My selection of words was harsh in that there wasn’t much in the way of alternative meanings to play with. You rose to the challenge admirably, though, and submissions were impressively varied and convincing. As Jaspistos has observed before, this type of comp tends to produce a bumper crop of entries, and this week was no exception. It was tough, once again, to whittle it down to six. An ingenious few managed to coax a non-plant sense out of celery. Here’s Nicholas Poole-Wilson: ‘He was from Sydney, and I didn’t immediately recognise what he meant when he said he was on a six-figure celery.’ John Plowman strayed from the brief, but I liked his haiku all the same.
The winners, printed below, scoop £25 each. Alan Millard pockets the bonus fiver.
The vicar deemed it meet to mark the occasion of St Mark’s 100th anniversary by inviting the corpus of the church to celebrate the opening of a new century with thanksgiving. Accordingly Tobias, the long-serving secretary, was asked to copy an announcement in the forthcoming newsletter. Being almost a centenarian himself after living on a diet of fruit cordial and celery, Tobias considered it a privilege and readily agreed. The resultant announcement, instead of suggesting a service of homage, seemed to be more of a summons to carnage. The error deserved the Almighty’s wrath but, being excused by advancing years and advancing cataract clouding his eyesight, Tobias was spared serious censure. It was, after all, a forgivable clerical error to mistake inviting the ‘corpus of the church to celebrate the opening of a new century’ for ‘corpses of the church to celebrate the opening of a new cemetery’.
Alan Millard
Attempting to censure my eco-warrior friend was tougher than I thought. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘you are so green, that you look as if you’d swallowed an emetic. You are so green, it is as if you had witnessed a century of carnage in an instant, and your guts had turned to a vile, emerald jelly.’ No response. I tried a different tack. ‘You are about as green as a cataract of chlorinated water,’ I said, ‘tumbling over a crevice composed of frozen gin and lime, the lime consisting of some peculiarly luminous cordial.’ He shrugged. ‘You are so green,’ I persisted sarcastically, ‘that you could not tell the difference between celery and celeriac at the launch of the Freedom For Food rally, a rally you yourself organised.’ He bridled. Something had hit home, as his anguished response revealed: ‘That was because of a clerical error!’
‘What’s the beef?’ I murmured.
Bill Greenwell
At lunchtime I called in on Poppy Hayseed at There Before You, the avant-garde gallery she ran just off Cork Street. The windows were covered in banner tape proclaiming ‘Censored by the Church’. Poppy was lunching at her desk on the usual celery stick and phial of elderflower cordial. Answering the obvious question, she indicated a glass cylinder surrounded by viewers. ‘It’s Derek Hustler’s latest installation — a cataract of lamb’s blood symbolising the carnage of the last century. He calls it “Bleeding Religions” and some bishop guy objected so I ran with that.’
‘But that’s not censoring,’ I said.
‘Yeah, that was a sort of clerical error at the printer’s. It should’ve been “censured”. But, hey, people who censure basically want to censor, don’t they? Anyway, that’s what I’ll tell the news crews when they get here.’
W.J. Webster
As one grows older, it is commonly observed, time moves with increased celerity. One can try forlornly to censure the calendar as a man-made piece of clerical ingenuity. Most of us have to agree that the clock moves faster and faster, and year succeeds year, even century succeeds century, as inexorably as a river sweeps towards a waterfall. However cordial our feelings still for life, however determined we are to remain upon the bank, the current propelling us admits no exception. Universal carnage and destruction is its mission. All must eventually be swept over into the cataract, brittle twigs of humanity to be crunched up like sticks of celery in the icy pool below, which one hopes will be Lethe.
Josephine Boyle
Rodney was a generally cordial old buffer, but he hadn’t caught up with the 20th century, let alone this one. ‘I say,’ he’d roar when we met for lunch at the Zarathustra Club, ‘I saw a woman in a clerical collar today! Can you imagine?’, or (aggressively waving a stick of celery), ‘Queers are getting married these days! What next, eh?’
The club is hardly a ‘politically correct’ institution, but eventually his rants offended even the deafest and most hidebound members and he faced censure by the Rules Committee. Though the committee sought a compromise, Rodney barely knew the meaning of the word and found himself expelled from his natural habitat. He left the premises in a cataract of tears.
Still, old soldiers don’t weep for long. They act. He was back the next day with a semi-automatic. I wasn’t there, but the carnage was terrific.
G.M. Davis
‘No, dear, it isn’t Jamie Oliver on school dinners. It’s not “celery”— you must replace that hearing-aid battery. He said “salary”. It’s Mr Brown’s mission statement for the 21st century. In truth, you’re probably better off not hearing it — he’s pouring forth a cataract of clichés. “Carnage on the streets”, “criminal elements will not escape conviction or at least severe censure”, the escape of terrorists was “a simple clerical error that will not recur — lessons will be learned”, “cordial relations with the opposition” — you know the style. I’d turn your hearing aid right off if I were you. I’ll prompt you when it’s time for Cook Me Beautiful.’
Shirley Curran
No. 2510: Lawrence of Ambridge
You are invited to submit a scene from The Archers written in the style of D.H. Lawrence (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2510’ by 30 August or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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