COMPETITION

No. 621: Toomanitarian

Two hundred starving crocodiles are being rescued by the South African Air Force. Competitors are asked to submit either a letter of thanks from a grateful crocodile or an extract from an appeal in aid of under- nourished vultures. Limit 100 words. Entries, marked 'Competition No. 621,' by 25 Sep- tember.

No. 618: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: When 1 asked competitors for a marching song against London Transport or British Rail, my imagi- nation-toyed with the idea of a procession of SPECTATOR readers eight abreast marching on 55 Broadway or 222 Marylebone Road. To

judge from the vehemence of some of the entries the notion wasn't so far-fetched after all. As a commuter myself I found difficulty in refraining from giving everybody a prize. However, much thought reduced the win- ners to two thrilling rallying-cries from Graham Cherry and Molly Fitton (three guineas each) and a French piece from the English Rouget de Lisle (two guineas). P.M. wins two guineas for showing us all what we are missing. Commendations to Vera Telfer, G. J. Blundell, Roger Woddis (of the Misery Line). Howard Belton, Joyce Johnson and Nancy Perry.

Bus-fodder, Tube-fodder, daily frustrated, Trampled on, shouted at, harassed-and

late-

March against costlier cattletruck misery, March with the blood-red babners of hate!.

Shoulder to shoulder, citizens, rally!

Show them you haven't a bottomless purse!. Down with the tyrants of Fifty-five

Broadway.

Charging us more while they're treating us worse!

Bakerloo, Northern, District and Circle Seethe in rebellion as fares go higher; Bus-queries boil over in bottled-up fury -Take shelter, LT, from your customers'

fire!

For you've taken us all for a ride too many:: Apologies, promises, 'ifs' and 'buts' Ring hollow; your public relations are showing; Your goodwill's gone-and we're after your guts!' Graham Cherry Onward, brave commuters, Death to British Rail!

Smash their damned computers, Make the dastards quail. Shove them in a guard's van, Make it roasting hot, Shunt it up a siding

And leave them there to rot. Chorus: Onward, etc

We have stood and sweated, (We know what it means) In coaches cold yet fetid, Jammed like mere sardines.

Their turn now to suffer A gory fate and grim- Tie them to a buffer And tear them limb from limb!

Chorus: Onward, etc.

Molly Fitton La Surbitonnaise Allons, enfants de l'infant'rie-e Le jour de grove est arrive!

Contre nous la bureaucratie-e Ses tarifs sanglants* a leve, Ses tarifs sanglants a leve.

Entendez-vous dans nos campagnes Les plaintes des commutateurs?

Le BR se f- de leurs pleurs.

Et ses prix montent a des montagnes.

En route, pietons! Minis et pantalons!! Marchons, marchons, Qu'un train tout vide Arrive a Waterloo.

Irvine (-5,a)

• bloody fares Heather-stepper's marching song Had I been born a Cockney And not a lad of Skye, I'd walk till I got knock-knee Before I'd pay so high To travel in a dusty bus, a fusty bus, a gusty bus: I'd never take a rusty bus at such a price, not I!

But I live in the Hebrides, I know not Bells of Bow, In comfort, like celebrities, I journey to and fro

By Airways, and rare ways, and clean be- yond compare ways; by no INCREA',1 D BUS-FARE ways am I constrained to go.

Here, gently rained and sunned on, And foot-loose, how I pity The bus-bound folk of London, Resentful, smogged and gritty!

Why don't they get them bicycles, and brav- ing winter icicles, gulp down their break-

fast ricicles, and FREE-WHEEL through

their city? P.M.

Ps (Tuesday morning): I am caught up in the Waterloo chaos-sitting (and standings nineteen to a ten-seater compartment stranded in a commuter train in the desert of Nine Elms, having travelled some five mile. in the last fifty minutes. Alfons, enfants .