In Competition No. 3142 you were invited to supply a review on TripAdvisor that has been spiced up with a number of misprints.
You saw this challenge for what it was: a brazen invitation to lower the tone. Take this snippet, for example, from Brian Murdoch: ‘The only problem we had was that I had taken my tablet, but the wife never seemed to function in the bedroom, so if I wanted to get on to the pet I had to go into the pubic areas downstairs.’ And Mike Morrison: ‘Constant hot waiter on top in each room.’
But while most went the full oo-er-missus! there was the occasional respite from the relentless innuendo. Here’s Max Ross, on the charms of Edinburgh: ‘Or stay above ground and follow the Royal Mice to where Scotland’s big cheese sits in splendour. The Parliament building resembles an upturned chip and when you see it you know you’re in Hollywood.’
Alan Millard’s Mrs Malaprop-inspired entry, also infused with a more gentle humour, is among those to scoop the prizes. He and his fellow winners take £30 apiece. Dishonourable mentions go to Adrian Moss and Tracy Davidson. And hang your head in shame, Basil Ransome-Davies.
I wish I could report favourably on our weekend at the Farter’s Arms, supposedly a quiet rural inn. Unfortunately the night of our arrival was Quim Night, obviously with grand prizes for the winners because it very noisy with much coming and going. And I have to report that at breakfast the next morning the Freud eggs were hard. Who is the cock here? Not a trained parson, that much is obvious.
On the plus side, my wife and I certainly enjoyed wanking in the local hells, where we got our bots muddy and felt the wind in our faeces. Cops were feuding contentedly in the pastures, dicks were abundant by the river and we offered tit-bits to the friendly whores peering over a hedge hoping for a nipple.
All else was bad and the owner strikes me as a corporal type rather than a real farter.
Little Splinter Hell was a real bind for our Old Girls Weekend! Sir Jasper, the village squirt, had shot and hung all the peasants we had for dinner and his harming wife had personally butchered the workers that had given their all for the marvellous breakfast sausages. Sir Jasper soon seduced Bizzy Wiggins (Nightingale 1972) to tears of hilarity with tales of his service as a capstan in the Royal Marinas over the sin and tonics, and the slaughter was so infectious that we insisted on roasting our hosts in front of their log fire. No one met the famous Headless Norseman but terriers were everywhere and Sir Jasper’s smelliest old boarder insisted on climbing into bed with me! The Hall is in ecclesiastical style and our architectural ache Lumpy Latimer (Countless of Effingham 1975) was astonished by our hostess’s vaulted chancel and enormous, baroque arse.
With the spread of coronaryvirus, restricted air fights, cruise ships rife with inflection and the need to self-insulate, moor and moor people are choosing to seek solitude here at home. For those wanting peace far from the maddening crowd, where better to take a break than the tiny hamlet of Oare, tucked quitely away in the breathtaking gory of Exmoor. On sunny days you could travail on foot through the Doom valley admiring the sheep or picnic at Robber’s Bridge and enjoy a piddle in the stream. If it rains you can shelter in the 15th-century crutch of St Mary and see the window through which Craver Doom fired a pullet at poor Lora standing at the altar.
For wide open spaces to wander at will and so much to see away from the globetrotting thongs and potentially fatal melodies, nowhere beats Oare for a wholesome, heathy vocation.
The Hotel Splendide is hard to be at if you want a relaxing break. When you arrive, the first thing you notice is the receptionist’s wart and cheesy greeting. In fact all the staff seem to have the same funny disposition. Our rooms were tight and awry with rather clamorous decor. Beds absolutely state-of-the-ark. In the en-suite the taps are all cold and the size of the bats is awesome. Outside, the kids were in their element splashing in the lovely poo.
For some, the grand dining room might be a tad OUT. But we were impressed with dinner-ladies in their finery and men in formal dregs. The menu was superb offering great food accompanied, naturally, with terrific wind. Breakfast could be anything from smoked cod’s rot to a classic full English fro-up.
As I said at the start, for me the Hotel Splendide is quite simply unbearable.
Follow in the footprints of Prince Hairy and visit Vancouver Island. Get to know the delights of Canada by staying in a special hovel, perhaps the Temptress with its teasing blue pull. Walk into the dining room and the beautiful leather-bound men, temptingly placed on your table, will offer you delights undreamt of; just take your prick and stay as long as you want.
If you can bare to leave you can have nature in all her diversity in famous gardens offering a bun dance of flowers. In the evening, if the attractions in the dining area were insufficient for your tourist curiosity, then your erection may be for wife tasting. This, when tried, will make you want to come a second time and of course every wife has something sweet or naughty to offer, whatever you prefer. You will want to love here.
No. 3145: Anniversary clerihews
Later this month The Spectator will publish its 10,000th issue. To mark the occasion you are invited to compose clerihews on its contributors over the years (Graham Greene, Auberon Waugh, Hilary Mantel, Jeffrey Bernard, Jaspistos…). Please email a maximum of four entries each to email@example.com by midday on 15 April. NB. We are unable to accept postal entries for the time being.