In a large entry you divided almost exactly equally between Pepyses and Pooters. I suppose that one of the differences between the two diarists was that Pepys was a ‘somebody’ who generally got things right while Pooter wasn’t and didn’t. Basil Ransome-Davies was spot-on — with Pooter flattered by lots of letters inviting him to become ‘a valued customer’ and offering him loans: ‘it is gratifying to know that I have a trustworthy reputation’. I also liked Peter Meldrum’s Pepys asking at the Admiralty about ‘our sailors captured in Persia’ — were they much hurt? ‘No, Sir, they are writing their diaries for publication.’ The winners below get £25 each while the extra fiver goes to Bill Greenwell.
What a capital invention Television is. At all hours of the day, and, by-the-by, the night, I watch ‘the news’, of which there is abundant supply. This enables me to discuss the world with drivers of the motorised hansom-cabs, whenever I go to the City. To-day, my driver lectured me, rather impertinently I thought, upon traffic. ‘They ’ave too much of it,’ he said. ‘It is all that Brown’s fault.’ In my opinion, I riposted, motorists were to blame. They insist upon driving, despite all their wheezing and coughing. ‘What d’yer mean?’ he replied. ‘I refer,’ I said, much taken with my little joke, ‘to the CONGESTION charge.’ Mr. Brown, by-the-by, is the new Prime Minister. I have already written to him, congratulating him upon the prevention of smoking. Bought The Spectator, but, to my annoyance, it provided no list of television programmes, which I took to be its purpose.
Bill Greenwell
July the first. The day the smoking ban starts. While I enjoy a good cigar, I have never smoked in public, I remarked to Carrie at breakfast that I had not been led ‘ashtray’ to that extent. She did not seem to appreciate the joke, so I repeated it. She smiled, faintly, and turned back to Big Brother. I reminded her that such programmes are watched only by people whose own lives have less meaning than those of the contestants. She looked at me with a strange, calculating expression. Lupin came down late, wearing his hood over his eyes and an iPod in his ear. He replied, ‘Don’t diss, bro, ain’t no diss now.’ I think I will lend him a copy of Mr Perkup’s memorandum on the use of grammar in English.
William Danes-Volkov
While my dear wife Carrie is ensuring continuing good health by going jogging with her good friend Mrs James before a shared shopping excursion to a ladies’ supplier called Ann Summers, I avail myself of the opportunity to peruse my e-correspondence. I am ashamed to find another offer for enlargement of my male member, and three offering medication claiming prolonged sexual satisfaction. I hope my dear wife is not aware of such offensive material. I am interrupted by Lupin, falling into the hallway covered in mud from his recent sojourn at a musical festival in Glastonbury. Why the concert hall is so poorly served with regard to flooring and roofing I cannot imagine. He tells me the ‘rapping’ was ‘wicked’. ‘Then I hope someone will take the rap for that,’ I retort, quickly deleting the disreputable e-correspondence. I cannot think how such people gained my address.
D. A. Prince
From thence to King Street and met Bazza, Zee, Ali and a whole company of my new acquaintances and went into the Gulping Frog to drink some lager and breezers, The Musique mighty loud and little enough to my liking, but I sat long talking with them and we were full in discourse of the sad state of the times with the miscarriages of the war on terrour and the Navy out of order. The parliamentarians are endeed a pack of knaves and fools, and there is much foreboding of the present invasion of Scotch men. But we broke up pretty merrily, I turning alone into a by-lane with Zee who did suffer me to palpar ses cosas, wherein I took much pleasure. Then home and after encrypting my blog to supper and to bed.
W. J. Webster
Up betimes, though my wife abroad already it seems with Jane, there being no sign and the house mighty quiet withal. Yet when I stepped out, I found Seething Lane so greatly changed that I did stop a moment to stare about. Master Wren has much to answer for. Many tearing people in the street, yet not a horse in sight. A young woman jostled me and when I told her I was on my way to wait on the Duke of York, she led me down some new steps into a grimy tunnel and there into a carriage with motley sliding doors. She looking much like Deb, though rougher dressed; after a while I did hazer her tocca my thing, but she did cry out ‘Christ! Another of them High Court Judges innit!’ and ran off, leaving me with some lewd fellows who tried to pull off my wig.
Freddie Stockdale
July 2007 (not, it seemeth, January 1684). So up at 5 o’clock, proposing to breakfast, hence to the river and thither to Temple Stairs and the frost fair. The month, being mightily bitter, I dress accordingly and venture forth but am sorely troubled perceiving nothing I recognise and finding the ayre unseasonably hot as though the entire globe were suddenly minded to warm. About my ears the clamour of horseless carriages rushing past, post-haste, and the deafening din of unseemly musique, nowise like Purcell, resounding from hostelries. I observe no known faces or places nor ice on the river whose banks appear crowded with strangers in foolish apparel and monstrous buildings, one like a great eye gazing down, another resembling an upright cucumber, one even domed like a giant mushroom. Greatly afeared I hasten homeward, desirous of meeting ought familiar, even my wife!
Alan Millard
Competition No. 2504: Modern muses
You are invited to invent nine muses for the 21st century (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2504’ by 19 July or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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