Spectator Competition: To the letter

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.