For Competition 3372 you were invited to submit a prose-style mash-up of Jilly Cooper and another famous writer. The entries were very amusing, though a handful were a little too pornographic for publication. Some of you seemed regrettably unfamiliar with the works of Cooper while others seemed to err in the other direction. I anticipated a fair few Austen–Coopers and there were indeed several excellent examples – shout-outs to Janine Beacham and D.A. Prince for theirs. Also deserving of a mention: a couple of versions of Chandler-meets-Jilly (Mike Morrison and Basil Ransome-Davies), Brian Murdoch for his Cooper/Tolkien, and David Silverman, who brilliantly yet unprintably infused Jane Eyre with some essence of Cooper (‘Reader, I shagged him’). The following win £25.
Rupert Campbell-Black in jodhpurs. Rupert Campbell-Black out of jodhpurs. Jodhpurs. Bestriding the moist clefts of Cotswold valleys. Bestriding unattended wives. Caressing the warm, plump swell of Cotswold hills. Caressing pliant mistresses. A ‘sport’ of multiple entendres: naked on private tennis courts, private upon naked horseflesh, resplendent at Hunt Balls. Hobnobbing Conservative ministers, captains of industry, the regal, the rival. In pursuit, always, of beauties. Adjacent, always, to beauties. Atop, always, of beauties. Atop, should circumstances necessitate or fancy tickle, the still beautiful mothers of beauties. Throughout, insouciantly engorged by half–blushing, half-lusting gorgeousness. Veins throbbing as one Helen swoons. As another Beatrice yields. As a chorus of exotically named au pair girls pass between his muscular thighs. As a brace of illegitimate children germinate, unwanted. His stubble rough, his chuckle gravelled, his breath five-star-brandied. Virile as a stallion. Rupert Campbell-Black in jodhpurs. Rupert Campbell-Black out of jodhpurs. Jodhpurs.
Adrian Fry (Jilly Cooper and Gertrude Stein)
With nothing to recommend her apart from a voluptuous figure and a soft pillowy bosom, Fanny Jolly-Sort, drenched in Diorissimo, presented herself at the Rumpy-Pumpy room in Bath, seeking a well-endowed suitor. She was approached by a handsome gentleman, broad-shouldered with narrow hips and magnificently muscled thighs. He thrust something pink and tautly skinned at her: ‘Cocktail sausage,’ he said in throaty suggestive tones. ‘Oh how super,’ breathed Fanny, her nipples stiffening. He introduced himself as Captain Hardman of the Bonkshire regiment and they proceeded to engage in lively intercourse. However, on discovering that the captain was penniless, Fanny transferred her affections seamlessly to Mr Fitztightly-Wrightley, an erect personage who looked as if a large root vegetable had been shoved up his rectum. He was however in possession of a vast fortune and it is a truth universally acknowledged that romantic fiction isn’t about love. It’s about sex and money.
Sue Pickard (Jane Austen/Jilly Cooper)
In Millicent’s eyes, Fr Dominic had everything. At 22, he was tall, broad-shouldered and heart-stoppingly handsome. He was also curate at the third most important Anglo-Catholic parish in north London. A tea invitation had seemed daring, but as her sister Winifred entered the room with a tray bearing bread and butter, jam and a cake, Millicent felt relaxed, catlike. She had worn the new floral dress bought from Sloane St the week before. Were the short sleeves a little too obvious? Fr Dominic, if he had noticed, had not indicated anything to that effect, so she was unsure whether to feel vindicated or disappointed.
Either way, Winifred’s departure to do the washing up provided the chance she wanted. Millicent moved smoothly to the sofa, sat next to Dominic, lean-hipped and loose-limbed as a lurcher puppy, before placing her hand on his thigh.
‘I adored your sermon on Sunday,’ she whispered, breathily.
David Harris (Barbara Pym with a touch of Jilly)
OCTOBER 25. My dear Carrie startled me this evening, by reading to me from Horse and Hound. She said: ‘It says here that, once you know the trick, it is comparatively easy to extricate a gentleman from jodhpurs.’ In answer, I made an amusing remark, which by-the-by, had Carrie in stitches: ‘Shall we have a saddle of lamb this evening, or would you bridle at my tenderloin?’ How we roared, and removing our garments (in Carrie’s case, a bell-shaped skirt, and a most elegant straight-front corset), we repaired to the bedroom in The Laurels. Incidentally, she has filled our boudoir, as she calls it, with greenery. As Carrie, with an assiduity our maid Sarah would be wise to cultivate, removed my woollen trousers, I gazed at her array of plants, and essayed a further pleasantry: ‘Before we begin the first chukka, may I inspect your monstera deliciosa bush?’
Bill Greenwell (George and Weedon Grossmith with J.C.)
My kind master grew increasingly distraught, and one morning came dolefully with Belinda, his daughter, to explain that, being bankrupt, he must perforce sell Merrylegs and myself to Rupert, the local glamorous cad. With heavy hearts we accompanied a weeping Belinda to meet our new owner, a well-built, swaggering man. I felt unsure of him initially, yet he inspected me expertly and, sensing my nervousness, calmed my flank with a hand of notable gentleness.
I think that he must have sensed Belinda’s nerves also, for he began to soothe her likewise, and before long the two of them repaired to a corner of the stable. From what next occurred I gained a sense of how he might ride me in competition, going calmly in the first stretch, accelerating when I showed confidence, adjusting smoothly to new positions, and finally thundering home to an immense finish. ‘Golly!’ said Belinda, ‘That was super!’
George Simmers (J.C. and Anna Sewell – an extra chapter for Black Beauty)
No. 3375: Plum assignment
Since they went to the same school (Dulwich College), you are invited to submit an extract in which P.G. Wodehouse has a go at writing Raymond Chandler-esque noir (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 6 November.
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