In Competition No. 2551 you were invited to complete in verse or prose a letter by Noël Coward, ‘Dear 338171 (may I call you 338?)’, to Aircraftman Ross (aka T.E. Lawrence) and Lawrence’s reply.
First an apology. Bill Greenwell points out that Lawrence, though originally Aircraftman Ross, was serving as Aircraftman Shaw in a second RAF stint when Coward wrote this letter in 1930 (Shaw was also the name Lawrence used when he served in the Royal Tank Corps between the two RAF stints). All very complicated, as befits a very complex man. So for the purposes of this comp, both the Ross and the Shaw aliases are allowed.
Many entries successfully captured the contrast between the blithe spirit of Coward and the tortured soul that was Ross/Shaw/Lawrence. The winners, printed below, get £25 each while Basil Ransome-Davies wins the bonus fiver.
Dear 338171 (May I call you 338?),
I feel we are united by a queer caprice of fate.
You’ve conquered in the desert and I’ve
triumphed on the stage,
Two patriotic Englishmen, two marvels of the age.
At brittle, witty repartee I am the reigning champ
While you must be the golden boy, the idol of the camp.
So might we get together for a couple of gin slings,
And chew the fat, and see which way the
chandelier swings?
Dear Mr Coward, thank you for your letter of intent,
A missive no doubt quite sincere and generously meant,
But you are in the swim, a boulevardier to the hilt,
While I am morbidly inclined, and racked with wartime guilt.
I’d claim to be a patriot, but what I’ve done and seen
Still nauseates me when I hear them play ‘God Save the Queen’.
Good luck to entertainers with a talent to amuse,
But put me with the squaddies who have paid their bloody dues.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Dear 338171,
May I call you 338?
For I feel as if I know you,
Heard so much of you of late!
Caravanserais and camels,
Dates, oases, camel milk,
Wrecking trains in daring sorties
In your robes of whitest silk,
In exotic Arab cities
On your Brough Superior bike,
Mr Ross, I’d like to meet you;
I suspect we are alike.
Coward, sir, you’ll find my story
In the volume that I just
Published about wisdom’s pillars.
Call me ‘Seven’, if you must!
Shirley Curran
Dear 338171
(May I call you 338?)
It’s terribly hot in the midday sun,
Which is where you’ve been of late
With those frightful Turks under awful circs —
Was your Ottoman bottom blue?
Is a pasha’s lash one of life’s rare perks?
Did it hurt them more than you?
Dear Noël, please may I quote EB?
‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’.
The Turks were no great sheiks to me,
And my backside’s feeling fine.
All this hysteria! My posterior
Is the better when quite red-raw.
Enough. I’m off on my Brough Superior.
Sincerely yours, Ned Shaw.
Bill Greenwell
You may or may not be – of that I’m not sure
Though you drew ‘tides of men’ to ‘your hands’,
I know you were taken with pottery’s lure,
You could potter with me in the sands!
The Ottoman lot you abhorred. Well done you!
But my ottoman you could explore,
Who knows what you’d find there while
rummaging through
Or what items you’d come to adore?
Whether I am, or am not, stays unknown,
I refused Knight Commander, it’s true,
And yet, if we found ourselves somewhere alone
In the night, then I might command you.
My true loves are piston-powered, bi-wheeled and quick,
Brough motorbikes speed me ahead
And not ‘Brief Encounters’ with such as are slick
Or, like you, not of baronets bred.
Alan Millard
Dear 338171 (May I call you 338?) I hesitate to venture 33, knowing the embarrassment that can be caused by a carelessly misplaced digit — the equivalent, perhaps, of inadvertently calling my other Lawrentian pal ‘Gert’. Actually, I must say I find your changes of name a trifle disconcerting. Most people would be more than content with Lawrence of Arabia — it has something of the cachet of Harrods of Knightsbridge. But one moment you’re a number, the next you’re Ross, then Shaw. Wye Ross? What’s Shaw for — in honour of George Boneyard? Elucidate! Yours, N.C.
Dear Coward, Given your patronymic it’s easy to see why name changes fascinate you. However, I can only satisfy your curiosity in one respect. Shaw should be read right to left in the Arab way: ‘wa’hs’ is a rough transliteration of the Arabic for ‘camelherd’, a position I aspire to. Yours, T.E.
W.J. Webster
No. 2554: Diamond George
To mark the 60th anniversary of the pub-lication of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, you are invited to write an extract from the sequel, 2080, maximum 150 words. Entries to ‘Competition 2554’ by 17 July or email jamesy@greenbee.net.
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