COMPETITION

PURE MALT .0TCH

Rum retelling

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1794 you were invited to retell the plot of any well-known work of literature in the metre of Hiawatha.

Strange to recall, I first read Hiawatha, a poem that now strikes me as a powerful soporific, with insomniac excitement, by the light of a torch, under the bedclothes. The metre has often been mocked in parodies, the best being Lewis Carroll's 'Hiawatha's Photographing' and George A. Strong's 'The Modern Hiawatha' (to be found in Arnold Silcock's 40-year-old anthology, Verse and Worse). Kafka's Metamorphosis and Little Black Sambo were risibly and rumly rendered down, and so were Moby Dick (Brian Ford), The Owl and the Pussycat (Mike Morrison), Pride and Prejudice (Thomas Braun), Death of a Salesman (Bill Greenwell) and The Great Gatsby (Basil Ransome-Davies). The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Chris Tingley for his Homeric feat.

Drowsy fruit, ferocious ogres, Storm winds, tribesmen, scheming witches, Wheedling singers, monsters, whirlpools, Hungry islands, clinging sea-nymphs All the much-enduring traveller Struggled past through grace or cunning; Then rejoined his plundered kingdom, Ragged, poor and unregarded (Only dog and nursemaid knew him).

There he found a loyal swineherd, Met the son who'd madly sought him, Saw the vultures round his missus, Seized the bow they couldn't handle, Killed the buggers by the dozen, Reassured his doubting helpmeet, Ended feud and put his feet up. (Chris Tingley) You shall hear how Lady Constance, Tiring of her wounded husband (Poor Sir Clifford, high war-hero, Inconvenienced by shrapnel), Found a gamekeeper called Mellors Who would teach her in his lunch-hour (And in language frank and fearless, Such as wives and servants blush at) To admire the lower orders.

While that hapless Bart, Sir Clifford (Let us waste no pity on him, For the man was paraplegic), In his new electric wheelchair Tried to drive it up a tussock - Tried and tried, and couldn't make it.

(Martin Woodhead) Portnoy was obsessed with wanking, Did it in his parents' bathroom, Used his sister's bra to do it, Did it at the burlesque theatre, Did it with a pound of liver (Even ate the liver later), Blamed his New York Jewish background, Blamed his ineffectual father, Blamed his dominating mother, Later (still upon the treadmill) Made it with a willing schicksa, Using mirrors, strange locations, Hired a pro and tried a threesome.

Still he got no satisfaction.

Found, at last, a girl in Israel (Rather butch) and settled with her.

(Gerard Benson) Hotel du Lac By the shores of Lake Geneva Edith comes to think things over.

Things? What things? We soon discover That she was betrothed to Geoffrey, Decent, wholesome, earthbound Geoffrey, But she left him at the altar, Left him there and did a runner.

But what's this? We read her letters, All to David, loved and lover; Married, though, and like to stay so.

Enter Philip, suave and worldly, Thinks she would set off his china.

Will she? Yes! A final letter Casts off David. Never sent, though: Edith does another runner, Thus resuming normal service. (Noel Petty) Hear the story of Bolkonski!

Tried to serve his country (Russia), Loved and lost and loved another, Copped his lot at Borodino.

Contrast him with Pierre Bezukhov - Messy marriage, muddled Mason.

Standardised misfortunes follow, Till at last be gets the girl that Tolstoy really fancied rotten.

Plus some names to tease your tongue, like Serge Kousmitch Viamitinov, Who is quite a minor figure,

Plus the oft-repeated notion

That Napoleon was helpless In the grip of primal forces,

And outsmarted by Kutuzov.

(Gregory Miles)