In Competition No. 2766 you were invited to submit a poem about a phobia.
John Samson’s account of what strikes me as a perfectly reasonable fear of Ikea flatpacks stood out in what was another cracking entry. Bill Greenwell, Brian Allgar, Josephine Boyle and W.J. Webster also shone.
The prizewinners are printed below and rewarded with £25 each; Alan Millard takes the bonus fiver.
I have no need to dig or dive or delve Into the root or cause of my malaise, The legacy of London 2012 Will mar forever my remaining days; I fear those hostile promptings: ‘Let’s rejoice And follow in the footsteps of the best! Embrace some taxing torture of your choice And join the joggers, gymnasts and the rest!’ Now terror fills my breast when I behold These horrifying spectres flying past On trainers, skateboards, cycles, young and old, Whose frantic need for speed leaves me aghast. Oh, let me vegetate and drown in drink This dread of movement, moderate or aerobic, For ‘fear of motion’ is the mark, I think, Of how it feels to be kinetophobic. Alan Millard
This nudist camp is an idyllic spot, And so was Eden, site of man’s first sin. I’d like to venture out, but I dare not. Medorthophobia urges me, ‘Stay in!’
Outside my cabin window I observe All ages and degrees of pulchritude. What if I join them, and some toothsome curve Begets a lewdly upright attitude?
I’ve shed my clothes. I’m standing at the door. I’m trembling, lightheaded. My heart races, Fearing that firm friend I’ve been grateful for So often at less public times and places.
A layer of sunscreen is all I wear (I slathered it on thickly, didn’t skimp) As I inch out the doorway with this prayer: ‘Lord, I’m medorthophobic. Keep me limp.’ Chris O’Carroll
One thing made Henry mightily upset — The final letter of the alphabet. In algebra at school he’d start to cry If questions needed more than x and y. He couldn’t say or write the dreaded letter; Despite analysis things got no better. His garden boasted many a rose and dahlia, Yet never once a -innia or a-alea; A girl he loved the moment he’d first seen her, He promptly dropped on hearing, ‘Hi, I’m -ena’; A Francophile, he strolled the Champs Elysées, But steered well clear of A-navour and Bi-et; In Africa he toured from Chad to Gambia, Though not -imbabwe, -an-ibar or -ambia. His fatal fall led everyone to blame His failure to deploy a -immer frame. Roger Theobald
At seven, from the neighbouring room, News headlines first, then sure as doom, That tune presaging mental pain With jaunty chutzpah spews again Relentlessly from the machine. Vile ‘Barwick Green’.
Calm start. Jill plans the village fête — But still I hyperventilate. Salt sweat’s erupting from my brow Though it’s just Grundys burbling now About a cow.
But it will come, I know it will, That sound as screeching as it’s shrill, That sound my nightmares know too well. I hear the voice of Linda Snell. I am in Hell. George Simmers
In Alfred Hitchcock’s filmic prime He dealt in every kind of crime. All methods that unhinge or kill Were grist to the Director’s mill. He watched unblinking as the gore Ran swirling on the shower floor, And blood pours out without reserve Throughout his directorial oeuvre.
But one thing got to him: the sight Of eggs would turn him deathly white. That ovoid he could not abide, And thoughts of what might lie inside Would in his quaking mind invoke The plasmic white, the oozing yolk. It was his horror beyond words. And eggs, of course, are laid by Birds. Noel Petty
I’d gladly reveal what my phobia was if it paid to, it makes me feel sweaty and nervous just thinking about it. I haven’t been waiting in patience for ages to out it — the reason I’m not going to tell you’s because I’m afraid to!
I can’t see what telling the world here would serve as an aid to, Though clearly my life would be brighter and better without it. I’d gladly reveal what my phobia was if it paid to, It makes me feel sweaty and nervous just thinking about it.
The fact is I wouldn’t divulge it unless I were made to. For millions, yes, I admit, I would probably shout it, but would it be worth it for your extra fiver? I doubt it! (It’s hardly a topic I’d want to write some serenade to!) I’d gladly reveal what my phobia was if it paid to. G. Chadwick
No. 2769: what happened next
You are invited to supply the first paragraph/s (up to a maximum of 150 words) of the imaginary sequel to a well-known novel (please stipulate). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 17 October.
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