No. 508: The winners

Trevor Grove reports: Judging from the entries this week James Joyce's inimitable and intimi- dating prose is not the easiest source material for a Word Game; decidedly tricky to incor- porate a moo-cow, a lemon, a hornpipe, a cachou, plus a greave or two for good measure, all within the confine of a mere 150 words in a comprehensible tongue. Mrs V. R. Ormerod tried French but relied on some rather dubious mistranslations to get her through the course; John Digby plumped for a sub-Joycean gib- berish with considerable success and Christine Buchanan, a new competitor and first time out a three-guinea winner, revealed a talent for undatable Arthurese : Then wax Sir Harold passyng wroth, for that Sir Grinalot did call hym divers uncouth names, as `moo-cow' and loathly lemon.' And he rayled against Sir Grinalot, and made merthe that he had fallen in the sea.

`In sooth, thou wert an exceeding ivet sailor,' seyde Sir Harold. 'Methinks an oilsheet were more fitting gear than armour for thy person.'

`Have a care that I daunse not the hornpipe on thy corse,' seyde Sir Grinalot.

`Yea,' seyde Sir Harold, 'and 'tis told that many daubers with brushes must nyghtly car- mine thy maroon lyppes and whyghten thy teethe.'

`As for thee,' seyde Sir Grinalot, `no cachou could sweyten thy fell breath.'

`Swounds! now must thou apologise,' seyde Sir Hai-old sternely.

But Sir Grinalot wolde not, but drew hys bryght sword and swapped off hys heyd.

'By my greaves and visor,' cryed he, 'now is England rydde of a most orgulous tiraunte.'

Three guineas also go to another novice entrant, Hilary Temple, for a very acceptable vignette of the fashionable life: . . No, we never use words like moo-cow to him. I mean, one feels a bit of a lemon saying them, doesn't one. . . . Sorry is he wet? Drop him on that—it's old oilsheet, my dear, 1914 vintage. Belonged to my great-uncle who danced the hornpipe outside Fortnums and had several brushes with the police ...

'Yes, maroon is ideal for the nursery—so practical, like his dark-brown nappies. The pong is partly the cachou-things that Nanny sucks; she thinks it disguises the gin. James calls her The Wardress.

. . Yes, we think the orange-box furniture is quite witty. Oh, my dear, I do apologise. He shouldn't really have constructional toys as he's only six months, but he adores throwing them, which is a start. You really need to be a bit of a Jimmy Greares to survive in our little madhouse.'

A guinea to Jessica Turley for identifying the source of the words as Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and five guineas for Martin Fagg's Michael Innes excerpt: Appleby sat in the Moo-Cow Milk Bar sipping lemon tea and gazing gloomily out at the film of wet covering Portsmouth like a glistening oilsheet.

'Such are the facts, Detective-Sergeant. Admiral Bantry, an officer renowned for an austerity of demeanour remarkable even by the standards of the Senior Service, is suddenly seen dancing a bacchanalian hornpipe on the poop deck. He brushes aside restraining hands, lets off a maroon that nearly ignites the Chief Petty Officer, then rushes below, to be found, five minutes later, harpooned to his bunk.'

Detective-Sergeant Plover popped a cachou into his mouth as if to assist concentration. 'Sorry, sir. Beats me.'

Don't apologise, Plover. I'm baffled myself —like Spenser's "knighte benighted mid the gnarled greaves---"' "Who 'twixt the tortur'd boughes no chink perceaves",' continued Plover, effortlessly cap- ping the quotation.

"Chink perceaves",' repeated Appleby. `Chink. Chinese. Firecrackers. My God, Plover —I've got it!'