COMPETITION

Distinguished drink

Jaspistos

CI'VAS REGAL 12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY iiu In Competition No. 1668 you were in- vited to write a poem celebrating the sharing of a drink with a famous writer, alive or dead.

Along with thousands of others I have drunk Chablis with Harold Pinter and gin and tonic with Anthony Powell, but I claim to be among the very select handful of people who have had cocoa with Kingsley Amis. True, it was more than 40 years ago and memory is a fallible faculty, but I clearly recollect the occasion (it was at his house in Eynsham, outside Oxford, and baby Martin was on my knee) because Kingsley had the gall to ask me to refund him for it afterwards. Naturally, I didn't see very much of him after that. The best description I know of a `disting- uished drink' is Max Beerbohm's account of lunching with the reformed Swinburne at No.2 The Pines, Putney: 'He smiled only to himself, and to his plateful of meat, and to the small bottle of Bass's pale ale that stood before him — ultimate allowance of one who had erst clashed cymbals in Naxos. This small bottle he eyed often and with enthusiasm, seeming to waver be- tween the rapture of broaching it now and the grandeur of having it to look forward

12 YEAR OLD

SCOTCH WHISKY

to.' One of this week's prizewinners (£15 each for them) has clearly enjoyed it too. R.J. Pickles (blood with Bram Stoker), Chris Tingley (Falernian with Cicero), Geoffrey Riley (high tea with Ivy Compton-Burnett), Paul Griffin (low tea with Coleridge) and K. Roken and George Jowett (both drinking 'washing sherry' with Larkin at the Warlock-Williams' par- ty) all get the warmest commendations. The last bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky (dis- tinguished drink) goes to Gerard Benson, and all our thanks go to the makers of Chivas Regal for having so generously patronised this column for a year. I predict a dry period in the future, unless some rain doctor comes to the rescue.

(Gerard Benson) What a glorious day! What a glorious day! Ready and steady we went out to play. John B then suggested a thirst-quenching glass After success on the Camberley grass.

In two speedy sets our opponents we'd thrashed, With fearfulcst fearlessness volleyed and smashed.

John was inspired. I served a last ace, Rewarded in full by the look on his face. In the clubhouse they clapped as we two

sauntered in Before sitting down to our lime-juice and gin. My moment of glory, though, sank to the floor When Joan Hunter Dunn appeared at the door. With a couple of racquets tucked under her arm She held her head high, aware of her charm. We two, though silent, are in league, With gracile gestures we commune; The trio's tristesse is in tune With our fatigue.

With the vague clouding of the glass We wave the practical world away, And watch a waif-like coryphee Pass and repass.

Symons leans backward, slowly tips His glass, to see its viscous roll; Stained fingers lean the tinted bowl Against his lips.

And L hearing the world recede, Breathe the anise's sharp perfume, And speak. My echoing voice's boom

Leaves me ennuied. John clearly had eyes for no one but Joan. He swallowed his drink and left me alone.

(Ba Miller) We sipped our tea — 'twas burning hot — As Wasps that buzz in Air, Or Bees that swarm in breathless Days — And strip the Calyx bare.

Her china was the Fragile sort— Transparent — like a Ghost — Her fingers lifted high the cup, Eternity the Toast.

With lips apart, her eyes fast closed, Her Breath came light — until A wandering Gnat preceded her — Flew in to take his Fill.

I offered it no help from Death—

It could not choose but Drown; With eyes still closed she sipped her Tea — And Drank the Fellow down. (V. M. Cornford) As welcome as warmth after winter When splendid the spring sunbeam shines Is a visitor here in the hinter- -Land of The Pines!

So now let me pour us a potion —

In the glass how it leaps, hear it laugh! —

And we'll each drink a pledge with emotion — Pray, do take a half!

The foaming Falemian were fitter, But some day pain's pleasuring stops; So life leaves me here feeling bitter — As bitter as hops. But, weary, these storms I must weather: Watts-Dunton is drowsing, I see. . .

You were saying you're crazy for leather?

Why not stay to tea? (John E. Cunningham) The Sage of Pleasure —I can see him now, The laurel Wreath unsteady on his Brow, A Crumb of Bread, an empty Jug of Wine, A Sheaf of Verses scattered anyhow.

He came when all the Armies of the Night Had raised their Spears, and made the Darkness bright, Bore me beside him to a pleasant Grove, And turned dull Dreams to Discourse and Delight.

'Observe,' he said, `how from yon tender Shoot The Blossom first appears, and then the Fruit; So Man rides out the Cycle of his Days, Which still returns him to his former Root.

'And as for Me. . .' At once I saw his Glass Drop from his Hand, and shatter on the Grass.

He vanished with the Whistling of the Wind,

Which, as I drank, still echoed . . all Things pass.'

(Annie Brooks)