In Competition No. 2424 you were invited to write a poem naming in each line a startling event which will occur during each month this year, ending with a four-line glimpse of the more distant future.
‘Fasten your seatbelts’ was the consensus. I shall gag myself to make space for the winners, pausing only to mention Adrian Fry’s prediction (optimistic or pessimistic?) that this month will see the Queen’s limericks published in the Times. The prize-takers, printed below, get £25 each, and W.J. Webster nabs the bonus fiver. Thank you, the person who sent me a Christmas card.
Jigsaw puzzles take the world by storm;
Forswearing f-words now becomes the norm;
Mandarin graffiti mark the moon;
A sudden, silent darkness falls at noon;
Mont Blanc’s internal staircase is revealed;
Jet engines used to dry a cricket field;
Jules Rimet’s cup is filled with blood and tears;
Australians vote to have a House of Peers;
Saddam Hussein says, ‘I deserve my fate’;
Oyster beds dam up the River Plate;
No smoking ban brings back the use of snuff;
Directors state they’re paid quite well enough.
Mid-air collisions curb the growth in flights;
Mercy-culling plugs the pension gap;
Viruses are granted natural rights;
Infinity is plotted on a map.
W.J. Webster
In January Ant and Dec elope.
In February Kensington explodes.
In March expect a black transvestite Pope,
While April means extensive showers of toads.
May is the month when Scunthorpe win the Cup
And June the one when Di comes back to life.
July’s big story: Germaine Greer shuts up.
In August fear of watercress is rife.
September? France invades the Isle of Wight.
October brings a law to ban mah-jong.
World peace throughout November spreads delight,
But in December everything goes wrong.
The years and decades pass …the powers of old
Fall victim to the multifarious ills
Of sin and decadence …the times unfold
Of piety and iron, as Allah wills.
Basil Ransome-Davies
In Jan. mad cod disease ends fish and chips;
Feb: US snap election won by horse;
In March a giant squid sinks Spanish ships;
April: UK high-profile gay divorce.
May: chilblain epidemic in Peru;
In June an iceberg sinks a yacht near Cannes;
July: two UFOs drop snails on Crewe;
In August plagues of mice invade Japan.
September: goldfish dies of foot and mouth;
October: Britney Spears weds royalty;
Nov: earthquake splits North Cyprus from the South;
December: China joins the EEC.
New terrors grip the world. A leader dies.
The West creates an anti-bird-flu curtain.
Iceland says global warming is all lies.
One thing is clear: the future is uncertain.
D.A. Prince
In Jan, fantastic scenes with a cheese called Stilton Keynes;
In Feb, the rebel Norman force annexes Sark and Jersey;
In March, archbishops learn to binge with angsty Asbo teens;
In April, grapefruit cargoes sink and sour half the Mersey;
In May, stray planets shift their course (astrologers start squealing);
In June, an iTunes error means that silence tops the charts;
July flies by with hurricanes in Hereford and Ealing;
In August, morgues are fined a mint for trading body parts;
September’s tempers flare when Tories team up with Respect;
October, and jojoba is declared a Class A drug;
November’s private members’ Bills ban trousers if they’re checked;
December’s Welsh Assembly bans the English three-pin plug;
And as the decade stretches, and the sun has wild eclipses,
And the politicians shrink, and their language sounds much spivvier,
The earth’s thin crust grows pustules, and time turns to ellipsis …
And the fad for quizzes fizzles, since they run right out of trivia.
Bill Greenwell
In January’s Honours List all men and boys are knighted.
February’s cut in tax leaves everyone delighted.
All of March becomes, by law, a national holiday.
April brings employees shorter hours with double pay.
May arrives with endless sun, blue skies and balmy seas
And every pupil gets an A in June’s GCSEs.
July returns the World Cup to England once again
And August brings free air flights with an exodus to Spain.
September grants a share to all of Britain’s excess wealth
And dentists in October opt to join the National Health.
November sees our politicians lovingly unite.
December heralds bliss and all our Christmases are white.
But in some distant dawning comes the hint of a surprise
When, beamed back to the present, those deluded by these lies
Awaken to discover things are rarely what they seem
And everything predicted here was nothing but a dream.
Alan Millard
A Nobel playwright takes to rhyming couplets
A high-born Tory wife produces triplets
A Chancellor declines to set a Budget
Some royal April fool extracts his digit
Terror surrounds May’s Eurovision contest
A traffic warden eats a robin redbreast
‘Wind farms have charms’ becomes a party slogan
New Yorkers hail the ghost of Ronald Reagan
Wild beasts invade a city in the Midlands
Huge tidal waves engulf some Scottish islands
The Bible’s named the ‘best read’ by a judy
And Santa Claus becomes a faddy foodie.
James Bond will come for real in ’007
Olympic debts will loom in ’011
School kids will pay the price for being clever
The moon, turned blue, will disappear for ever
Alanna Blake
No. 2427: Surprise, surprise
You are invited to supply a poem (maximum 16 lines) or a piece of prose (maximum 150 words) beginning ‘It began as a —– but it turned out a —–’, filling in the blanks as you please. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2427’ by 19 January.
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