In Competition 2623 you were invited to submit an extract from a novel or a play, of which one letter of the title had been changed, in the style of the original author.
It was especially tough this week to whittle a large postbag down to just six. Oh, to have the space to share with readers the delights of The Drapes of Wrath, Finnegans Cake, Wailing for Godot and Lady Chatterley’s Liver. Well done, one and all. D.A. Prince shone with ‘Paradise Post’, but, as I stipulated a novel or a play, she is excluded from the winning line-up. It’s £25 each to the victors, and Alan Millard nabs the bonus fiver.
Such was the variety to be observed from the esplanade shelter that, to Scabber Crout, none resembled another. Nor was it those on the face of the Jubilee Clock that so obsessed him, but rather those attached to the arms of each passer-by, whether walking towards the Nothe or in the opposite direction towards Greenhill. Some were instantly recognisable, like Mrs Stark’s of Upwey — barnacled with warts, or those of Rodwell’s rigger, Ranker Skewer — bony and white as coral. Scabber Crout’s eyes, quick as shark’s glance, shifted from one promenader to next, marvelling at the diversity of these peculiar appendages, some outspread like starfish and others clenched tight as mussels. Faces and feet were of no interest to Scabber. For now his focus was fixed entirely on these strange extremities, some large, some small, some gloved, others bare, but each as unique as the incoming wavelets lapping the shoreline.
Alan Millard (Weymouth Hands/John Cowper Powys)
The old man lay back in the mud. He had known about mud all his life, but not like this, not on a bed. The old man could not see the mud because the gringo nurses had placed slices of the pepino plant on his eyes. Before the mud, the old man had had the hot stones and the thing with the feet. But in his life he had suffered much, and this had been nothing. They had given him the juice of the zanahoria, and it too was nothing. The gringo lady with the papeles had spoken of pampering. The old man did not know what this pampering was, but he knew he had the cojones for it. Had he not conquered the great fish? This is how it is, he thought, and waited for the aromatherapy to begin.
Noel Petty (The Old Man and the Spa/Ernest Hemingway)
All the world’s a road,
And all the men and women merely cyclists;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time rides many kinds.
At first with three wheels, then with four for
learning,
Then only two when training wheels come off.
He skins his knees and makes his parents shudder
When he fares forth from sidewalks into streets.
Then come ten gears, then carbon-fibre frames,
Then bright attire that girds his loins in Spandex
And sends him helm’d like Mars amongst the
clowns
Who clog fair Arden’s lanes. At last he comes
Full circle, pedalling slowly in his dotage
A three-wheeled geezer model down to Boots,
An orange safety pennant for his guidon,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans ears, sans muscle- tone.
R.S. Gwynn (As You Bike It/Shakespeare)
The obsolescence of language troubled Yeobright much. Had a grammarian chanced upon the young man as he pored over his books, he should have heard a concatenation of sounds emanating from the lonely furze-cutter, his hook lying to one side, half-hidden on the heath’s surface. The time is approaching when the languages of antiquity, of Homer and Plato, of Tacitus and Livy, face a dangerous juncture. They may vanish, or they may survive. ‘Of what purpose are prepositions?’ said Clym out loud. ‘The case provides for the relationship. It is a gift in itself.’ His plan, as he outlined to his mother, was none other than to eliminate the excesses with which modern times, alas, have filled our sentences like bramble. ‘Provide me the opportunity, and I shall revive our ancient speech. Whom shall I find to assist me?’ ‘’Tis well-meant,’ said the locals. ‘But ’tis too late, methinks.’
Bill Greenwell (Return of the Dative/Thomas Hardy)
The Director General of MI6 turned and grimly surveyed the grey, swollen Thames through the rain-spattered office window. ‘We need you inside the Polish embassy. It’s a wretched business, I’m afraid, but HMG gives us no alternative. Your contact is Karol Jaroslawski. You’ll find the file on your desk. Understood?’ Bryant reached for the heavy cut-glass tumbler and took a sip of the DG’s single malt. Highland Park — unconventional, but not a bad choice. ‘Yes, sir. But, just to be clear, may I assume that it is Jaroslawski’s, er …expedient demise that you have in mind?’
‘Good God, man, of course not!’ the DG spluttered. ‘The Cold War’s over, or hadn’t you heard? Forget XPD — it’s Continuing Professional Development these days. You’re to take two hours of Polish grammar, and I shall expect a decent report back on your progress. And leave your gun on the desk before you go.’
David Mackie (CPD/Len Deighton)
It was the big McCulloch with the 42-inch cut and twin contra rotating blades and Roker’s heart sank in his breast like ice in whisky. It was pride that had made him lie, the sin for which Dante reserved the deepest circle of hell. He was a decent enough mechanic, that was no lie, but with the general run of models, say a mid-range Qualcast or Flymo. He could no more service a premier McCulloch than refuse a drink. He felt the familiar tremor in his hands as the woman waited for him to speak. Her shadow fell across his to form a dark cruciform emblem on the lawn, as if reproaching his faithless error. He’d overreached, an egoistic fool. He was conscious that his shoes leaked. But then she broke the silence, and the everyday words — ‘cup of tea?’ — made confidence surge in him like mercury.
G.M. Davis (The Mower and the Glory/Graham Greene)
No. 2626: Thanks but no thanks
You are invited to submit a thank-you letter for an especially hideous or inappropriate present, one that manages to be diplomatic while fending off future offerings along the same lines (150 words maximum). Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on Thursday 3 December (NB. The earlier-than-usual closing date is because of Christmas printing deadlines).
Comments