Journalese

aspistos

In Competition No. 2356 you were asked to provide material for a Spectator Diary written by a secondrate person/journalist. Apart from an inability to avoid clichés, the defects of the second-rate journalist come mainly under two headings: (a) pseudo-vivacity — the use of stale, once trendy slang (joumo' and

• celeb') and the peppering of prose with grunt words like 'urn', 'hey'. well' and 'wow' which are the verbal equivalents of a facial leer and, worst of all, exclamation marks thrown in to signal jokes; (b) sheer ignorance — misquotations and misuses of words (coruscate' for 'excoriate', etc.). The best of you both coruscated and excoriated. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the Cobra Premium beer goes to Bill Greenwell.

I had a massive shock this week. I'd literally gone to rustle up a last-ditch heart-to-heart with my friendly local medic, a forty-something gent who famously pops you pills like there was no tomorrow. Imagine my, er, horror when She Who Must Be Obeyed at the front desk announced that Doctor Yes had been replaced, and in spades, by Doctor No. Getting to see this individual was like getting into Fort Knox, and no mistake. My guestimate is that I had to hang about like a loose cannon for three hours. Eventually, natch, there was a window of opportunity, and I sailed in like a Bacardi Breezer. 'What's the verdict?' I asked, after a fourth degree. Answer: cap on capsules, and the old tin lid on my consumption of intoxicating liquor. It was a thumbs-down all round. Bang go my NHS rights.

be going private, ailing or no.

Bill Green well

August. The silly season when social life dries up and tout le monde takes off for Chiantishire — if you believe that cliche.. Things are very different in Grimborough where I had two invitations for le meme jour last Wednesday. Queue embrasse de richesses! (And what does the modem journohousehold do with its RSVPs now the mantelpiece is ancient history? Tracey and I stick ours to the Smeg with fridge magnets. Smart, or what?) So it was off to the Kwik-shop opening ceremony with none other than our local MP, Ed Rantipole, doing the honours and posing avec moi for the front page of the Grimborough Gazette. Two glasses of Asti later we were en route for another launch — the College Autumn prospectus — and another celebrity sign-up. Last year's Mayoress enrolled for Book-keeping and yours truly opted for French, setting an example. Apres moi le deluge, methinks. D.A. Prince Your diarist avoided the holiday hell of August's dog days, spending the silly season on a whistlestop hook-signing tour of Middle England. Critical drubbing notwithstanding, my latest slim volume of controversial sideswipes Standing to Reason has proved a barnstorming success with that much maligned treasure, the Great British public.

I've taken soundings from everyone I've met on my travels. Most see red over yob culture, the parlous state of government coffers, successive tax hikes and the shenanigans of our political lords and masters. What's to be done, they query, when captains of industry and Whitehall mandarins ride the gravy train?

And yet, from farm gate to sink estate, England remains a land of palatial residences and sleepy hamlets. Everyone I met had a story to tell and my magnum opus was snapped up. I shall return to Fleet Street and the Westminster bubble with renewed vigour.

Adrian Fry Biggest adventure of the week was a trip to Manchester for a forum on Cultural Stereotyping. Incredibly, it takes over two hours to get there — and that's when the train is on time. But don't believe all you hear about the backward North; as a first-time visitor I was struck by the number of civilised bars and restaurants. Notting Hill it ain't — but it's getting there.

Is the Salvation Army the new Scientology? I notice that several of my neighbours who used to swear by El Ron now wear uniforms and are learning to play brass instruments. Incredibly, Canonbuty may be in for a religious revival.

Have you noticed how the jobsworths are taking over the world? Last Saturday I parked my Cherokee briefly on a double yellow while I used the ATM, and guess what? A ticket. Incredibly, the bastard who wrote it could barely speak English. Basil Ransome-Davies

Monday: Sad lad, moi. I've taken up dog-jogging. Muttley's undenvhelmed at (a) losing out on hubcap/lamp-post comfort stops and (h) the shoddiness of my shodding; I translate his snarl as 'you plonker'. The local pimp'n'peke double act, a real in-your-face gruesome twosome, trot uswards. `Ooh.' flutes pimp, 'how can you put your plates of meat into those things? You want to get pneumocushions, pump-ups,' I smile unpleasantly. Airsoles to you too, poodle-faker.

Friday: Party, party! Cynthetta, our neighbourhood good-time-turned-anytime girl, throws a hash'n'inash bash at her Nunhead squatlet. Dope a la carte, high tea, etcetera; gatecrasher and guest in harmonious oblivion. Can't remember much, so presumably I attended. Three diehard revellers are gently arrested for street abuse, i.e., for being in it, nakedly loud. Still, as Mr Dylan advises, everybody must get stoned, Mike Morrison

The men of the house have taken to watching morning TV. I never thought I'd witness husband and sons 'getting behind' (as they say) an English hockey team, but they've gone all Skinner and Baddiel. Mind you, from what I glimpsed the players are a lot of big girls' blouses. At school we played for keeps, taking no prisoners. I still have the scars.

To the ICA for the opening of Orville Merkin's new show. He photographs sewer grids (plain old drains to you and me). It sounds crazy, but I have to admit it gave me a new angle on gutters.

Am I alone in thinking that manners are on the decline? Asking a newsagent for parking-meter change brought the reply that I had to buy something first. Challenging that attitude, I was told to 'piss off, you sad old cow'. And this was in Kensington.

G.M. Davis

No. 2359: Bouts limes

You are invited to supply a poem with the following rhyme-scheme: down, last, town, past, youth, made, truth, paid, thing, place, opening, disgrace, scones, good, tones, could. Entries to 'Competition No. 2359' by 16 September.