What, moi, pretentious?

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 2302 you were invited to write a letter gratuitously exploiting an imperfect grasp of foreign languages.

As soon as this competition was set in stone, I began to have nervous doubts. Were my Finnish, my Urdu, my Swahili up to scratch? Was I capable of appreciating a joke in bad Dutch? Luckily you proved only mildly polyglot. So, strictly between entre nous, as my nanny used to say, judging was quite easy. Commendations go to Basil Ransome-Davies (Paris? Never again. Almost every back street is a pis alter') and Michael Holt (Tit of a feather in my capot anglais, hein?'). The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the case of Cobra Premium beer is Bill Greenwell's.

Mon cheri Tony, Scusi the quick nota bene, but you will be pleased as punch inello to hear that we have found the causus bella, viz. a WMD not far from Basra, and that's an ipso facto. It was right under our pince-nezs, and looked Like a pudding, but danke schone, it was easy to disarm, so it's una pavlova blanca, and you and amigo Campbell can rest a bit more cosi fan tutte in your beds. It's still under wraps, and everyone's been told that mutatis mutandis is the word.

The verb sap, according to the bombardiers, is that it was primus inter pares, and ready to discharge some ricin ad nauseum. It would definitely have upset the a la carte and destroyed the status quid pro quo. So the UN can, inter alias, put that in their weltanschaung and smoke it.

Hasta la visa, Jack.

Bill Greenwell Dear Molly, cara diva,

We were enchante de vous voir yet again on the bel etage of the Village Hall last Saturday. Bravo bravissima and encore! You were altogether prima in the donna role and everything about The Sound of Music was truly comme il faut. By the end of the soirée Matilda and [felt we had been on a veritable tour de force. The costumes and the mise en scene and, primus inter pares, your own fine performance were so wonderfully virtuoso one could almost smell the Bierwurst and the Eidelweiss. What next, we ask ourselves, may the village expect from your anus mirabilis?

Ralph Rochester Dear Bud, My new movie's fait acomplis at last. It's a pretty Grand Guignol — it's almost four hours long — but I'm sure you'll be able to release it tout court, every second being absolutely de rigueur. All along, I've entertained the vague idee fixe of directing in the sui generis tradition, treating of nothing less than life qua death. The source material looked a sine qua non — completely unfilmable, in fact — but we've turned it into a roman a clef sans togas. It's about this courtesan whose prima facie is her fortune but who loses her je ne sats quoi as her temps go from bon to perdu-shaped. Having committed a creme passionel that'll scare the living chutzpah out of you, she's redeemed by a CGI deus ex machina your kids'll adore! Is it commercial? Well, the Romans didn't say art gratia art is for nothing, right!

Yours, Martin.

Adrian Fry My dear Poppy, As your uncle, I feel there is a certain incubus on me to vouchsafe to you some of my tried-andtested verb saps, especially since you seem to be in something of a sine qua non at present with the powers-that-be. A priori, I'm saying, 'walk tall' or gesundheit, as the Germans keep reminding each other. For goodness' sake don't play the shy young maiden — the faute demure is invariably disastrous. No, wrap yourself in a cloaca absolute maxima, make a bonne bouche, and everybody will regard you as being, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion. You're a sophisticated young lady, so impress them with your avoirdupois. And a dash of eau de nil desperandum wouldn't go amiss!

A ben trovato, Uncle J.

PS. Keep an eye out for sneaky foes — remember the snake in the grass, not to mention larvae en rose.

Webster Ma chere frere,

Greetings. Buenas notches. Comment vous appelez-vous? Thought you'd like to hear about our vacances in la belle Scotland. Achtune! Do not go there! It would be a size seize faux pas. Your hausfrau might turn into a femme fatale. Pluie and souffle all the time. Quel horror. Where the Scotch get this reputation for tourism°, le diable knows. It takes all one's sangfroid to cope with the bloody cold hotels (oops! pardonnez moi le pun.) And let indigenes! Sacre tartan! Easier to frat with the tourists — there are more of them anyway. You cannot put un pied a terre in Princes Street without hearing francais and deutsch and all let autres Euros. Honestly, bwana, you and your memsahib would be better to stay chez vous in Southend — or Sudfin as one might say. At least you comprenner the lingo. Bonjour for now and chow!

lanna Blake Dear Jaspistos, Wie gchts, mon vieux? Como esta? For moi, it's definitively eureka time: a sudden, epiphaneia. Tempus fugits, they say, and they're right. 'Nae man can tether time or tide,' as Rabbi Burns reminds us. So que faire? 'None est bibendum,' do I hear you cry? ca va sans dire, naturellement. Carpe diem before the weltschmerz kicks in. We've survived the fin de siecle. Now for some jollies to pate our old friend anno domino, because (let's face it) what's next? Quien sabe? Lots of sturm and a fair amount of drang, for a bet. Ergo, it's the geistzeit for me. Sick transit, all too soon. Che sera sera? Maybe. You can't kick against the pricks but you can go down fighting. So here's to the plaisir principle. Et toi, mon brave? Some amuse-gueules on the roller-coaster of pure hedonism. Evita brevis, remember? Et enfin? Morituri te salutamus, y muchisimas grassias!

Watson Weeks

No. 2305: Show me your leader

The last 'leader' in a newspaper is traditionally frivolous and dandyish in style. You are invited to supply one (maximum 150 words) on one of those perennial English subjects, cricket or the weather. Entries to 'Competition No. 2305' by 28 August.