No. 512: The winners
Charles Seaton reports: Competitors were asked to use the ten given words in a coherent piece of prose. And in a passage which had to include comedy, watchmaker and pulmonary perhaps `coherent' was the operative word. Strictly speaking, none of the words should obtrude from its context. A review of a stage comedy one of whose characters was a watchmaker with chest trouble struck me as far too easy a way out. Vera Teller confessed that the com- petition was not her cup of tea but made a very respectable brew all the same and gets an honourable mention.
Most prizeworthy were those entrants who concocted passages which did not strain one's credulity too far, such as Tim Rice (who wins five guineas): After the comedy of Miles's innings came the tedium of Bindon's. Bindon withdrew into his shell, doubtless wondering how Simpkins got so much bite from the pitch. But his reflections did him no good—after thirty boring minutes Simpkins bowled him with a ball that broke viciously in a patch of dust. We were watching another of those crashes that distinguish Bat- shire's batting these days. At ninety Simpkins v.-ooed Bennett out of his crease and Levy stumped him. With the accuracy and patience of a watchmaker dismantling a complex time- piece, Simpkins continued his havoc. Rainer was leg-before; Lyons watched with incredulity as the ball spun off his bat to slip. Simpkins's success had fired Robinshire with new ardour— the fielding became dazzling.
Then came the rain—in sheets. Simpkins had defied doctor's orders (his pulmonary trouble again) in playing; ironically, he might as well have stayed in bed.
Brian Allgar sent in a very plausible piece of pseudo-Nabokov which earns him three guineas:
Our room in Hank's Motel, scene of impending comedy, was still being purified by the resident cleaner, who glared at our reflections in the cracked mirror as she flicked dust from it, and shambled out with several malicious crashes of her bucket and brush.
This, then, was the moment to which my machinations led. I flattered myself that I had wooed my adorable nymphet so delicately, like a watchmaker winding a fine spring, that she was unaware of my lubricious designs. Imagine, gentle reader, my delight and incredulity to find my ingenuity rendered superfluous by her un- solicited ardour! Indeed, she was devastatingly forthright in her demands, and in a trice hog- gish Humbert and lithe Lolita were entwined between the sheets. Alas ! Virtue was unwillingly triumphant; my attempts to fulfil our mutual expectations resulted in an immediate and agonising pulmonary spasm, and I fell back, gasping, in humiliated and disappointed rage.
A further three guineas goes to Mrs B. Brocklesby for what seemed the best of the other derivative pieces.
The words, incidentally, came from the Pre- lude to Meredith's The Egoist and their source eluded everyone.
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