Victoria Lane

Comp. 3416 invited you to marry romantasy (the romance-fantasy fusion now dominating fiction sales) with a third genre. Narnia, gritty realism and Holby City were in the mix. Some saw no reason to confine themselves to three, and we had romantasy sci-fi noir, as well as a Scandi noir-Richard Curtis romantasy-com. I’m sorry to leave out Sue Pickard, David Silverman, Basil Ransome-Davies, Nick Syrett, D.A. Prince, Bill Greenwell, Josephine Ruth and others. The voucher winners are below. ‘Don’t try to seduce me, mortal,’ breathed the Fae cowpoke. I had no intention of touching the varmint. He might be tall, sardonically sexy, cruel and cool, wear a black vampire-made Stetson, Elvish spurs, and leather chaps that clung to his sculpted thighs, but I was determined to hate him.

Comp. 3413 was prompted by J.G. Ballard’s story ‘The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered as a Downhill Motor Race’ (itself inspired by Alfred Jarry’s ‘The Crucifixion Considered as an Uphill Bicycle Race’). You were invited to consider some event in a category to which it did not belong. It was harder than ever to choose winners; Adrian Fry, Bill Greenwell, Paul Freeman, Martin Brown, Sue Pickard, J.S.R. Fleckney, Nicholas Stone and Sylvia Fairley are a few of the runners-up. The prizes go to those below. The Big Bang considered as a TV baking challenge The initial cosmic oven temperature was unbelievably high. Whoever was responsible for turning it on should have read the thermodynamic instructions with more care.

For Comp. 3411 you were invited to submit a passage or poem on the subject of dynamic pricing. Thanks to Paul Freeman for the suggestion, who deserves a nod for his entry too. So do Mike Morrison, Matt Quinn, Nicholas Lee, Elizabeth Kay, Frank Upton and others, and here’s John O’Byrne’s Larkinesque riff: I listen to prices surging. It’s like Dallas Blues, Or any ragtime number you care to choose; Syncopated malady, stiff C-sharp shock: This be The Economics, its sums ad hoc.     Poetry prevailed over prose this time, and the £25 vouchers go to the following. Like weasels with their beady eyes They know exactly when to strike And when we need what’s hard to find They’ll twist the knife and prices hike.

For Competition 3408 you were invited to write poems about heatwaves. This comp was inspired by the weather! In the face of lethargy, rage, sleeplessness etc lots of you still managed to put fingers to keyboard with good results. It was almost too hot to choose, but the £25 vouchers go to the following. Long drag the days of lop, of laze,Of no precipitation,Bar slathered factor fifty glazeOn perspiration. And long the nights; too hot, still light,Fans faintly stirring stifleWhile outside, drunks ferment a fightOf some mere trifle. Long seems the spell, Heaven or Hell,When England’s tropic.Waters run short, tempers as well,Heat’s misanthropic. The wave will break; cloudburst, rain slake.Upon our sudden wetting,We’ll eulogise that fearsome bakeAnd start forgetting.

For Competition 3407 you were invited to write about a historical event euphemistic-ally. This challenge was a little vague; Private Eye code was the inspiration but from the tone of the entries it could have been 1066 and All That. The standard was very high, with too many runners-up to name names, and the £25 vouchers go to the following. Life grew rather complex in 1789 when France experienced a regime malfunction. The financially embarrassed commoners, who kept popping their clogs due to nutrition deficiency, took against royals and aristocrats who did not rate highly on political awareness. Paying an unscheduled visit to the Bastille, the monarchy-resistant mob significantly devalued it as a property.

For Competition 3405 you were invited to submit a scene in which Doctor Who has regenerated into someone very unexpected. Plenty of interesting transformations resulted, featuring among others Paddington Bear, Mary Berry and two Jacob Rees-Moggs, but the winners of the £25 vouchers are below. The Doctor, regenerating as a tall, meaty-faced man in jeans, a plaid shirt and his mid-sixties, soon got clumsily busy for comic effect with screwdrivers, sonic and otherwise, setting about the Tardis console and causing Fleetwood Mac to play at excessive volume before sending us zagzigging erratically across spacetime on a far from grand tour. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ he bellowed, overemphasising every word in apparent exoneration of his haphazard driving skills.

