-loctUMMOND's

COMPETITION

Yoof

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1785 you were invited to add, in a similarly patronising strain, 14 lines to the couplet: 'It's not their fault they do not know/ The birdsong from the radio' – which comes (thank you, kind informants) from John Betjeman's 'Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough'.

Less kind informants noticed that the whisky-winning entry for Competition No. 1783 (`Bouts rims) lacked a twelfth line. So did the winner, who had inadvertently skipped it in her fair copy. She has super- honourably returned the cheque for £20, but I insist, since I am also to blame for carelessness, that she keeps the whisky. For the record the missing line was: 'Trying the tautened rope, the straining buckle'.

This week's prizewinners, printed be- low, get £20 each (Noel Petty's entry may not be very patronising, but it's too good not to be rewarded). The bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky is Peter Norman's. Thank you, Peter Row- lett, for the Hudibrastic couplet:

You can't expect, with massed urbation, Audiodiscrimination.

It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, But when they've lived as long as us Perhaps they'll understand the fuss We make about the nightingale, Test cricket, steam trains and real ale. It's not their fault they don't see what

On earth we see in Turandot,

Or why we like a country walk

Or sometimes like to sit and talk.

No doubt with more experience They'll come to have a bit of sense, But in the meantime it's a crime The way these youngsters waste their time On sex and drugs. Why can't they be As sensible as you and me? (Peter Norman) It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, And who's to blame if they can't tell Shakespeare from this mere doggerel?

They know no Latin, much less Greek (Most of them cannot English speak), Their lives revolve round Aussie soap, Rave music and designer dope.

Devoid of any sense of taste, Their years in school just go to waste – We entertain, not educate.

Let's hope and pray it's not too late To counteract these downward trends Decried by Mr Waugh and friends.

I feel the same, so don't despair –

I'm twenty-seven, with long hair!

(Steve O'Gorman) It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio: By seventeen, all girls and boys Are deaf to any lesser noise Than that they play inside their rooms, Turned up as loud as sonic booms – Deaf to their teachers, parents, all Their country's and their church's call, Unless of course it seems to chime With what their friends do at the time, Like getting Justice for the Kids, And saving whales and wolves and squids, And throwing tantrums, parties, stones, Destroying public telephones, All in the cause of finding out Just Who They Are. Is there some doubt?

(Paul Griffin) It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, Carnation from a mother's milk, Or Dralon from a lacquered silk. They're not to blame they cannot tell Computer games from carousel, The gentle scent of new-mown hay From Country Cornucopia spray. Who'd censure them that they mistake A lover's hurt for stomach ache, A fancy cult for acts of prayer, Or else Te Kanawa for Cher? They are not culpable at all Confusing Christ and crystal ball, A simple fib and simpler truth, The pain of age, the joy of youth.

(Bill Greenwell) It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they cannot tell Scarlatti from the ice-cream bell.

When, in our brave post-modern age, The screen is mightier than the page, When learned academics state That odes and ads have equal weight, And literature's mere 'signs' and 'text', Are they not right to be perplexed? So, shake your head and sip your malt, But still I say it's not their fault.

Whose fault, then? First, round up those prime Suspects of every youthful crime, Shopped by our latest catch-all fad: We fucked them up – their Mum and Dad.

(Noel Petty)