagued by a lack of self-belief nor hampered by self-awareness, the handloom weaver from Dundee forged ahead with his art in the face of universal mockery and derision. He has had the last laugh, though: his star burns brightly still more than a century after his death. The sincerity of the original voice (which no doubt accounts for its considerable charm) is difficult to capture in parody.

In Competition 2623 you were invited to submit an extract from a novel or a play, of which one letter of the title had been changed, in the style of the original author. It was especially tough this week to whittle a large postbag down to just six. Oh, to have the space to share with readers the delights of The Drapes of Wrath, Finnegans Cake, Wailing for Godot and Lady Chatterley’s Liver. Well done, one and all. D.A. Prince shone with ‘Paradise Post’, but, as I stipulated a novel or a play, she is excluded from the winning line-up. It’s £25 each to the victors, and Alan Millard nabs the bonus fiver. Such was the variety to be observed from the esplanade shelter that, to Scabber Crout, none resembled another.

In Competition No. 2622 you were invited to submit a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist, a cyclist on a pedestrian or a pedestrian on either. Reading the entry brought to mind a question once posed by Matthew Parris: ‘Does cycling turn you into an insolent jerk?’ ‘You bet it does!’ came the semi-unanimous chorus. A bracing stream of vitriol was directed mostly at cyclists, especially those who wear Lycra, though I no doubt let motorists off lightly by not giving the cycling brigade the opportunity to respond in kind to their fellow road-users. While Brian Murdoch, Basil Ransome-Davies, Paul Griffin and Martin Elster were unlucky losers, this week’s king of the road is D.A. Prince, who nabs the bonus fiver.

In Competition No. 2621 you were invited to invent a new magazine combining two existing publications and provide an extract from it. It was with great reluctance that I disqualified Josh Ekroy’s poignant portrait of an angst-ridden budgerigar. The publications in question had to be real ones, and energetic attempts to track down Existentialist Monthly and Your Budgie came to naught. In a strong field, Frank McDonald and W.J. Webster stood out; while Bill Greenwell’s synthesis of the phenomenally popular Take a Break — which invites readers to sell their stories of ‘love and betrayal, loss and sin’ — and Identity, the BNP house mag, had a pleasing ring of plausibility He and his fellow winners bag £30 each. The bonus fiver is Adrian Fry’s.

In Competition No. 2619 you were invited to submit a short fable culminating in a mangled aphorism. The fabulous theme of this comp is a salute to Jaspistos, celebrated translator of fables, whose rendering of La Fontaine’s was deemed by the not-easily-pleased Geoffrey Grigson to have been unsurpassed, ‘earthier and sharper than Marianne Moore’s’. The assignment was also a somewhat backhanded tribute to that most exacting of forms, the aphorism, described by Auden and Louis Kronenberger, in their foreword to The Faber Book of Aphorisms, as ‘an aristocratic genre of writing’. There was a lot to live up to, then, which perhaps accounted for a lower than usual turnout and a patchy standard overall.

In Competition No. 2618 you were invited to submit a sequel to Betjeman’s ‘A Subaltern’s Love Song’. As a native of the home counties — born in Aldershot, raised in Camberley — I have a soft spot for Betjeman’s muse, who imparted a touch of glamour to this unlovely part of the world. The real Joan Hunter Dunn, white-coated goddess of the catering dept ardently admired by Betjeman from afar at the Ministry of Information in the early 1940s, was tracked down by a journalist 20 years later. And her life was, it turns out, a continuation of the poem. There was euonymus in her garden in Headley, Hants, and Joan Jackson, as she rather prosaically became, was still nimble about the tennis court well into her forties.

Lucy Vickery presents the latest competition In Competition No. 2617 you were invited, in the wake of Big Brother’s demise, to submit a proposal for a new TV reality show guaranteed to pull in the punters. This assignment was an invitation to plumb the depths of bad taste. And plumb them you did. I winced as I waded through a postbag that incorporated all the hallmarks of reality TV: cruelty, banality, inanity, exploitation, voyeurism and abject humiliation. W.J. Webster’s entry, the epitome of awfulness, was couched in language that managed to combine cliché, political correctness and bogus compassion in a truly toxic brew.