For Competition 3404 you were invited to design your own Midsummer rites. There were fewer entries than usual, all of them very good. I was sorry not to have room for Mark Ambrose’s ritual involving a small white ball (‘Eighteen is the sacred number. We assemble before dawn and climb the hill to a wooded glade’). Other runners-up: Tracy Davidson, Paul Freeman, Sue Pickard, George Simmers, Bill Greenwell and Joseph Houlihan. The £25 vouchers go to the following. Midsummer Saturday at Frizinghall begins early with the ritual of Waking the Sleepers, in which locals salute the rising sun with power tools, mowers, car alarms and pressure washers.

In Comp. 3402 you were invited to submit a poem or passage about an unusual predilection. The quirks ranged from wildly fantastical to having the ring of truth. Mike Morrison, Paddy Mullin, David Shields, Elizabeth Kay, Adrian Fry and Nick Syrett were close contenders, but the vouchers go to those below. In supermarket checkout queues, not being in a dash And now retired with time to spare, I always pay by cash. Aware that those behind me have a thousand things  to do There’s nothing that delights me more than holding up the queue. Behaving as a pensioner should and making others curse, I’ll fumble through my pockets in a search to find my purse.

For Comp. 3401 you were invited to submit a poem that included the line ‘My vegetable love should grow’ from Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’. There were lots of entries, some of them quite fruity (sorry). There are too many worthy runners-up to name names, but the£25 vouchers go to the winners below. My vegetable, love, should grow, not end up on your plate, at least until it’s won first prize at the village fète. I’ve never nurtured one so vast, nor hosed a hue so green – how can you think of eating it like some mere runner bean? But at my back I hear you mutter It’s just a courgette, after all… Hands off! – such plants once rooted in Eden, before the Fall.

Competition 3398 invited you to submit a poem about snooker as the world champion-ship was under way. The entries poured in! There were many excellent poems in both camps (snooker being either the best or the most boring thing ever). Among others, Anna Cox, D.A. Prince, Nick Syrett, Kavanagh Millard, Ralph Goldswain and Helen Baty deserve a nod, as does Philip Riseborough: A one-four-sevenWhat heaven, what heaven! The £25 voucher prizes go to those below. When TV’s snooker balls were greyTed Lowe would help us follow playwith, ‘First he’ll take that easy green(mid-grey, near pocket, centre-screen).But that could leave him very tightbehind the red (third ball from right).

Comp. 3396 invited you to write a poem that endeavoured to romanticise tariffs. There was a fine haul, though a few had to be disallowed for straying from the brief. Praise to George Simmers, Frank McDonald, Janine Beacham, Sylvia Fairley, Tom Adam, Sue Pickard and Elizabeth Kay, among others, and a special mention to Tracy Davidson for her opening: How do I tariff thee? At varied rates. I tariff greatly those I cannot stand, And those who would not buy a US brand, Or place our poisoned chicken on their plates. The prizes go to those below. Loveliest of fees! My tariff vow – So fondly made – to disallow For you, my darling MAGA bride, The things that foreigners provide.

Comp. 3395 yielded many fine entries in which Animal Farm became a satire on office politics. Deserving of a mention: David Silverman for his White House version featuring a ‘prize wild boar, one E. Long-Tusk’ and ‘two American XL Bullies, Don and Shady’; and Sue Pickard’s scenario in which two workers, Pinko and Porky, ‘inspired by a motivational speaker, Major Boar’, wreak havoc. Also William Linfoot, J.C.H. Mounsey and Nicholas Lee. The £25 vouchers go to those below. Napoleon had opted to WFH that morning, drafting a presentation for a forthcoming mandatory Inclusion and Wellbeing workshop.

Competition 3393 went in search of – and found – basic laughs by inviting you to submit a passage of historical fiction sprinkled with anachronistic detail. I was thinking along the lines of the grey squirrel in Sharon Kay Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour (set during the War of the Roses), but it was generally assumed that subtlety would get lost and the absurder the better: the anachronisms were more larded in than dusted on. I especially liked Janine Beacham’s vision of Henry VIII enjoying a strawberry gelato while he ‘considered a dalliance with that most charming teenaged babe, Catherine Howard’. Profound thanks to all who entered, and here are the winners. ‘OMG!’ cried pretty Nell Gwyn. ‘I didn’t see Your Maj hiding down there.

