In Competition No. 2619 you were invited to submit a short fable culminating in a mangled aphorism. The fabulous theme of this comp is a salute to Jaspistos, celebrated translator of fables, whose rendering of La Fontaine’s was deemed by the not-easily-pleased Geoffrey Grigson to have been unsurpassed, ‘earthier and sharper than Marianne Moore’s’. The assignment was also a somewhat backhanded tribute to that most exacting of forms, the aphorism, described by Auden and Louis Kronenberger, in their foreword to The Faber Book of Aphorisms, as ‘an aristocratic genre of writing’.
There was a lot to live up to, then, which perhaps accounted for a lower than usual turnout and a patchy standard overall. Some fables were going great guns, like Aesop’s hare, but then faltered short of the finishing line and failed to deliver on the aphoristic challenge. Commendations, none the less, to Tom Durrheim, Shirley Curran, Virginia Price Evans and Brian Murdoch. Storming in to claim the bonus fiver is P.C. Parrish. His co-winners, printed below, net £30 apiece.
There once were two princes vying for the hand of a beautiful maiden. Prince A was the heir to a spectacular mountain kingdom, Prince Z would be emperor of lands made bountiful by a mighty river. Each of them vowed undying love for the maiden, and she was at a loss to choose between them. After much thought, she asked them both to provide a gift that symbolised their feelings for her — the gift to have no more monetary value than a loaf of bread. Prince Z offered a goblet of water drawn from the source of his river, standing for the pure clarity of his devotion. Prince A laid before her a pointed shard of rock from his loftiest peak to represent Cupid’s heart-piercing arrow. Without hesitation she chose Prince Z. Prince A should have realised, she explained, that feigned dart never won fair lady.
W.J. Webster
A migratory bird, winging over the Channel after a long, hard journey, drove on bravely, buoyed by the prospect of England, a temperate clime at last. She considered this summer break (after the stifling Sahara) to be well worth the effort: lush greenery, mild breezes, gentle sunshine and plentiful insects. Imagine her horror, then, when, upon descent, she found nothing but lowering skies, and dank vegetation soused in perpetual rain! The poor, bedraggled creature could only seek some sodden roost, and wait — her head tucked under her wing — until she could summon the strength for the arduous return flight. And the people below wondered what had happened to all the birds, as well as what became of the English summer. Moral: One swallow doesn’t make a proverb.
Martin Woodhead
Ages ago, on account of their beady intelligence, upright bearing and extravagant plumage, the parakeets oversaw finances for all the jungle animals. Eyeing his mate through cigar haze one evening, the red-braced Chief Parakeet sighed mournfully. ‘Time to go south too, I fear.’ ‘Madagascar looks divine,’ drawled she, ‘but what of Junior?’ ‘Dyes and mirrors, my love,’ he whispered silkily. Reflected gleams from the freshly deposited gingham carrycot attracted a mother hummingbird. Having no classical education, her unsuspicious heart melted on reading: Adopt early to avoid disappointment. ‘One of us, daddy hummingbird,’ she cooed, placing Junior in their nest. ‘One of us,’ shrieked the ravenous interloper — quantitatively easing his stepbrothers to their death-plunge. ‘One of us,’ wearily echoed his diminishing guardians, until one day, having breezed his banking exams (revealing his true colours), Junior devoured them with fava beans, washed down by nice Chianti. Moral: he who plays the pauper, calls the tune.
P.C. Parrish
The badger had a toothache, making him grumpy. Needing advice, he asked a neighbour. The wise old owl looked with his big round eyes, and said, ‘Well, for a start, you need to get those teeth really clean.’ ‘The fox has a brush,’ replied the badger, ‘and the mole could advise me on the molars.’ ‘Ooh, you wit,’ said the owl. ‘But you need somebody who knows what they’re doing. Haven’t the weasels in the wood got a relation who’s a dentist?’ Now, when this chap arrived, to be hospitable, the badger trundled down to the cellar for a barrel of beer. Soon the visitor was staggering about, and the upshot was that he never did get around to cleaning the badger’s teeth properly. When the owl heard the story, he said to his friend, ‘Well, Brock, you know the old saying : A rolling stoat carries no floss!’
Derek Morgan
We hated Snidge. His very existence seemed an incitement to bullying and Nature only worsened the situation by giving him an infuriatingly round head, irresistibly pinchable rosy cheeks and the piping, fastidiously innocent voice of a prepubescent Robert Runcie. His unerring wrongness made him the butt of every classroom joke. While we revered Monty Python, Snidge quoted Ken Dodd, while we listened to Joy Division, he trilled Abba. Small wonder, then, that when Snidge, repeatedly and with evangelical zeal, recommended George Eliot’s Middlemarch we barely looked up from dissecting Camus to slap his face. A novel of provincial manners by a woman hiding behind a man’s name commended by the boy who favoured Edgar Rice over William Seward Burroughs? How could it be anything but acutely embarrassing? We resolved never to read it. Our university entrance examiners appreciated neither our ignorance of the work nor our disparagement of anyone who knew it as well as Snidge. As our first-rate minds had to settle for third-rate polytechnics, we had ample time to reflect that one should never judge a book by its lover.
Adrian Fry
No. 2622: Road rage
You are invited to submit a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist, a cyclist on a pedestrian or a pedestrian on either (maximum 16 lines). Entries to Competition 2622 by midday on 11 November or email lucy@spectator.co.uk. Email is preferable in view of the current postal disruption.
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