No. 1253: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem either welcoming breakfast TV or heartily wishing it goodbye.

I shall not rise the moment dawn breaks To dine on Auntie's Capricornflakes.

Everyone, except for a few Selina-smitten fanatics, endorsed D. B. Woods's judg- ment. Still, 1 couldn't help wondering how many of those loudest in their denuncia- tions of the new programme might be found goggling' at it by the blow-heater, even using the screen as a mirror for last- minute combing or shaving. Myself, I haven't watched it yet and probably never will — what good is breakfast TV if you don't eat breakfast and would prefer it if life, let alone art, were black and white for an hour after waking? Still, I don't reckon that disqualifies me as a judge: the winners printed below are awarded £10 each, except for the last, who gets £5.

'People are so indecisive nowadays'. The room's a reeking wilderness of socks, And restless lice maraud among my stubble. I crush a roach and activate the Box. The picture lights up like a plastic bubble.

Oh God! The Old Gang, in each other's laps, Grin out like skulls from high-rent scarlet hide. A maniac appears with boring maps: He tells me what the weather's like outside.

The papers...traffic...time to shake a leg... What's this? It's double-jointed, lean and green!

I vomit cornflakes, coffee and fried egg In starburst patterns all across the screen.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)

A heavy dose of h6ary Frost, A wintry-looking Bough, Or early rain on fields and Rix And drops dRippon me now.

Great Scott! My Wit's on working bent, I can't afFOrd the time

To see if such dRoss holds the Key

To life's rich pantomime.

Give me a Friend for breakfast chat,

Or silent crossword quiz, But Grant a Christian burial To Breakfast Televiz. (V. M. Cornford) Two things at once are very pleasant In the doing, are they not? We all like to bag a pheasant And a beater, in one shot.

So we like to study linnets As we hide from the police, Or to dictate streams of minutes As we fondle Mrs Rees.

Only breakfast cannot take on Any more activity; Nothing goes with eggs and bacon, No, not even Robert Kee. (Paul Griffin) Locked in the great compound of Hell, The soul of Baird stares in his cell: Fit punishment to see the stuff Forever, screaming, `That's enough!'

Lord Reith, pure-winged and debonair Inhabitant of Heaven's air, Has grace's satisfied demeanour Relaying Bach and Palestrina.

The morning favours radio.

What need has man except to know Whether to wear a mackintosh?

Satan finds idle eyes for bosh. (George Moor) And so, 0 Box, I've come to it at last.

There are indeed no limits to Thy power: Thy will be done, the die is truly cast, This is in truth Thy finest (early) hour.

No peace attends me as I break my fast, My cup hath over-run and turneth sour.

It's Telly from the cradle to the grave, Thy dominance would never be denied, Thou madest me an addict and Thy slave, And robbed me of my sanity and pride.

This missive comes directly from the grave — This morning I committed suicide. J. Webster) O fair Selina, thou hast broke my fast And fervent vow to stay abed: affection Opens these eyes, so lately overcast, And justifies this premature erection. (P. M. G. Shiel)