COMPETITION

.61VAS RIEGV VIVAS REGV

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

The new duel Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1720 you were in- vited to suppose that a duel takes place in Britain tomorrow and to give an eye- witness account of it.

'There's only one sword, you know,' Tweedledum said to his brother: 'but you can have the umbrella — it's quite as sharp.' That duel never took place, but even odder was the one fought by the romantic policeman, Syme, against the Marquis de Saint Eustache in The Man Who Was Thursday, in the middle of which 'the Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience': 'Mr Syme . . . we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train.'

'I protest that this is most irregular,' said Dr Bull indignantly.

'It is certainly somewhat opposed to prece- dent,' said Colonel Ducroix. 'There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon . .

Well, why not? A nasal duel, hands tied behind the back, could be quite spirited. This week's entry showed a deplorable lack of imagination regarding possible weapons. The prizewinners, printed be- low, get £16 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to T. Griffiths.

Yesterday morning two gentlemen of the press duelled at dawn in Hyde Park. They chose the weapons of their trade. The pen, after all, is mightier than the sword.

Ron Bludgeon selected a massive Mont Blanc, while Bill Snype fancied a quill, fragile but as long as it was sharp. The Mont Blanc lacked length but had the width and weight of a cosh. At the word 'Spike!' the duel com- menced.

The two penmen circled each other warily. Snype, as lean and long as his quill, had the reach, but Bludgeon went in fast, smashing his opponent's cranium at the same fatal moment as Snype's quill pierced an already bloodshot orb.

One hour later St Mary's doctors pronounced both duellists brain-dead, and capable of return- ing to work that afternoon.

(T. Griffiths) Although a day-night match at Wembley is hardly the Downs at dawn, we made it a family day out. It's good for the children to suck in fresh air and a taste of British tradition; duell- ing's as British as civilising savages with God, beads and railways.

They were all there, of course; Grandstand, the massed bands of our few remaining regim- ents, burger salesman, Before the main event, Nintendo sponsored an exhibition duel between two five-year-olds. Would you believe it, the girl won?

It was a shame about the Anti-Bloodsports League. They ripped the duellists, limb from limb, before the main event got underway; a wonderful spectacle, but incomplete. I suppose that death at the teeth of baying Antis is preferable to a lingering one from an off-target bullet — but is it traditional? It seems that even God, beads and railways can't quell the Antis' savagery.

(Simon Davies) Today the long-simmering hostility between Richard Ingrams and Nigel Dempster took on a new level of ferocity, moving from media insinuations to direct combat. After protracted negotiations, it was agreed that the venue should be the Tiberio, the weapons bread rolls.

Before the word of command was given, there were further altercations, Ingrams accusing Dempster of cheating by doffing his glasses and attempting a 'double whammy' — a withering, basilisk glare. When Dempster had replaced his spectacles, the duel commenced and the gossip columnist was immediately caught by a stale poppyseed twist that ruffled his thinning hair. He quickly retaliated with a granary and bread- stick one-two that left the Oldie editor reeling. But Ingrams wasn't finished. Craftily employing the boomerang-style aerodynamics of a crois- sant, he smothered Dempster's old school tie with greasy crumbs.

Honour was satisfied by this stand-off, and by the arrival of the starter (Calamares Sinatra), at

which the 200 assembled journalists and photo- graphers were asked to leave so that the adversaries could enjoy their lunch in peace.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) The two men, pale and stubbled in the dawn, stood dwarfed by the huge upright speakers. Wires snaked away to a van at the edge of the clearing.

The seconds in the front seat chanted in unison, 'Ready . . . steady . . . go!'

The two men bolted for the wood, their expensive trainers glinting. The seconds counted to ten, then leaned forward and flicked on their amplifier switches on the dashboard. One of the men made it to the fringes of the dense woodland, but the sounds bellowing after him from the speakers still left him lifeless. The other man lay with blood coming from his ear.

The seconds switched off the music. They took off their ear-muffs.

'You know, Sandra, if they'd chosen soft rock they might just have maimed each other. But with heavy metal . . . boys will be boys.'

'I know, Camilla. Don't you sometimes get tired of being a second?'

(John Taplin)

Both gentlemen were distinctively dressed, Mr Baker in a Burberry from which a copy of Boy's Own protruded, Mr Hattersley sporting a badge showing a kind of avant-garde owl, which I initially took to represent progressive wisdom but was in fact the logo of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club. The latter, having choice of weapons, specified bottles of red wine hurled at ten paces, but asked his opponent to select the type, since only 'Tory godfathers' could now afford to know of such things. Mr Baker thereupon stipulated 'proper, traditional' Bur- gundy; it would be too cruelly symbolic, he said, for a Labour MP to depart drenched in some- thing in which meretricious flavouring had replaced substance. These chivalrous niceties concluded, the gentlemen paced out, turned and threw, each partially stunning the other. They were then stretchered away, weakly vowing to continue in print, using publications, in this case, of their own choosing.

(Chris Tingley)