In Competition No. 2490 you were invited to give an account of the life of a historical figure condensed into seven days.
The assignment was inspired by a 19th-century nursery rhyme which tells the bleak tale of Solomon Grundy, who was born on a Monday and apparently dead by Sunday. It struck terror into me as a child, having the tone of a cautionary tale but giving no discernible clue as to what SG might have done to deserve such a grim fate. Of course I know now that it’s a riddle, stupid.
The standard was exceptionally high, and it was a struggle to whittle it down to just six. The bonus fiver, though, goes to Basil Ransome-Davies. The other prizewinners, printed below, get a well-deserved £25 each.
Friday, April 13, 1906. Born astride the grave in Foxrock. Why Foxrock? No explanation forthcoming. Bowled a few good overs for the Uni. Never enough. Overs over, went to Paris. Met the jimmyjoyce, a man after my own kidney.
Saturday. Academe, a dream, a hole in the head. I’ve had enough of that, had it right up to here goes nothing. Travel abroad broadens the whadd’yecallit. Broadens the grind. And all that.
Sunday. Stabbed by a pimp, name of Prudent. It’s not what you’d expect. Not that I mind. He had the mind to it, that’s all. No explanation forthcoming, but you could call it an act of faith. I bled all right. A bleeding writer, me.
Monday. Better France at war than Ireland at peace. There’s an axiom for you. We could all be doing without the Germans, though. A little of them goes a long way, god knows. But he’s not letting on.
Tuesday. Peace on earth. And under the earth. And now your atomic weaponry can blow us all to smithereens. No derivation forthcoming, but hasn’t it the Irish sound? A smithereen of hope.
Wednesday. Godot a popular success among the uncomprehending. Can you beat that? Invincible ignorance, as the theologians say.
Thursday. The Nobel Prize, and if that’s not the kiss of death my prick’s a bloater. A handy comparison, that. A ton of worms in an acre. I can’t go on. This time I mean it.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Henry vee-one-one-one
On Monday saw the light of sun.
Tuesday he married his first wife
Then one every day, not much of a life.
Till Sunday night he went and died
He said he was sad, but I think he lied.
William Danes-Volkov
Monday: born in barn (unpleasant);
Shepherds bring first Christmas present.
Tuesday: Galilee carpentry,
NVQ at level 3.
Wednesday: fishing, afternoon,
Hand out first apostle spoon.
Thursday: preaching, work empirical,
Parables, and sometimes miracle.
Friday: Pharisees made afraid,
Communion held, but get betrayed.
Saturday: Roman execution,
Universal absolution.
Sunday: Rise, cause consternation,
Ascend, and wait for Revelation.
Bill Greenwell
John Donne
Born on Mon,
Wooed the Muse,
and girls, on Tues;
Spain on Wed,
Essex-led;
Wed on Thurs;
Father’s curse,
Empty purse.
Fruitful bride
Died on Frid.
Sanctified,
Souls to batter,
Paul’s on Satur;
Then on Sun
Donne is done.
Mary Holtby
William Gilbert Grace,
Renowned for a weird beardliness which near-eclipsed his face,
Took strike one Monday in the year of our Lord’s 1848,
Thereby redefining the meaning of Great.
By Tuesday, this doctor of implausibly imposing mien
Was dubbed the craftiest cricketer the world had seen.
On Wednesday he discontinued the treatment of unhealth,
Preferring the potency of sport-inflicted wealth.
Thursday, he was clean-bowled but wouldn’t stand for that,
Protesting: ‘I will not walk, these people paid to see me bat!’
Grace scored one thousand runs in May 1895,
Making him the most prolific terrific willow-wielder alive.
Friday, he declared: ‘I am down in the dumps’;
Worse on Saturday, whispered: ‘Time, alas, to draw stumps.’
That Sunday, run out at the age of sixty-seven,
W.G. opened for Saint Peter’s First XI.
Mike Morrison
William Shakespeare, born on Sunday,
Mewled and puked all day till Monday;
Crept to school to start the week,
Learned small Latin, much less Greek;
Took Anne Hathaway to bed
And found himself, on Tuesday, wed.
On Wednesday, though, he upped and packed
And went to London Town to act.
By Thursday, man of many parts,
He’d mastered all the playwright’s arts.
So Friday saw him take his fame
Back to Stratford whence he came.
On Saturday, his timing deft,
He bowed and exited, stage left.
W.J. Webster
No. 2493: I spy
You are invited to take a famous scene from literature and retell it from the point of view of one of its minor characters (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2493’ by 3 May, or email to lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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