COMPETITION

Critics' forum

Tom Castro

In Competition No. 1539 you were asked for a book review by a mismatched review- er.

It turned out that some of you found better matches than many a literary editor, for example, A.J. Ayer on the Bible. The most popular target was Orwell and the favourite reviewers came from Wode- house. There were two opinions of Animal Farm by Milne's Piglet.

Good ideas included Count Dracula on The Unquiet Grave, Jane Austen on Jake's Thing, A. Hitler on Gone to Soldiers by Marge Piercy (Basil Ransome-Davies) and Frank Bruno on The Lord of the Rings know what I mean? — (Sid Field).

David Heaton's review by Mr Jingle of Jeffrey Archer's A Matter of Honour en- ded: 'Can't put it down — as shopkeeper said when refusing me credit — never mind — one thing still puzzles me — meaning of title — why honour? — what honour? no matter, ha! ha!'

Commiserations, too, to D. Shepherd and Captain George Morgan, who sup- plied reviews of Whale Nation by an 'unreformed' and a 'reformed' Captain Ahab. Those printed below win f15 each and the bonus bottle of Château Can- temerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshe- tons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, London WC2, goes to George Moor.

Ye Clockwork Orange by Master Anthony Burgess (Nell Gwynn) Methinks this is a soure book and Master Burgess whom I wot not of and never did meet with in the playhouse but a naughty Puritan, for mirth lacketh here and my head was sore amazed. Yet of truth Master Burgess may be of those gentlemen of the Royal Society of an ingenious mechanick turn, and an orange of clockwork is a pretty fancy sith a lover were so disposed to present his sweetheart with soche a costlie trinket. For my part a true aromatick orange from nature's bough were more worth and heart-pleasing than such giddy favours. For this ye clockwork orange I do conceive to be apt sister unto that same apple Eve did eate. I did never preache before, God helpe me a sinner, but I like not this Devil's conceit of Master Burgess. For ye fruits of ye earthe, and ye orange over all, were given us with love by Love for love and delights. (George Moor)

Kenith Baker's Inglish Peotry Buk (Titel forgotn) (N. Molesworth)

Wel I bet K. Baker was a swotte at skool cos hee wares spekticles and onlie a swot wud be minister four edukashun AND cumpile a buk uv peotry.

This buk is full uv his opinytins in british histry, to, so hee must bee a histerical swot, by jingo! (Thisse is prity wity seeing how hee semes to bee jignoistick — bagges uv Rool Birtania and Wuns Moor In Two The Brick, Deer Frends — Yurrgh!) Bakker is notte orl bad, tho; in his potilical roll, hee suckseded in kepeing teechers on strikke (so no skool, see!) for wekes and wekes, so wee can praps looke with induglents onne the meny shortcumings uv this anthillogie uv otther menne's flours arranged by sed swot.

(I bet he wos trying to maek an impreshun on Misus Thacther.) Down wiv skool! GSCE stinkes!

(F. G. Robinson) O.K. reviews P.L.

Twelve Books in Verse — a Monstrous Field to plough, And thick with Alien Con6epts anyhow: Those Freaks that fetched up in the Wilderness - Bewildered less were they than I am now.

Who to their sole Temptation would succumb And, handed Life's rich Cake, choke on a Crumb, Who take the Fruit and let the Franchise go — Frankly, they seem to me a trifle Dumb.

And the All-Merciful unduly mean To leave the Sapient Serpent on the Scene; While Sequent Antics lead me to deduce Who strips the lowly Fig himself is Green.

Ah, my Beloved, when the Cup that cheers Glows in our Veins, and Song delights our. Ears, Let Pleasure reign, while this Depressing Stuff Sinks 'neath its own dead Weight, and disappears. (Cadence Braking) Animal Farm (Eeyore) This is a very depressing book. Not that I would expect anything else from a story about pigs. Untrustworthy animals, I have always found them, not remembering a chap's birthday. Not that other animals are much better. Especially bears. I daresay that young Piglet will be the same as these pigs when he grows up. If he grows up, I mean, and he doesn't get packed off to the slaughterhouse, like the poor old horse in this book. After all, a horse is a kind of relation, and I don't have many relations. Unlike Rabbit, for instance. I really felt for that horse when he was bundled off. I daresay it was his birthday at the time. (E. 0. Parrott) Animal Farm (Clarence, 9th Earl of Emsworth) I have been asked, as a chap who is regarded in the neighbourhood as having some knowledge of pigs, to review this book for the South Shropshire Gazette. I read it, all the way through. There's a picture of a Tamworth porker on the cover but inside, I fear, there's very little to interest the husbandman. The fellow seems to have only the barest knowledge of pig-keeping: seems to think pigs'Id thrive on whisky. I've tried it on the Empress and she didn't care for it at all. Baxter, my secretary, says the book's a scathing indictment of Bol- shevism and Connie says it's fearfully clever, so there must be something in it but it seems to me that the public want something more factual when they read about pigs. Still, the message behind it is sound: a farmer who mistreats his pigs deserves all he gets.

(Myfanwy Alexander)