In Competition 3361 you were invited to submit a passage or poem whose meaning was affected by some missing, substituted or surplus letters. I should have said ‘corrupted’ as, perhaps predictably, many of the mistakes were rude and puerile (not a complaint). Ideally the correct version could be glimpsed, giving things an alternative–universe quality. Shout-outs to Max Ross (‘Autumn makes me think of Teats’), Ralph Goldswain (‘I ask you to eject me with a lardslide’) and Janine Beacham (‘I ponder the toad not taken, the beauty of the red, red nose, and what hips my hips have missed. Ah, the powder of worms!’).
The winners receive £25.
To understand the human bind
Fred used the walking cure.
His famous crouch aimed to induce
A candied chat, for sure.
Fred listened hard while faking notes
And patients walked ad hoc.
Some viewed him as a living god,
Some as a smutty joke.
We’ve learned to see the fractured self
The triple way he did:
The egg, the grown-up superegg,
The prehistoric kid.
Today a zillion shrines worldwide
Identify sick heads
And spread the game of Oedipus.
The credit is all Fred’s.Basil Ransome-Davies
Last night’s Romp was a concept featuring Beet-hoven’s magnificent Erotica. Unlike his famous Filth, with its ironic, revelationary opening bras, much of which was written when the decomposer was almost totally dead, the Erotica is more undersated, with memorable French porn solos and sensitive use of delicate vibrator in the g-string section. We heard all of Beethoven’s tectonic power and trauma, however, especially in the Finale, including a theme and set of sex variations, steaming the show. The Romp began with Mozart, setting the scene with overtures from his Manic Glute and Cosy Fun Totty, followed by a spirited performance of the Haydn strumpet concerto. During the interval, in a break with transition, the Rompers were treated to a pottery recital including, naturally, Yeats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn. The acrostics were not good in the hall but the Rompers, with their party–poopers and whistles, were on good form.
David Silverman
St Agatha’s School annual rorts day took place in glorious weather, creating great excitement as the girls showed off their skulls to the visiting parents.
Proceedings commenced with a lousing rendition of the rational anthem, performed by the school banned, and a speech by the Dead Girl. In the field events, the junior girls excelled in the ego and spoon race and sick race, while the seniors’ 100m pash was hotly contested. After the races, the parents
were treated to delicious cream peas in the refreshment tent, before viewing a tart exhibition put on by the sixth formers. Later in the afternoon, a dunce display by the Lower Fourth was warmly received. The day concluded with a presentation of prizes by the Head’s mistress.Harriet Elvin
Here two will loin together –
Oh! the stained gloss of the church! –
‘Après, the feast,’ thinks the Paris Priest.
First, here’s the Wedding Merch.It’s time to cut the coke up!
The beast man’s speech is lewd,
There’s drink inside the lushing bride,
While the gloom attends to food.The gusts are keen as custard
To trim the light fantastic –
The hippy couple, lithe and supple,
Stretch their knocker elastic.Their bonk account is empty,
They’re filled with fuzzy wine –
Let the last cock pop, find an eBay shop,
Sell the wedding dregs online.Bill Greenwell
Celia considered the vicar’s vice, and how he incited his flock to prey. The bins of the world and the fresh: her mind slipped from sprayers to her sopping fist and what her bridge held for munch. Parrots for soup? With flesh finger? Her mouth waitered, half-glistening, as the codlike tones bloated up from the knave to jingle with the gelded angles. Dread, toasted; that would be hasty. Leftover mud from last night? Chocolate mouse! The brine was gurning, she thought, so lard cheese would be saver. Good poisoning was too frisky at their rage so not the crap salad.
A cloud Amen culled her back into the herd and cow spitting in the stalks for the treading. Familiar snuff: sleep and boats, the arables familiar from other fundays. The swords got fixed up, somehow, and now the land of mink and money: her hype of text.
D.A. Prince
When Rishi announced his erection,
I was asked by a Gallup moll
About which political arty
Would capture the prize of my vole.Some arties aligned with the left-wing
While some were decidedly tight.
Like the friends of Tommy Robinson
Who were bellowing ‘Keep Britain shite!’‘Tories out!’ yelled the Socialist Porkers.
The Greeks cried: ‘The world is too warm!’
Shopping oil is the only solution!’
‘Get the country in shape,’ said Deform.But what of the pubic finances?
Which arty would give all fair dibs?
Fed up with mere lies and delusions,
I finally plumped for the Fibs.George Simmers
No. 3364: environ-mental
You are invited to submit a piece of psycho-geography about an extremely mundane journey (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 21 August, preferably including the competition number in the subject field.
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