In Competition no. 2493 you were invited to take a famous scene from literature and retell it from the point of view of one of its minor characters. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were plucked by Tom Stoppard from the chorus line and catapulted into the limelight with dazzling results. A lot of you followed Stoppard down the Hamlet route, but tended to veer uneasily into dodgy cod-Shakespearean territory. While many went for pastiche, others, like Adrian Fry with his account of Bilbo Baggins’s eleventy-first birthday party filtered through the covetous eyes of Otho Sackville-Baggins, steered clear of the voice of the original author. Brian Murdoch’s take on Lucky Jim Dixon’s ‘Merrie England’ speech was impressive but the extra fiver goes to Bill Greenwell. The other winners, printed below, get £25 each.
Schoolroom, sir. Of commodious nature. Eighty juveniles, of variegated proportion; some of masculine gender, some of feminine gender. Designated as numerical individuals, inspection for the purpose of. Of utilitarian character, and pedagogical. Composition: stone, brick, wood (from the tree, exogenous by nature, and xylemic in constituency). Occasion: visitation, periodical in character, by philanthropic sponsor, Gradgrind (T.). Object: catechism, general and particular. Jupe, Cecilia (numbered 20, therefore divisible by both 4 and 5, and vice versa) subjected to interview, interrogative in character. Present: M’Choakumchild, Mr., educationalist. Nature of inquiry: definition of ‘horse’. Jupe, Cecilia (progeny of Jupe, Mr., a purveyor, by proxy, of ingredients to the industry, glue for the manufacture of) found wanting in descriptive exactitude, equinologically speaking. Query referred to self, response edited, satirical intent for the study of, exegetical or otherwise, narratological in essence, presumably. When I grow up, I am going into human resource management. Bitzer (Master). Bill Greenwell
I was in my first year at the local university doing history, and there was this public lecture called ‘Merrie England’, so I thought I’d go. I was in the gallery with lots of other students and I think some of them had been drinking. The lecturer was a youngish bloke called Nixon or Dixon — anyway, when he started he sounded exactly like the old tosspot professor, so I didn’t understand a word. Mind you, I hadn’t expected to, but it seemed a bit rambling. I think there was a kerfuffle of some sort, but I do remember how Dixon, that was the name, summed up that the ‘merrie England’ business was all a load of tosh. I don’t remember the end, but that bit really made an impression on me, so I packed in mediaeval history, left and got a proper job instead. Dixon’s probably a professor himself now.
Brian Murdoch
Anyone reading his account would imagine that I, the parson, was virtually irrelevant. Dismissing me with a passing reference, our ‘hero’ focuses exclusively on how he felt before dumping his messy burden at my feet and galloping off leaving me to sort out the chaos and deal with the gory aftermath. Imagine the scene: the marriage blessing, a sudden, ear-splitting blast, a shattered window, shards of glass flying everywhere and blood all over the place staining the newly-polished altar steps and ruining the hassocks! It took an eternity to clean up afterwards with nobody offering to stay behind and help. Needless to say, the bleeding bride had merely fainted and was not mortally wounded as everyone else had supposed. Can Oare ever offer some future incumbent a quiet living in a peaceful parish? Not, I believe, till it’s rid of the Ridds and done with the Doones!
Alan Millard
So. Antony’s toast, yet another dreamboat bites the dust and of course it’s basket of snakes time. Talk about a tragedy queen — my love life’s gone down the pan again, send for the f–— asps, plus of course the serpent-carrying pillock who likes to do a bit of stand-up just to counterpoint the tragedy of it all and has to be told more than once to piss off. Then it’s on with the glad rags, the usual bollocks about immortal longings and hasta la vista Iras. Soon it’ll be ‘Oh Charmian, I need something to perk me up,’ and I’ll be on grape-peeling duties. Only stone me, this time she means it. This time the snake actually gets a mouthful of tit and Cleo snuffs it. Well, lucky old snake, I say. But unlucky Charmian. Because I have to be next — that’s the rule around here.
Basil Ransome-Davies
Bag End having been promised to the Sackville-Baggins branch of the family, Lobelia and I felt obliged to attend cousin Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party, if only to keep an eye on our interests. The party — thrash would be a better (because more vulgar) description — was appalling. The food was more gourmand than gourmet, the drink cloudy as a Mordor sky and the entertainment — fireworks that must have cost a fortune and may have considerably damaged Bag End’s infrastructure — were absentmindedly presided over by some self-proclaimed ‘wizard’ with a doubtless unhealthy interest in young Frodo. Bilbo’s rambling incoherent speech was short on wit and anecdote, long on namechecks (albeit paying scant heed to rightful social pecking orders) and table-banging call-and-response routines. We were less shocked than relieved when the old fool vanished into thick air; the pipe smoke was becoming intolerable and Lobelia had developed another migraine.
Adrian Fry
These days most weddings are booked about 18 months ahead, so I was surprised when a couple called at Hilltop Vicarage, asking to be married next day. There was no time for banns or church electoral roll requirements, so I obtained a special licence. I was afraid the bishop would fuss about the species difference, but his only concern was that they were heterosexual. They had a ring and plenty of money; I donated bongblossom and recommended Mince’n’Quince Catering. We eschewed the 1662 Prayer Book, because of its aspersions on ‘brute beasts’, and I did not dwell on the ‘procreation of children’ because I feared the oviparous/viviparous discrepancy might be a difficulty. They had cohabited for more than a year, but one does not like to be judgmental nowadays. I encouraged them to become regular worshippers, and to use their talents in the guitar group and Sea Scouts.
Priscilla Bench-Capon
No. 2496: Short story
You are invited to submit a short story (150 words maximum) whose final line is ‘Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats.’ Entries to ‘Competition 2496’ by 24 May or email to lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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