tivAS REV

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION

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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Come back, please

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1714 you were asked for an elegiac lament in verse for the lost pleasure of your choice.

A marvellous entry. Thank you. The list of your lost pleasures makes a kind of prose-poem: trams, florins, dickeys and starting-handles, collarless shirts, the AA man's salute, sugar mice, B films, the Bournemouth Belle, modest, baggy- shorted footballers, Granny's washday, the mighty Wurlitzer, the visiting baker's van, sonnets, sardine paste, Harold Nicolson's journalism, loon pants, orris root, fly- paper, silk stockings, Virol and, of course, proper breakfasts on proper trains.

The prizewinners, printed below, take £15 each (I'm sorry there's no room for more), and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Gerard Benson, who deserves to be sent also a pair of his dream socks — in different colours.

Let others mourn the Turkish cigarette, The wind-up gram, the muslin party frock; For me, nostalgia holds just one regret: The fluorescent sock.

My first lot were a present, bright and new, Brave in their cellophane and cardboard box, Magenta, orange, yellow, purple, blue, Those fluorescent socks.

They made one's ankles glow; that startling inch Between the trouser cuff and orthodox Suede shoe was guaranteed to make aunts flinch — Ah, fluorescent socks! My finest (those I wore with my DJ) Were neon-pink, with psychedelic clocks; They shone like fireflies. Where are they today, My fluorescent socks?

(Gerard Benson) Thick fog all round; the nearest trees have gone, And isolated on a viewless sea We lie becalmed; so, Put the kettle on, For heaven's sake let's have a cup of tea.. .

Back through the mist of years: the nursery fire, The brass-topped fender, and there, black with heat, Pure pleasure woven into twisted wire, The toasting-fork that promises a treat. . .

Forward again: a snowbound school in Kent Squashed round the staff-room stove, half- starved, still young -

Another slice before the bell — content Precariously purchased, bliss on the tongue Melting too soon, salty and rich . . . And now?

Guilt scrapes the grill-pan; or a waking ghost Walks through the teatime fog. Blow, trumpets, blow The last salute — the death of dripping toast! (Mary Holtby) The grip of spiralled brass; the serried holes Blazing with yellow-blue ignition jets That lit our fires and our cigarettes; The flattened blade we thrust among the coals, Its glowing outline like a hero's sword In Vulcan's tempering furnace, orange-tipped; The brick-red rubber hose that snugly gripped The chromium nozzle by the skirting-board . . .

This simple, pleasing, cherished paradigm Of everyday reliability Has dwindled to a poignant memory, A hazy detail in the fog of time.

We twiddle with our thermostats, and miss The music of its reassuring hiss.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)

I miss the Rover, and the 'tuppenny bloods',

The Wolf of Kabul and his cricket bat, The Greyfriars corridors, complete with thuds Where Bunter's being kicked because he's fat.

I miss the Ranger, Hotspur, Sexton Blake;

I see the Free Gifts tumbling from them yet; I miss their tales of violence that make Our sneaking videos seem awfully wet.

Ker-Splash! Another baddie's gone; The simple Britisher has won the game: A clear philosophy to ponder on, One that we needed when the battles came.

The battles ended, and the 'bloods' went bust, Leaving a world of strange complexity.

We need them back to cure our self-mistrust.

Who'd kick a bottom for the EEC?

(Paul Griffin) I wish to mourn the trading stamp, Of green or pink variety, Which once so stylishly adorned Our affluent society.

It came to life when Supermac Contrived to turn consumerist; It burgeoned with the advent of The well-known Huyton humorist.

But as recession supervened It flowered less abundantly, Until our half-completed books Lay mouldering redundantly.

And now that credit cards are rife And no one jibs at borrowing, The trading stamp has scant allure - Which moves my heart to sorrowing.

A. C. Bowden) The Sixties schoolgirl — mourn, if you remem- ber (Before the vision rolls down Memory Hill) Her uniform: from April to September A dress; a blouse and skirt for winter's chill.

Beneath this garb of alternating seasons In all alike, hearts quickened, bosoms swel- led; Under one sign, in each for different reasons, One magic spell of adolescence held.

A virgin grace enhanced the Christmas carol With breath of snow-white blouses in the choir; In spring, the patterned hems of crisp apparel Would both console and elevate desire.

Its charm could pacify a woman-hater, Cloak a Lolita or adorn a dunce.

What have we, thirty years of progress later, That's classless, pure and sexy all at once?

(Philip Dacre)