COMPETITION

Mammon

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1604 you were in- vited to compose a sonnet to Mammon, indulging your fantasies, beginning, or not, with Belloc's line: 'Would that I had £300,000.'

Recently I asked for the source of five kick-off lines, used in Competition No. 1601 and beginning 'Of all the tricks the

Lord has played . . I'm delighted to report that the author is one of our readers, Jonathan Lamb. The poem `started as a doodle in Montevideo in 1985 and only got finished in Bucharest early last year'. It was 'about gooseberries'.

In 1974, when this competition was originally set, there were evidently more extravert Epicure Mammons around. Granted inflation has reduced the scope of choice, but why should so many of you have stared a gift horse in the mouth? M. R. Macintyre's highest ambition was 'that half the year each Dimplex should be hot', and Charles Lyell settled for seclusion:

I'd dwell behind a modest hedge. Defeatist? No, selfish, priggish, wickedly elitist.

Accolades to Frank McDonald, Geof- frey Riley, Stanley J. Sharpless and Robert Baird. The money, £14 apiece, goes to those printed below, and the bonus bottle of Highland Park 12-year-old Single Malt Whisky, presented by The Spectator, is Noel Petty's.

`In 1992 everyone In Europe will be able to get flu together.'

Would that I had £300,000 A year. for life. Oh yes, and index-linked.

(I spell these out so neither side has grounds For welshing on a contract too succinct.) I see you think that such a wish implies Gross avarice. That's quite a false presumption: The wealth would merely let me exercise My leaning to conspicuous non-consumption.

For then no voice could summon my false pride To change my well-worn clothes for something finer.

Oxfam would be my tailor, ease my guide; I'd swap my Volvo for a Morris Minor.

I'd have, you see, the ultimate excuse:

All things are pardoned in a rich recluse. (Noel Petty) Would that I had £300,000

To spend on cakes and ale (and other liquors). I'd fritter it quite shamelessly on mounds Of silky, lacy Janet Reger knickers; Turbot; Bath Olivers and Colston Bassett; With wines each night OKed by Auberon

Waugh; White peaches; Smarties; sweaters (Kaffe Fasseti); Orchids; red salmon pumps; a Labrador; A gigolo (or two?): a butt of Malmsey; New books in hardback; lots of silly hats; A racing dinghy—only for a calm sea!; Elizabeth Blackadder's 'Burmese Cats'.

Selfish, I know, but bread's more fun with jam on.

How easily I'd share my life with Mammon!

(D. A. Prince) Would that I had £300,000!

Not pounds to spend at Harrods or at Gamages But in the vital task of finding grounds For telling truth, and being sued for damages. One of those men I'd trace, too rich to expose, Who charm and cheat by way of recreations, Use their renown to build seraglios, Crack happy marriages at their foundations. No one dares speak of them: the law's not cheap And even winners find the costs offensive; So Mr X may pick with whom to sleep, Friends' wives being fun, and not at all expensive.

Three hundred grand! and yet . . . abate, my furies: For truth costs more than that, with modern juries.

(Paul Griffin) Would that I were a multi-millionaire!

Not that I pine for oysters and champagne; I simply want the cash to take the strain, To meet my needs and then leave some to spare.

None but the rich, it seems, enjoy the fare.

The poor just press their noses to the pane

And envy their unfairly gotten gain.

I've waited long enough; I want my share.

Just think of all the things that wealth can do: It makes you someone people can't ignore, It satisfies some mercenary itch, And, best of all for those who share my view That money is the most mind-numbing bore, You needn't think about it if you're rich.

(Keith Norman) Would that I had £300,000!

I'd buy myself my very own small press And publish only my work on the grounds That only mine was good enough. Success Would be assured, a certainty — Oh yes! My nom-de-plume reviewers, hot on hype, Would eulogise my classic choice of type, My handmade paper, deckle-edged; they'd stress

The books were made to last, just as the verse Was deathless too amid the sorry state Of so much else. Thus honoured, I rehearse My future role as Poet Laureate—

Until the bubble bursts, revealing me About to write another SAE.

(Rosie Ravening) Would that I had, say, fifty million pounds— Not just to drive my Porsche down the fast lane, Or fly hot-air balloons, or ride to hounds, Or clean my teeth each morning in champagne, Or strut through royal enclosures and pretend I've really made it to the smartest set, Or play the markets, if not buck the trend, Or lose the lot in one go at roulette; But, when some bright new vicar tries to hustle And liven up our dear old C of E, To let my having all that cash lend muscle To our imploring him to let things be: Thus I'd be able, though it does seem odd, To serve both you, sir, and, on Sundays. God.

(Robert Roberts)