Lucy Vickery

In Competition No. 3237, you were invited to submit a short story using words of only one syllable. This challenge produced a delightfully diverse entry with echoes of Dr Seuss, Hemingway, Kafka, Shakespeare and Beckett. The winning slots were keenly contested and I regretted not having space for Frank McDonald’s meditation on St Paul and the nature of love or David Shields on Kant and sense perception. Other strong performers included Richard Spencer, Gail White, Peter Mullen and Gillian Gammon, but it’s high fives all round and especially to the winners below who nab £20. To hear a rare tale, weird yet true as I stand here, just take a drive out to our inn on the moor. We keep a good pint and, in the snug by the fire, you will meet Old Seth.

In Competition No. 3236, you were invited to submit a poem that begins ‘Oh my love is like…’ . From the funny and sweet to the waspish and jaundiced, the entry ranged pleasingly far and wide; as the poet Patrick Kavanagh wrote in his sonnet ‘The Hospital’ (‘A year ago I fell in love with the functional ward/ Of a chest hospital…), ‘But nothing whatever is by love debarred…’ Commendations go to Nicholas Hodgson, Adrian Fry, Mary McLean and Richard Spencer. The winners, printed below, earn their authors £25 each. O My Love is like a sad old lag That’s newly sprung from jail. My love is like a jiffy bag Recycled in the mail.

In Competition No. 3235, you were invited to invent a prequel to a well-known work of literature and supply an extract from it. In a stellar entry, Nick MacKinnon, Sue Pickard, Max Ross, Bob Trewin and Lorna Wood all shone, but the £25 prizes go to the following: Believing it never to be my Fortune to travel in future Years, my Profession holding me fast in Respectability, I betook myself to London to discover what Strangenesses I might encounter in the Manners and Dispositions of People. Finding them of indifferent Stature and unwholesome Airs, yet was I minded to visit their Great Parliament, both for my Private Education but also thereby in hope of acquiring a great Tale as Souvenir, one to make my Name.

In Competition No. 3234, you were invited to submit either a poem or a short story entitled ‘Covid’s metamorphoses’. Thanks are due to Frank Upton, who suggested this tremendous and timely challenge. It attracted a pleasingly large and diverse entry (overwhelmingly made up of verse rather than prose), in which the limerick was well represented. Here is an example from Jerome Betts: A virus with spikes like a mine Whose effects can be no less malign  Has a trick that’s worth noting  As it changes its coating To defeat each fresh vaccine design. Other highlights included a riff, from R.M.

In Competition No. 3233, you were invited to invent a new character for the Mr Men/Little Miss series by Roger Hargreaves and submit an extract from his or her story. The first character to make an appearance, in 1971, was orange Mr Tickle with his long, wiggly arms. Fifty years on, Mr T.’s overly tactile behaviour has raised an eyebrow or two, earning him comparisons with Harvey Weinstein. Mr Clever, meanwhile, has been denounced as a ‘smug, sexist mansplainer’. Despite the fuss and bother, Roger Hargreaves’s books (written and illustrated by his son Adam since his death) continue to be hugely popular, as was this challenge, which pulled in the punters and saw you on top form. Honourable mentions go to Simon Machin, Kay Bagon and Brian Allgar.

In Competition No. 3232, you were invited to retell a news story from the past year in sonnet form. An excellent entry this week included submissions ranging far and wide, from Harry Patch and the Everly Brothers to Alaskan walruses and Jeff Bezos’s penis. Commendations to Josephine Boyle, C. Paul Evans, Dorothy Pope, R.M. Goddard, Douglas Hall and Martin Elster, and £20 each to those printed below. For roofer Charlie Perry and his mates It was a time of Strongbow and cocaine, The chance to nullify decades of pain By getting early into altered states Then watching, with the pride that elevates, As English football claimed a cup again. In an uplifting, patriotic vein They crashed and bunged their way through Wembley’s gates.