Comp. 3392 invited you to write ‘The Curse of King Thut’ (in poetry or prose) in response to the discovery of the tomb of the pharaoh Thutmose II, the first such since Tutankhamun’s.

For Competition 3390 you were invited to come up with your own version of the Groucho Marx song ‘I’m Against It’, from the film Horse Feathers: Your proposition may be good But let’s have one thing understood: Whatever it is, I’m against it. Hats off to David Silverman, who got into specifics: (‘Conniving, skiving; Mo Salah diving;/ Texting while driving/ VAR’). Also to Sylvia Fairley, Nicholas Lee, Bill Greenwell and others. Sue Pickard channelled the true spirit of Groucho by keeping it general: I am the very model of a modern-day contrarian If you are a sophisticate then I’ll be a vulgarian Whatever your opinions are, mine are antithetical I was determined from an early age to be heretical. The winners below get the £25 vouchers.

Comp. 3389 invited you to submit an estate agent’s blurb advertising a property development on Mars. There were many excellent entries, not all of them enticing. Sean Smith’s seemed potentially the most realistic, offering for £4.5 billion a 12 sq m dwelling with private sleeping quarters: ‘private on a rotational basis with other residents’. Nicholas Lee advertised ‘Mars-a-Lago, where namby-pamby accommodation is a thing of the past; where you can hang out with your backwoods pals, eat baked-bean tablets and grow a beard’. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Kay had ‘two enviable corner plots … with magnificent views of the glorious Prekrasny Putin, previously known as Olympus Mons’.

In Comp. 3387, for the centenary of the publication of The Great Gatsby and Mrs Dalloway, you were invited to submit a passage in which one goes to the other’s party. It was especially hard to whittle this one down. Deserving a mention: Mrs D.’s West Egg dream by Brian Murdoch (‘“Sod the temporal perspective and narrative shifts,” she thought, “I need a nap”’) and Basil Ransome-Davies’s rendering of stream of consciousness (‘newspaper vendors at Piccadilly Circus, pigeons marooned in roof space, university architects, pistachio ice cream in a Viennese café… What made her wonder if Mr Carraway was Mr Gatsby’s petit ami like that mad young French poet?’); also Sue Pickard, Sylvia Fairley, Joseph Houlihan and others. The £25 vouchers go to those below.

Competition 3386 invited you to submit poems about the domestic arrangements at the White House. The idea was to inspire some visions of what goes on behind the official scenes – oh to be a fly on the East Wing wall. MAGA hats off to Frank McDonald, Elizabeth Kay, Daniel Pukkila, Nicholas Lee, Tom Adam, Paul Freeman and others, and Basil Ransome-Davies’s final verse seems apt: It’s hard to read a mind in disrepair Or one as shiny and airtight as chrome: Two four-year tenants, signally aware That an official house is not a home. The £25 vouchers go to the winners below. Clean, baby, clean. That place is full of germs and foreign little microbe-alien things. I want it pure for all my future terms, bright as the hope my MAGA-presence brings.

For Competition 3385, with Valentine’s Day looming, you were invited to submit a passage in which one well-known character from literature goes on a date with another. There was a very full inbox, with enough excellent entries to fill weeks’ worth of competitions. It’s tempting to think that some of these imaginative pairings would have real potential. Lady Chatterley’s Mellors rendez-vous’d once with Lorelei Lee and twice with Clarissa Dalloway: it was hard to choose. Sadly I had to disallow Mrs Mala-prop’s encounter with Revd Spooner (‘too late, I understood what he’d meant by a “nosy little cook”’). Her other date was with Holden Caulfield (‘Golden Cornfield?’).

For Competition 3384, since this issue appears on the first of the month, you were invited to submit a short story featuring someone who is a slave to superstition. Every corner of the country used to have its own folkloric behaviours that have now been forgotten (one wonders why salt and mirrors and magpies etc stuck). These days individuals who use ritual to ward off misfortune are told they have OCD.