COMPETITION

Private hell

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1400 you were asked to describe your personal idea of hell, in prose or verse.

Sydney Smith's acquaintance whose no- tion of heaven was 'eating pâtés de foie Bras to the sound of trumpets' could not foresee muzak, which featured consistently in your scenarios, together with airports, railway stations, awful food in buffets and caffs, Christmas, and all the other modern agonies. For one competitor hell was 'a large, damp, teetotal hotel on the Fifeshire coast in late November', for another 'tak- ing children on excursions', for a third `to spend eternity with the ten women I like best'. For the youngest competitor, it is always dry, as you're always thirsty' — a precociously perceptive Irishism. For one sensitive soul it was 'like a shopping spree without money or being a cripple with a crush on Marilyn Monroe'. For me it would be to have to relive each day the experiences of my last night's dreams in front of a large audience: after each round, the devils, like the men in a boxer's corner, would get me back into the ring, groggy but just upright, and conscious of the video nasty coming next.

The first four prizewinners get £10 each and the last two £5. (Will F. Kestrel please send an address.) The bottle of Volnay Santenots-du-Milieu 1982 Comte Lafon (the gift of Morris & Verdin, Wine Mer- chants, 28 Churton St, London SW1) goes for the second time — sorry, folks, but justice is justice — to Peter Lyon. A happy Christmas to all of you!

First the heating. That will be on full blast. Outside shut windows the hills of Heaven shine.

You pay high rates for this. They're rising fast, And you face proceedings for failing to toe the line.

The court is assembled. A maniac barrister speaks For seventeen days; he lists your numerous crimes; The Clerk is writing them down on a slate that squeaks, And you have to copy them out a hundred times.

The air is foul with onions and feet and beer. Your head is aching; you've dislocated your knee.

When a retrial's ordered all your enemies cheer. None of your friends have bothered to come and see.

Seventeen days; then it all begins again, Except that the heat's turned up and the smell gets stronger, And the barrister speaks in Spanish. The slopes of pain Stretch on and down before you for ever — or longer.

(Peter Lyon) When the tired old Fly Fisherman was finally committed to Hell, his feeling of failure was intense. However, the comfortable cottage on the banks of the Styx and the welcome from several old friends made death seem not so bad.

Equipped with an excellent rod, he went to the bank to find some sport. The water looked perfect and brought back memories of an only recently lost Scotland. He chose a standard fly and he cast. The fly was taken and he landed a perfectly marked 7-pound Brown Trout. He changed fly and cast again and was rewarded with a 12-pound Rainbow. With much more attention he cast with his favourite fly and caught 'The King', a 28-pound Salmon.

Unable to believe his luck, he cast again and again and each time he landed a fish. This to the Fisherman was Hell!

(Robin Widdows)

I dreamt I had a Barrett Home

Complete with pond and garden gnome. The TV only showed Paul Daniels. I lived with two crotch-licking spaniels (Or were they highly-strung toy poodles?). The larder, well-stocked with pot noodles, Had crates and crates of British Sherry And alcohol-free champagne perry. Embellishing the coffee-table Was Jeffrey Archer's Kane and Abel. The bathroom walls were shocking pink With avocado bath and sink. And — hell for a confirmed young fogey— The doorbell chimes played 'Colonel Bogey'.

(Peter Norman) The architecture resembles that of the South Bank complex. There are no flames, just a permanent October drizzle. At every mealtime, we unfortunate denizens of the underworld get a Big Mac. If God is in an especially spiteful mood, we get two Big Macs. We complain to our lord, but he tells us that there's no arguing with omnipotence. At least, we think that's what he says: it's hard to make out the speech of someone who is eating a Big Mac. We do have television — many televisions, in fact. None is ever turned off, and all show only one program- me, in which the presenters of TV-am discuss Christmas with Bernard Levin and Princess Di. For a change we can go exploring, as Milton's angels did. There are localities here that resem- ble Torremolinos, Brixton, Geneva, and so forth. We soon get tired of the change. But in the end we wouldn't mind damnation if it weren't for the non-stop game of Trivial Pursuit. (Nigel Bunker)

She contemplates the hours that lie ahead. The chance is, from the time they come, at eight,

until they leave — oh please God not too late no single thing of interest will be said. (F. Kestrel) My kind of hell would be . . . If I went into my cave I would see eggs, nasty eggs, bad eggs and Maths. If I went there it would be dry but when I came back to it it would be wet. Faces coming alive. A mirror with a beard around it. When you look into it you will think you can see an old man but really it was my own reflection. It fitted into the beard. Eight skinny cherry cakes. A witch with a pumpkin head and stick legs. I really wish I didn't have to do Maths. Maths is my worst subject in school. I like cakes but I don't like cherries. I don't like witches because they can turn you into a frog. (Laurie George, aged seven)