Competition 3393 went in search of – and found – basic laughs by inviting you to submit a passage of historical fiction sprinkled with anachronistic detail. I was thinking along the lines of the grey squirrel in Sharon Kay Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour (set during the War of the Roses), but it was generally assumed that subtlety would get lost and the absurder the better: the anachronisms were more larded in than dusted on. I especially liked Janine Beacham’s vision of Henry VIII enjoying a strawberry gelato while he ‘considered a dalliance with that most charming teenaged babe, Catherine Howard’. Profound thanks to all who entered, and here are the winners.
‘OMG!’ cried pretty Nell Gwyn. ‘I didn’t see Your Maj hiding down there. Come out and let’s have a cocktail before supper!’
The King, his face in shadow, eyed her covertly. He took in her feather boa, push-up bra, stockings and suspender-belt. Nell smiled provocatively and tossed her fiery curls: she’d had her Carmens in all afternoon and knew she looked good.
King Charles laughed his famous merry laugh and lit a cigarette. He tossed aside the box of matches. ‘Whatever!’ he said negligently.
‘Where are we going tonight?’ Nell asked, adjusting her seams. The King turned to face her. He was wearing a pair of flying goggles. ‘Can’t you guess?’
Nell shrieked in excitement. ‘Not a ballon-ride?!’
The King nodded. ‘I was talking to one of the Montgolfier bros in the Casino and it’s all fixed. It’s a package deal and we’ll even see the Eiffel Tower!’
‘Sick!’
J.C.H. Mounsey
Bonnie Prince Charlie graciously laid down his serviette and called his servant for a tumbler of The Macallan. ‘I see from your clan tartan,’ he said, ‘that you are a Cumbernauld. I have a gift for you, mon pote.’ So saying, he unzipped his sporran, drew out a five-pound note, furled it, and presented it with a bow. ‘That’ll see you through to Burns Night,’ said the Prince.
‘Your Majesty!’ cried the servant, ‘Will you not take a Berwick Cockle tonight? Or a Scotch Bonnet for the digestion? They say the Bonnet is hotter than a steam iron, but makes the tastebuds dance the Gay Gordons.’ The Great Pretender nodded, amused, but he knew that tomorrow was treacherous, and that he needed a deep sleep before Culloden. ‘Lay out my jimjams, Cumbernauld,’ he said, ‘leave some shortbread out for the beavers, and remind Jim Boswell to refill his Platignums.’
Bill Greenwell
Hi Jeanne, Thinking about your recent appointment at the Inquisition, how would you rate your overall experience? Jeanne sighed. Having spent hours in chains, on trial for blasphemy, wearing men’s clothing and hearing fake voices, how did she rate her experience? ‘Merde alors,’ she thought, remembering she’d left her aunt’s pen on her uncle’s bureau. She logged in. With the patience of a Saint, she inserted the damned one-time passcode and clicked. You’ve given a rating of 0. Would you like to give a reason for your score? ‘Right’ she muttered and began to type. ‘My experience before this kangaroo court, disrespected and gaslighted by Henry VI Part One’s entitled, misogynistic Francophobes left me feeling devalued and traumatised.’ Seven characters remaining. ‘Misogynistic f***ing Francophobes’, she corrected. Honesty may not have been her best policy, as she was convicted of heresy, witchcraft and, most damningly, wokery. The firelighters were readied.
David Silverman
Beef when times were good, horse when bad, tinned snook when worse than bad; so they fared on that wagon train to Oregon, spring of 1875. Their leader, MacGraw, whistled Alma Cogan songs to elevate spirits, though seldom efficaciously. The services of disgraced surgeon barber Watterson they had during such hours as he could be kept from his supply of Quaaludes. The womenfolk busied themselves at the mending of their mostly nylon clothes, the chary doling out of Haribo to such of the children as sickened with Spanish ’flu, the slow completion of crosswords from the tabloids. The men took turns watching for Injuns, biplanes, twisters. Evenings, all sat exhausted, silent about fires from whose cavorting flames they construed scenes recalled from the classics, Seinfeld and Frasier. Oregon: they imagined it as they imagined Dubai, though replete with agrarian opportunities for the raising up of GM crops.
Adrian Fry
The sturdy longship lay, patient, by the quayside. The axes were sharpened, the barrels of salted fish stowed, the risk assessments completed.
‘To England!’ roared Magnus Bloodlust, the skipper: ‘To Plunder, and Glory, and a Vigorous Engagement with all Stakeholders!’
‘They won’t be holding their stakes where we’re going to stick ’em!’ cried Olaf the Odious, as he did every voyage. Laughing, the crew clambered aboard, some glancing away from Harald Iceblade, their finest warrior, who stood nursing his infant daughter and reflecting that there was a price to pay for paternity leave.
Freya Whitethroat, her face bright with the excitement of her first voyage, swung herself over the gunwale and into the greedy embrace of Olaf. As she struggled, he turned her face to the shining pathway of the fjord, and the dark sea beyond.
‘You will note, my dear,’ he croaked, ‘that the washroom facilities are entirely unisex.’
Nick Syrett
When April showers, forecast on TV,
delayed our pilgrimage to Canterbury,
an eating house, clept Hooters, we espied
beside a leafy glade where we could bide
our time in revelry and intercourse.
Unto a cycle rack each tied their horse
and entered Hooters, where a comely wench
cried: ‘Welcome! Here’s a menu! Take a bench!’
They served no grog, nor mead, instead a beer
of yellow hue, called ‘lager’, brought us cheer,
as did the serving maids, whose scant attire
set every male pilgrim’s heart afire.
Then came the food, beef patties sheathed in bread
and Frankish fries. Upon this fare we fed
until the rain abated for the day
and GPS could guide us on our way.
Paul A. Freeman
No. 3396: Beautiful word
You are invited to submit a poem that endeavours to romanticise ‘tariffs’ (16 lines maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 16 April.
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