In Competition No. 3231, you were invited to supply an example of pretentious wine writing. Space is tight and the standard stellar, so to make way for the maximum number of winners I’ll pause only to commiserate with unlucky losers Brian Murdoch and Basil Ransome-Davies before handing over to those printed below, who earn £25 each. Keen to self-identify, this Australian merlot arrives sans label in a bottle refreshingly untainted by phallic thrust or feminine curve: a box, in fact. A wine with important things to say about the way we live now, it’s a living refutation of the prejudice which asserts that vinicultural outcomes stem from biochemical composition or geographical provenance.

In Competition No. 3230, you were invited to supply a double acrostic poem, the first and last letters of each line, read vertically, spelling out The Spectator and New Statesman in either order. This fiendish technical challenge, designed to sweep away the cobwebs, drew an entry that was on the smallish side but varied and engaging for all that. Some took the topical route. Here’s Tracy Davidson, who turned her sights on the shenanigans at No. 10: Taste turkey crown, then trousers down! Have cheese and wine. It’s work, it’s fine… Other submissions worthy of honourable mentions came from Basil Ransome-Davies, Hugh King, Bob Trewin, Steven Smith and Josephine Boyle. But the winners, in a keenly fought contest, earn their authors £20 each.

In Competition No. 3229, you were invited to provide the story of the Nativity retold in the style of a well-known author. Star performers, in a most excellent entry, included Janine Beacham’s W.S. Gilbert: Young Mary was the model of a good and humble Nazarene, So Gabriel requested of her, ‘be our human go-between, you will conceive a holy child, in keeping with theocracy, you and your husband Joseph will be sainthood’s aristocracy… Brian Murdoch and Nicholas Lee were also snapping at the winners’ heels, but after lengthy deliberation I have pleasure in awarding £25 each to the authors of the submissions printed below. A happy Christmas to you all. Do you remember an inn, Miranda? Do you remember an inn?

In Competition No. 3228, you were invited to provide a well-known extract from adult literature rewritten for inclusion in an anthology of children’s literature. It was Julie Burchill’s verdict, in this magazine, on Sally Rooney’s latest novel that prompted me to set this task: ‘Her writing is so blank,’ she wrote, ‘that in parts it reads like a children’s starter book — Janet and John Get Naked and Say Stuff About the Pointlessness of Existence.’ One of the many high points in a terrific entry was John MacRitchie’s recasting of Wolf Hall as Francesca Simon might have written it: ‘Horrid Henry wakes up one morning feeling really cross. Weepy Wolsey says he has to be nice to Catty Catherine.

In Competition No. 3227, you were invited to provide verses to help children remember the sequence of the last eight US presidents. The same challenge was set in these pages more than 30 years ago, and on that occasion the late Martin Fagg, a titan in the world of literary competitions, emerged victorious. Here’s a snippet from his winning entry, which takes us more or less to the point where yours start from: Gerald Ford — so superdumb He couldn’t walk straight chewing gum. Georgia’s Carter — folksy guy, First ‘Jimmy Who?’, then ‘Jimmy Why?’ Last, Reagan — filmic do-or-die man, And one-time husband of Jane Wyman.

In Competition No. 3226, you were invited to rewrite, in pompous and prolix style, any well-known simple poem. The seed for this pleasingly popular challenge was a recasting of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, attributed to John Raymond Carson, which begins: ‘Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific…’ Star performers, in a most excellent and enjoyable entry, include AdrianFry’s Larkin: Jointly and severally, your begetters rudely discombobulate your psycho-social equilibrium.

In Competition No. 3225, you were invited to provide a version of the Lord Chancellor’s ‘Nightmare Song’ from Iolanthe for any member of the British cabinet. Long Gilbertian lines mean there’s space only for me to applaud stellar contributions all round, but especially from D.A. Prince, Katie Mallett, Rachael Churchill, Janine Beacham, George Simmers and Bill Greenwell, who imagines what might rob the levelling--up secretary of his rest. Here’s a snippet: When you’re lying awake and it feels like a snake Is adjusting your weak moral compass Then you groove to ‘Le Freak’ as an elderly geek Throwing shapes in an Aberdeen rumpus… The winners below net £35 each.

