COMPETITION
Two sorts of outrage
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 2163 you were invited to imagine that Kipling or Wilde were alive today and writing a letter to one of their 19th-century contemporaries com- menting on the state of the nation.
`Alas, science fails to advance, its expo- nents unable to solve the paradox of faster vehicles and slower travel' (Adrian Fry); `Vicars who don't believe in God, socialists who don't believe in socialism, artists who don't believe in art — everyone has the unforgivable habit of being completely honest about their opinions' (Paul Hatton); 'The onward march of Humanity has unerringly followed the route laid down by the Grand Old Duke of York' (W.J. Webster). These were only a few of the plums from the Wildean hothouse. Kipling proved less popular and more diffi- cult, and I therefore was doubly impressed by the three outstanding successes in this line.
The prizewinners, printed below (three Rudyards, then two Oscars), get £25 each, and the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Jim Johnson. Dear Bobs, You know I endured considerable criticism, not as an author but as commentator, reporter, something of a political animal if you like, but if my biggest crime was patriotism, there are precious few lovers of modern England in danger of appearing before the judiciary.
They say the Empire has gone, and it has terri- torially, but visit London or Birmingham, and there it is, relocated, reborn, thriving and influenc- ing, just as we did the reverse in Bombay and else- where. Fine, except that the indigenous population (some doubt that it exists!) and successive admin- istrations accept this state of affairs, at the same time allowing our own unparalleled history to drown in self-doubt and fear of external opinion. Soldiers of your stature seldom emerge in this day and age, and our army, such as it is, takes its orders from foreign capitals. The Imperial Millennium has come and gone, old friend. Sic transit gloria. (Jim Johnson) You can have no conception of the uniform slop- piness in the drab, ugly dress of the general popu- lace, both young and old, male and female, a uni- formity which makes it impossible to determine either the sex or the status of the wearer. The first thing I noticed was that even the most elderly of feet were shod in what looked like leather plim- solls, the rest of their person being covered by uncreased trousers made out of a rugged blue cloth, topped by a blouse-type jacket, and a face with ears, nose and lips generously pierced by gold rings. Apparently the traditional forms of headgear have been abandoned for a cap — peak worn to the rear, doubtless to shield from 'rain- stroke'. Nothing can better demonstrate the uncouth nature of these denizens than the fact that recently, when the Sovereign was being driv- en past, not one 'gentleman' raised his hat.
(David Barton) Dear Mark Twain, I write to you because the telegraph system no longer exists. What a situa- tion! Your country cannot manage to choose a President. Mine cannot keep European bureau- crats from denying it control over its affairs. Imperial measures here have gone the way of the Empire itself. And now they want us to sur- render our currency. The great Anglo-American alliance we once imagined is no nearer, more through our fault than that of your compatriots.
Our writings, however relevant when published, are widely condemned for 21st-century crimes: racism, sexism, jingoism. I wonder we are not criti- cised for omitting to write for television! However, there are still intelligent discussions of our work on so-called `websites'. We live on, you will rejoice to hear, despite brash, ignorant modernism.
I long for a smoke. You would not believe how impossible it is to indulge this simple habit in public places. (Manna Blake)
I once said that experience was the name people give to their mistakes. In the year 2000 mistakes is the name people give to their crimes and misde- meanours. The mistakes that brought ruin upon me, my wife and children would not today have plunged me into the mire. My plays are again being performed, but they are treated as part of something called 'Heritage'. Were Ito offer a new work, it would be rejected and declared 'irrele- vant'. Everything has to be relevant, not relevant to anything in particular, merely relevant. Foul language and nudity are considered relevant. In other respects, my dear Robbie, life at the start of the new millennium has been rendered tame and risk-free. I shall not feast with panthers: their teeth and claws would have to be drawn in the name of Health and Safety; the food would present by far
the greater risk. (Keith Norman) State of the nation, dear boy? Too much licence. Where the love that dare not speak its name is shouted from the housetops, there is no more excitement to be had from dining with panthers; they are all harmless pussy cats.
The countryside is disappearing under con- crete, the cities are all alike. Where do good Americans go now when they die? Certainly not Paris. Art expresses anything but itself. Democracy? No longer the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people — more the pursuit of consumer durables by the unendurable.
Other people are still quite dreadful. That has not changed. The only possible society is still oneself. There is one improvement. Smoking, now that it is all but forbidden by the doctors, is an even more exquisite pleasure.
Oh, and I admit to a certain taste for Coronation Street. It is so artificial.
(T. Griffiths)
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