COMPETITION

Misappointed man

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1999 you were invited to supply an extract from the diary of a misappointed man — one suffering in a job which is utterly unsuited to his talents.

W.N.P. Barbellion (the initials stand for William Nero Pilate) was the pseudonym used by Bruce Frederick Cummings, a young naturalist dying of an incurable dis- ease who published The Diary of a Disap- pointed Man in 1919. Dying he may have been, but some of the passages are electric with life: 'I like express trains and motor lorries. I enjoy watching an iron girder swinging in the air or great cubes of ice caught up between iron pincers . . . I like everything that is swift and immense: London, lightning, Popocatapetl. I enjoy the smell of tar, of coal, of fried fish, or a brass band playing a Liszt Rhapsody . . . Civilisation and top hats bore me . . . I could eat all the elephants in Hindustan and pick my teeth with the spire of Strasbourg cathedral!'

Back to earth again. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to John Phillips for his inner news from outer space. Thurs 1835. Over Mongolia. No oxygen again! Upright broke loose; ruptured rebreather feed. Control sound tense. Boris and Cal whistle when I practise. This 'Music in Space' concept isn't working. Dinner: apricot and scallop lozenge; tin of Chilean sauvignon. Travels badly.

Fri 0030. Still Mongolia. Must be huge. Space- nappy self-releases into nightsuit. Get messy catching bits.

Fri 0830. Might be Tibet. Who cares? Boris orders me to fix garbage digester. Mutters, 'You may be gone some time.' Why send the musician? Suspect Prof. Lupanski's motives for volunteer- ing me. 'The only Grade 6 interested in gastron- omy'. Should have stressed my bowel problem. Fri 1200. God knows where. Suit up reluctantly. What about first Schubert recital from orbit? Art means nothing to these people.

Fri 1615. Mission aborted. Cal misassembled life-support pack. Twice! Control unconcerned. Dinner: mulligatawny (polystyrene flavour); car-

damom ice-cream. Difficulty sleeping — spicy foods make me flatulent. (John Phillips)

Tuesday: Josh, the human resources coach, says that I must be 'a people person'. Tell him I'm a misanthrope. 'Then wear your rubber gloves,' he says. I think only of Granada. Who is Big Mac? Wednesday: I'm convinced that Big Mac is a drugs dealer. As I gather the discarded polystyr- ene utensils, I hear youths calling for him urgent- ly over the counter. I weep for my lost research grant. My pince-nez fall into someone's coleslaw. Thursday: Josh asks about my last 'job'. 'A thesis on Moorish mosaics,' I reply. He looks thought- ful and moments later I'm dressed as a clown and bearing a sign stating 'French Fries — so moreish!' Did he mishear me? Friday: Big Mac has an accomplice called 'Chicken' McNugget. I imagine a Blind Pew, scrawny and fungus- skinned. Horrified to discover, after careful observation, that most of the customers are English. Yet the cuisine is American, I'm sure.

(Nick Syrett)

Monday: Loathe the pet shop more each day, but a poet must live. Gave strong worming pills to rabbits in absent-minded fit, vet called. Every- one eyeing my scar — barred from handling guinea-pigs now. Owner tetchy. Tuesday: Ode just going well when dizzy redhead came in. Was it true, she asked, that all ginger cats are toms? Tried to find out for her, got horribly scratched. Blood dripped onto groundsel, seemed to turn canaries hyperactive. Ode ruined. Wednesday: Scrawny woman in again, twenty minutes to buy hamster wheel. How can I sustain creative flow like this? Cursed her between gritted teeth, for- got parrot nearby. Bawled out for insulting val- ued customer. Thursday: Stick insects escaped while my mind on villanelle. Stumbled while retrieving them, fell on squeaky toy pile, owner very sour. Tried to calm myself by reciting Housman. Peed on by tortoise. Rang Job Centre

for fresh interview. (Chris Tingley)

The art of prestidigitation has always fascinated me. Mother declared the eggs I broke during childhood whilst striving to improve my sleight- of-hand skills would have made an omelette gar- gantuan enough to figure in the Guinness Book of Records! Careerwise I had no choice. For me, cliché-stuck, there's no business like show busi- ness, although it's never been easy. My doves are uniquely free-spirited, their flying and bowel movements both often contributing a certain erratic zaniness. Disappearing assistants reap- pear with delightful inappropriateness, or more hilariously, not at all. Although my career has mainly been one long one-night stand, due to the reluctance of unimaginative managements to offer extended runs, a new cult following beck- ons. Why else last evening at the Muddlewich Working Men's Club, before an admittedly

sparse but lively audience, were inaugural musi- cal honours accorded to my act with an ebullient rendering of 'There's only one Tommy Cooper'? (Chas. F. Garvey)

Captaining a submarine plays havoc with the nerves, and my nerves have never been up to much. Even now, sitting in my cabin in a comfy cardy Aunty Irene packed for me at the last minute, Uncle Norman having reported it to be a bit parky off Jutland the last time there was a spat on, I can feel a bit of a migraine coming on. Although I'm Captain, I really can't get used to giving orders. Every time I give an order, I can hear Mam saying, 'Don't be so forward, who d'you think you are?' So I end up asking the men if they'd mind terribly if I made a little sugges- tion about what we might do next. And they don't like that, saying there'll be no time for manners when we come up against a conflict sit- uation. But if that's the case, what are we fight-