In Competition No. 3224, you were invited to submit snippets of misleading advice either for tourists visiting Britain or for British tourists travelling abroad. You normally embrace this challenge with mischievous relish but this time around the mood felt somewhat muted, perhaps not surprising under the circumstances. There were plenty of zingers all the same, and as usual those with a ring of plausibility worked best. Several of you submitted permutations on this one, from Janine Beacham: ‘It’s traditional to picnic on the lawns at Oxford University, so pack a basket.

In Competition No. 3223, you were invited to supply an acrostic poem in which the first letter of each line, read vertically, spells DENNIS AND GNASHER. A varied and excellent entry, which celebrated with gusto the Beano’s spirit of naughtiness and irreverence, also reflected how it has evolved to accommodate modern sensibilities. As Stuart Jeffries observed recently in this magazine, Dennis’s ‘bottom these days is rarely sore since corporal punishment is frowned upon and so he cannot be given his weekly slippering…’ William McGonagall, a regular fixture in the postbag at the moment, popped up again, this time courtesy of Frank Upton: But he was nudged out by the winners, below, who snaffle £25 each.

In Competition No. 3222, you were invited to supply a dystopian short story that incorporates as many collective nouns for animals or birds as possible. Your appetite for dystopian imaginings may be somewhat limited at the moment — ‘How about setting something sweet and optimistic?’ write Frank Upton — and there was a dismal sameness about the entry this week. Notable exceptions included David Silverman’s Huxley-Orwell-Collins-Atwood mash-up, Nick Syrett’s Conan Doyle-inspired vignette, and the winners, below, who each pocket £25. After the human colonies had been obliterated, meetings of the Great Unkindness took place, of course, at Ravenna.

In Competition No. 3221, you were invited to submit an ode on the Marble Arch Mound. The 25 metre-high artificial hillock, dubbed ‘Teletubby Hill’, has drawn near universal mockery and derision, leaving Westminster City Council red-faced and poorer to the tune of £6 million. But it inspired a funny, imaginative entry, with a strong whiff of Keats and Wordsworth. The Bard of Dundee, channelled by Brian Murdoch, speaks for many: When the Mound next to Marble Arch was first erected You had to pay to walk up it, which made many good folk dejected… Commendations go to Bob Trewin and George Simmers; the winners earn £25. I hail thee, Mound!

In Competition No. 3220, you were invited to supply a newly discovered short story by a well-known 19th- or 20th-century poet. In a distinguished entry, Nick MacKinnon’s tale — unearthed in Wendy Cope’s archive and featuring the poet herself and her alter ego Jake/Jason Strugnell — stood out; as did Brian Murdoch’s T.S. Eliot, showing his hard-boiled side. It was especially painful to separate winners from losers this week, but after much humming and hawing I have awarded £25 each to the six printed below. Honourable mentions go to runners-up Moray McGowan, R.M. Goddard, Joe Houlihan, Frank Upton and David Shields.

In Competition No. 3219, you were invited to supply clerihews on well-known scientists, past and present. The subject of the first ever clerihew — a pseudo-biographical quatrain, AABB, playful in tone, metrically clunky — which was written, for fun, in about 1890 by schoolboy E.C. Bentley (and illustrated by his chum G.K. Chesterton) was a scientist: Sir Humphry Davy Abominated gravy. He lived in the odium Of having discovered sodium. But it was all downhill from there, it seems. In his introduction to The Complete Clerihews of E.Clerihew Bentley, the poet Gavin Ewart contends that ‘nobody much except Bentley has ever written really good clerihews’. Even literary giant W.H. Auden, he says, doesn’t quite cut the mustard.

In Competition No. 3218, you were invited to supply a recipe as it might have been written by the author of your choice. I tip my hat to Mark Crick’s Kafka’s Soup, which gave me the idea for this excellent challenge. In it you’ll find such delights as John Steinbeck’s mushroom risotto, Virginia Woolf’s clafoutis grand mère and cheese on toast à la Harold Pinter. Nick MacKinnon, Moray McGowan and G.M. Southgate were worthy runners-up in an exceptional field. The six who made the final cut earn £25 each. Take plump apples of beech-leaf green, ripened in a cuckoo-calling summer. Score a line around their bounteous girths.