In Competition No. 2422 you were invited to write a poem or a piece of prose entitled ‘Dinner with the Devil’.
‘My meal consisted of an omelette made from eggs seven years past their sell-by date and stuffed with the minced brains of lunatics who never attended church on Sunday’ — Adam Campbell’s menu, reminiscent of Miss Thatcher’s recent gastronomic ordeals on television, struck the sort of flesh-creeping note that Dickens relished at Christmas. But the winners, printed below, were the ones who remained urbane and witty rather than horripilant. They get £25 apiece, and Adrian Fry has the bonus fiver. I wish you all as happy a Christmas as you can contrive.
His invitation said, ‘Come as you are’ and, forgetting he was Father of Lies, I did. He greeted me in full evening dress and we dined in a great hall heated (quite unnecessarily) by several of the roaring fires that are something of a fetish with him. Lucifer insisted I say grace backwards, which introduced a welcome novelty and challenge into what is customarily a chore. The food was exquisite, though I immediately abandoned the long spoon with which friends had unaccountably recommended I eat it. Lucifer encouraged me to eat my fill; the veritable bestiary slaughtered to provide our feast had suffered horribly, so it seemed churlish not to do it justice. The meal was accompanied by a series of Transylvanian reds, each with its unsettlingly familiar iron tang. Only later did Lucifer sit back on his throne, smile benevolently and say, ‘Now, Archbishop, about this soul of yours.’
Adrian Fry
He’d chosen well. The Tournedos Rossini — a neglected classic — crowned the occasion, and I kept to cultivated small talk until the cheeseboard arrived. Then I wasted no time on flannel or needless preliminaries. I simply told him what I wanted. I almost staggered myself; the magnitude of it, the greed. I added, half-apologetically, ‘If that seems rather a lot —’. ‘No, no.’ He had speared a large crumb of liquescent Roquefort with the knife: a plain knife, no two-pronged abortion. ‘I can deliver. I promise. Trust me.’
That rather seemed to be that and, relaxing with a cigar over the coffee and Cognac, I read my signature on the contract with a sense of wonder at what a fine bargain I had made. I could hear an irritating noise in the background, Michael Winner shouting at a waiter, but I ignored him. I already had his soul.
G.M. Davis
Grandpa and I and Auntie Mabel
Were just sitting down to the dinner table,
When the door blew open and in strode a guy
With horns and a tail and a burning eye.
He said, ‘I’ll bet your weight in gold
Against your souls that you can’t hold
Your drink like me.’ So with the stew
We had half a gallon of best home brew,
Then some port with the pudding, and some muscatel,
And some schnapps, and the Devil was doing quite well,
Till we opened up Mabel’s dandelion wine.
He took one sip, shouted ‘I feel fine!’
Spun round, fell down, and started to snore,
Flat on his face on the kitchen floor.
So here’s to Grandpa and me and Mabel —
We drank the Devil under the table!
Michael Swan
She was five and twenty and I was fifty-eight!
I thought I’d hit the jackpot when she said she’d like a date.
Why was I attractive to a girl with looks to kill?
The answer was elusive till I came to pay the bill.
(Refrain) Brandy for the barman, whisky for the host,
Champagne for the lady, Chablis for the toast!
Carte blanche for the menu, order what you will,
But watch the wall, my darling, when the waiter brings the bill!
When the meal was over and the time had come to go
I asked her if we’d meet again. Her quick reply was ‘No’.
She told me she was happy having more than had her fill,
Then off she went rejoicing, leaving me to pay the bill. (Refrain)
Gentlemen, beware of girls with soft, beseeching eyes,
Be careful lest your pretty maid’s the Devil in disguise!
Them that asks no questions must taste the bitter pill:
Have dinner with the Devil and you’ll surely pay the bill. (Refrain)
Alan Millard
‘I’ll expect you for dinner tonight at eight,
Though my guests are always a little late,vBut you’ll know everyone in my club,
So I’ll see you soon,’ said Beelzebub.
The seating plan sent my heart to my boots.
On my left was the mistress who’d cut up my suits;
While on my right I was eye to eye
With my neighbour with untrimmed leylandii.
Across the table from me I saw
My banker, my dentist and mother-in-law
Whose conversation focused upon
How my money, my teeth and my wife had gone.
And I realised as I tried to leave
That what I was about to receive
Wasn’t a one-off social ‘do’
But my menu for all eternity through.
Martin Parker
Surprisingly, the card was quite unsinged.
I read the words again. I think I cringed.
Old Nick ‘requests’: mere mortals must obey,
Must eat his meat, must sip his chardonnay.
So we shall grit our teeth; we’ll grin and bear;
We’ll don our Marks & Sparks asbestos wear;
We’ll gamely sing along to Nick’s ‘best tunes’.
We did ask Mary, ‘Should we buy long spoons?’
But Mary promptly knocked that on the head.
‘The host supplies the cutlery,’ she said.
‘So, who’s this Nick?’ I hear you ask. ‘A friend?’
Let’s say he’s someone we must not offend.
When transfers and redundancies occur,
An all-out grovel can be de rigueur,
And Nick is not too bad, as bosses go.
Better, they say, the devil that you know.
Keith Norman
No. 2425: Love lecture
Ovid’s Ars Amatoria is a mock-didactic, amusing poetic primer of advice as to how to pick up, seduce and keep a lover of either sex. You are invited to attempt the same. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2425’ by 5 January.
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