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URA

ISLE OF RA COMPETITION

Homage to Perec

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1948 you were invited to supply an entertaining piece of prose which could be entitled either `Waiting-room' or 'Quandary' without using the letter e.

The only book in my loo is Gilbert Adair's brilliant translation of Perec's La Disparition (appropriately rendered A Void), a sure source of ten minutes' rumi- native pleasure. But homage is also due to the Englishman Ernest Wright, whose 50,000-word e-less novel Gadsby appeared in 1939 and was immediately buried by the war. Even with the help of a guest judge, the awarding of prizes was agonisingly dif- ficult, there was so little to choose between the dozen of you on the short list. The fol-

lowing get an honourable mention — 1 wish they could get more: Gordon Gwillians, Keith Norman, John O'Byrne, Gill Collins, Martin Woodhead, W.J. Web- ster and John MacRitchie. The prizewin- ners, printed below (Waiting-rooms' first), get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky will be drunk by Christopher Hollis.

Although in no way an Olympic sport, 'invalid- watching' is a growing activity which could sup- plant our national hobby, fishing, in its populari- ty, according to BMA journals. Unscrupulous, many would say 'sick', partici- pants (or 'Am-Does') gain admission into doc- tors' waiting-rooms with bogus complaints and sit for hours with tatty Country Livings and What Cares masking frantic jottings about unsuspi- cious and ailing victims. Diagnosing anything from flu to a potty stuck firmly on a child's cranium gains vital 'Drs (diagnostic points). Arthur Grasby, a librarian by day and a 'casualty' addict by night, admits to whiling away all of his holidays not in WI" worship but in son-worship. 'First it was trains, now it's sprains,' quips Arthur, 42'. 'My doctor says nothing is wrong with m m m

Grasby almost adds. (Christopher Hollis) A consultant, tossing and turning with his night- marish vision, is hurrying down Stygian corridors towards his waiting-room at King's, which is full to bursting with tabloid paparazzi. His nocturnal subconscious is transmogrifying 'Thank you for not smoking' signs into signs saying 'Thank you for not killing unborn boys and girls'. And what's that cacophonous din? It's Jack Scarisbrick and a crowd from SPUC, chanting anti-abortion slo- gans and waving placards of a Madonna and child, strikingly similar to Mandy Allwood, who is on a podium conducting an auction: 'Who'll buy my story? What am I bid? A million pounds a baby?' Look this way, Mandy!' Flash-bulbs pop for tomorrow's photographs. Ubiquitous Max Clifford claims, 'This is a fantastic story. I'm only doing what I can for Mandy. Girls want publicists nowadays, not husbands.' Paul Hudson murmurs continuously, `I'm an octopus, I'm an octodaddy,' Is this phantasmagorical waiting- room Purgatory or Limbo?

(Nicholas Hodgson) Hi! I'm a fly, high on a wall in this clinic's wait- ing-room. All sorts sit in it, so I can look down on folks' bald spots and dandruff and sticking- out lugs.

Talk? Killing, that's what it is — 'galloping fibrositis' — 'Sainsbury's loyalty card's a try-on' — 'my old man had an infarction' — 'cost of liv- ing' — 'boils on his right buttock' — 'cardiac arrhythmia, I think' — 'says it's satyriasis, lucky for his missis, innit?' ...I can't follow half of it, I'm just a young fly.

It's not such fun at nights — too many arach- nids waiting to jump you — so a smart fly sits still and thinks of tomorrow and what funny humans will pass through and say, 'Isn't it awful? First occasion I go to Doctor's and I find I'm dying/in pod/fit for bloody work again.'

Still, it's OK for nosh, too — lots of kids! Candy, crisps, smashing crumbs in nooks .... (John E. Cunningham)

I was changing trains at night during World War Two. An icy wind was blowing, so I found a wait- ing-room. Its air was sour: poor tobacco mixing with too many humans. But thankfully it was warm. I sat down, distinctly drowsy. My dozing was qttickly lost in drama. I saw a man looking in quizzically through a window, and was struck by his round and chubby look, and by a jaunty cigar, a bow and an aging hat. Winston Churchill, with- out doubt. How astonishing! Soon, with a fffr- ir000mmmph, a fast train was roaring by. In its thinning vapour, sadly, Churchill was lost — and for good. I ran out, but found nobody.

Just an illusion? Who can say? But still it was puzzling. A flick of cigar ash lay by that window. And not far away a burly-looking trio was hurry- ing off. Bodyguards? What do you think?

(Brian Youngman) Last April, on an Indian holiday, I found, upon waking from a midday nap in my hammock, what I thought was a king cobra slinking across my stomach. 'Don't touch it,' said my compan- ion. 'It'll only attack if you disturb it.'

`You wouldn't talk so calmly if it was you in this situation.' I was quaking.

'Don't panic. Should it — actually, it's a hamadtyad — stop on top of you, that's still nothing to worry about. But if you could turn round — which, in your position, you can't you'd spot an angry rhino charging straight towards us.'

I had two options: moving, and risking fatal poisoning; or simply praying for salvation. Which to favour? Luckily, both animals, mutual- ly suspicious, took off, saving yours truly.

'Almost "Good-Bhai, it was fun to know you" that, wasn't it?' My pal was of an annoyingly humorous disposition.

'That was a Sikh pun,' I said drily. (Alistair Gainey)

No. 1951: Homage to Bentley

In honour of the inventor of the clerihew, you are invited to supply some new ones (maximum three per entrant) featuring famous people, dead or alive. Entries to 'Competition No. 1951' by 19 September.