COMPETITION

In prospect

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1429 you were in- vited to submit verses in any form on hearing of any real or imaginary contem- porary project.

The sonnet by Alfred Hayes, 'On Re- ceiving a Prospectus of the Snowdon Sum- mit Railway and Hotel', printed in the Spectator 'many years ago' (91, to be precise), is so spirited and prophetic that it deserves to be set before you. Here it is:

Unthrone him; let the crowd's horse- laughter flout Those solemn brows that commune with the sky; Let nothing great preserve its privacy; For, Snowdon once dishonoured, never doubt Ben Nevis soon shall hear the rabble shout Its last street-song, the vulgar hue and cry Shall desecrate Helvellyn's sanctuary, Scafell shall entertain a drunken rout.

No more its calm their high seclusion lends, The fever of our restless life to heal; A people with the mountains would be friends To whom their great reserve hath no appeal, Whom height provokes and solitude offends —A mob that neither cares to climb or kneel.

The prospects that you looked upon with misgiving were refreshingly various: the erection by the Department of the En- vironment of Stonehenges in monumental polystyrene for every religious sect, the siting of a helicopter pad beside St Paul's, the British Trust for Ornithology's recom- mended treatment of vagrant Little Auks, the Law Society's scheme to hold annual `refresher courses' for its members in Torquay, the draining of the Wash. It was hard to separate fact from fantasy, but not so hard to divide the sheep from the goats. The winners below (all rams this week, I guess) are awarded £9 each, and the bonus bottle of Comte de Robart Champagne (Rosé Brut), presented by the Ebury Wine Company, 139 Ebury St, London SW1, goes to J. J. Webster.

On hearing that negotiations for the sale of the Falklands to Argentina are imminent Inriit 'ansome, innit priceless, innit real? Mrs Thatcher's cookin' up anuvver deal.

She's orf-loadin' them Malvinas Wot they sed wuz Argentina's An' she's floggin"em the land they tried to steal.

Maggie's ruthless, an' she's artful, an' she's 'aid, An' er tackles sometimes gets the yeller card; Wiv the Argies ripe fer muggin' She'll be in among 'em sluggin', No excuses, no compassion, no 'olds barred.

But if only 'e'd of thought of it before Galtieri could of evened up the score.

Fifty grand plus Maradona Would of settled it wiv honour An' there never might of been no Falklands war! (J. J. Webster) Oh for the vocal powers of a Hanson To sing a hymn of praise to Richard Branson! For, not content with launching Megastores And Challengers, this prince of megabores Now talks of harnessing the unemployed (Resentful, shiftless, workshy, paranoid), Enlisting them en masse in Branson's army Of bright new brooms! No, not for him a barmy But harmless letter to the Times — he's serious! Like Mrs T. he's seen the deleterious Effect of litter on our tourist trade; Those overflowing rubbish-bins that made Our leader feel ashamed on flying in From foreign parts. In Bransonland the sin Of sloth will be unknown — the humblest yob Will cherish the illusion of a job. (Peter Norman) On reading of plans for a Mersey Barrage

On Merseyside the spirit stirs; Bold hearts are all a-quiver.

Where once they damned the government They plan to dam the river.

A sum of half a billion pounds Is planned to be disbursed. It will our second barrage be, If someone builds the first. A corporation has been formed. The city fathers meet To harness all the swells and bores And generate much heat.

Tf great symbolic acts we need, Where better to begin

Than Liverpool, to try to stop The tide from coming in?

On hearing of the revival of woad-growing by Mrs Dobson

Brave Dobson of the patriot heart Reviving Britain's ancient art! Our punks shall more resplendent glow Than in the foreign indigo, And every tattoo will employ In British fields a maid or boy. Where now the pallid Puritan? All Britain is caerulean.

In Moscow see the youth in pride Parade in jeans that are woad-dyed. None can the Reagans interview Who does not sport the British blue. This woad that comes from British soil Revives us as we sink in oil.

Your labours, Dobson, may we see Rewarded with an OBE. (George Moor) (Noel Petty) Let us welcome the wond'rous submarine tunnel, For never again will channel-steamer's funnel Soil the shining blue Straits of Dover with smoke That makes people in Dover and Calais for to choke.

Some would prefer a bridge, but this I must say: °Remember the fate of the Bridge of silv'ry Tay!' I think it wiser to go under, not over, The shining blue waters of the Straits of Dover.

For thirty miles trains will rush under the sea, As far as from Edinburgh to Dundee, Which is a very long tunnel, I declare, And it will need pumps to provide enough air.

It will cost four thousand million to build, Which when I heard it my eyes with tears they filled; For it would have been much cheaper, truth to tell, If it had been built by Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

(Peter Wingate) Edinburgh has erected an edifice, made from lyres, in the Greek style . . .

0 how can men more nobly imitate That which was lost and best in ages past? Can modern minds mould ancient thoughts or east A second Grecian spell to recreate Athene's pillared grace which all owned great? Prometheus has offered men at last The fire to build a structure unsurpassed That men might praise, and gods might contemplate.

For see, beside the monument to Scott Where ancient kings once had their residence, On grass that wondering tourists tread upon, See, where Art's temples stand, blind to the plot To vilify their stony eloquence, Here they have built their rubber Parthenon!

(Frank McDonald)