COMPETITION

Disyllabic

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1784 you were invited to provide an entertaining piece of prose consisting only of disyllables - with the exception of pronouns, which were allowed for mercy's sake.

A few of you disdained the offered mercy. One such masochist was Frank McDonald, always a doughty competitor, who began, 'Peter Duncan's puzzle offers very little challenge' and ended, 'Oddly enough, rhyming metre eases Peter Dun- can's problem'. To judge by the disyllabic chorus of groans on all sides, he did not reflect the general view. Most of you thrashed and writhed in your chains, re- sorting to lists, the style of Mr Jingle or the present tense, which seemed to ease the pain. Martin Woodhead, Alanna Blake, S. Lissender, Peter Norman and Lyn Moir get very honourable mentions. I'm sure our Californian friend will fairly goggle at the ingenuity of the prizewinners printed be- low, who are awarded £20 each. The bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to the pronoun-renouncing George Simmers.

Peter having arrived early, Elaine panicked. Inner voices shouted, 'Cancel dinner! Pretend illness! Invent any excuse!' Always nervous inside kitchens, never feeling herself skilful enough (although often trying wildly tricky dishes), Elaine foresaw utter failure.

Glumly upright upon Elaine's chintzy sofa, Peter waited, stiffly aware fellows labelled loodie' always induced nervous spasms with° any hostess.

Dinner arrived.

Alas, parsnip soufflé rarely affords unmixed delight. Elaine's provoked queasy feelings even before eating. Slightly blackened outside, although rawish inside, certain dishes challenge any gourmet's deepest instinct. 'Lovely, simply lovely,' Peter enthused weak- ly. Elaine, despite scorning wimpish girly weal' ness, began sobbing. Seven awkward seconds elapsed before Peter gathered resolve, swiftly rounding Elaine's well laid table, showing manly concern, making tactful, gently tactile contact. Contact became caress; caress (meeting vivid response). blos- somed into lively, carefree ardour. Minutes. later, beneath Elaine's flowered duvet, concord

became nicely complete. (George Simmers) Playing Contract ruined clumsy Desmond's mar- nage. Seven No-trumps, doubled, ensured di- vorce. Lucky Desmond! He later recalled stories about murder after stupid bidding.

He espoused angling instead, casting wildly, wrecking tackle, tangling hedges, hooking far- mers, causing utter chaos. Common consent compelled him away towards target shooting, because people foresaw only minor damage. They foresaw wrongly. He pointed rifles to- wards livestock, menaced strangers, induced complete panic. Before murder happened, Sus- sex Police revoked Desmond's licence.

Playing football offered relief, because wild- ness appears normal during soccer matches. Desmond's crazy lunges produced applause. He achieved modest stardom – until bookings in- creased, public support dwindled, even tabloid papers attacked him.

Married again, he became ordained deacon. Today, Bishop Desmond advises others, mostly wrongly. (Paul Griffin) wonder sometimes about Uncle Charlie's hobby. Our loving mother's kindly, childless elder brother, he always liked telling his nephews gripping stories about railway travel during longish urban rambles after Sunday dinner. Mother's maxim, 'healthy walking after heavy eating', Danish Apple Crumble after Yorkshire Pudding being her normal Sunday menu, never caused us any problems, although novice diners sometimes blenched slightly. Un- cle's standard gambit after table clearing, `Alors! Enfants!' started us scrambling into duffles.

Railway stations, rusty sidings, dusty signal boxes, early Bovril posters roused Uncle's week- day passion; immense railway journeys, never planned without his faithful Bradshaw, seemed special Sunday epics. Trotting beside him along endless empty pavements we children learned many arcane railway secrets. Although alwayt starting gently enough, Uncle Charlie's Sunday outings never ended tamely; hooting wildly we childish 'Flying Scotsmen' rushed him indoors, knowing Mother's scrumptious buttered crum- pets waited our pleasure.

Many famous writers depend upon liquor's succour, only scratching flimsy livings after downing umpteen bottles. Legend insists Dylan Thomas composed without drinking. Sober? No-one believes whoppers. Plainly, Thomas scribbled poems plastered. Malcolm Lowry, ensconced inside clinic after clinic, consumed gallons despite expert treatment – even escaped, (John Sweetman) reeling homewards later. Drunkards include Marlowe (skewered during boozy brawling), Edith Sitwell (surely – ever studied Edith's poems?), Faulkner (Southern Comfort perhaps), even Shakespeare – Fa!staffs real model being himself. Indeed, asking writers leading questions ('Wouldn't novels improve without whisky?') reveals clearly enough some- thing about common practice among writers: twisting Brian Nolan's witty remark, writers prefer any vital premise licensed.

Novels, poems, drama therefore possess extra vigour because sozzled addicts across our planet, seizing nearby biros (sometimes keyboards), create startling phrases. Jeffrey Bernard sug- gests vodka follows typing. Doubtless. Vodka also precedes typing: frequent columns reveal Jeffrey's real impulse. Finish before drinking: perfect motive. (Bill Greenwell)

No. 1787: Devil's Advocate

The Seven Deadly Sins are Pride, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, Avarice and Sloth. You are invited to play the Devil's Advo- cate and argue (within a maximum of 150 words) that one of them is a mere peccadil- lo, or even a virtue. Entries to 'Competi- tion No. 1787' by Thursday, 8 July.