COMPETITION
Sick joke
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 2106 you were invited to provide a prose narrative with the above as a title, incorporating at least 12 words or phrases normally associated with hospitals, but using them in a non- medical sense.
Fifty years ago I worked for a year at Guy's Hospital as a porter — probably now called a 'mobility facilitator' — and this comp brought memories flooding back, including having watched from a specta- tors' gallery the first 'blue baby' operation. Competitors did pretty well considering the limited number of two-meaninged words available. Thank you, Tony Joseph, for inventing a train route from Bedford to St Pancras known as 'the Bedpan line', and a salute to Chris Tingley for his last sen- tence: 'Vet be blowed,' the man answered. 'I'm a taxidermist.' The prizewinners, print- ed below, have £25 each, and the bottle of the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Fergus Porter.
Headquarters for Operation Uplift was a cottage where plaster flaked and tiles admitted a drip of rain. Dr Pierson, the marine archaeologist, demanded an explanation for my appearance there. I said that I had been invited after he admired my organ-playing. He seemed satisfied and I was introduced to his ward, Daisy, his sister's child. 'Daisy begged to watch the opera- tion', he said, pointing to the bay, 'Behold our theatre for today.' When Daisy protested that she could not see, Pierson said briskly, 'Stand on that chest,' softening sufficiently to stroke her hair. Then, extracting several diagrams from his case, he explained how, between the giant winch and a sling, the recovery of the Gorgon from the sea-bed would be effected. After six hours' patient observation, the Gorgon duly broke sur- face. After six hours thirty seconds, however, as the sling broke, it vanished again. 'Wrong kind of water', explained Pierson.
(Fergus Porter)
It took Millington a while to find out how the art world operates. His first exhibition consisted of blank sheets of paper, blank canvases, and blank video screens. Entitled 'Work in Progress', it was butchered by critics as clinical and sterile. His second — piles of horse manure shaped like police helmets — was called 'Law and Ordure', but was ridiculed for its benign treatment of the theme. Finally, after further patient examination of the market, he found a vein of material truly his own. He ate a large, colourful fried breakfast, drank two pints of porter and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing, then vomited the lot into a bowl. He covered it with film and labelled it 'I threw up everything to become an artist'. At last he was a critical success. Since then the growth of his fame has been phenomenal. Already Omnibus are sniffing around, they say.
(W. J. Webster)
My sister's ward, Simon, hasn't led what you'd call an orderly life. Tried this and that; can't chart the details but ... disaster. We tried to infect a hit of common sense into the lad, a pointless operation really. Anyway he nurses thespian ambitions. 'I'd do anything to act,' he tells us. Then, lo and behold, the Estonian National Theatre holds auditions and suddenly Simon's employed. An actor, would you believe! Quite good, too. We see him as Long John Silver. He's given it the full treatment: parrot, voice, stance. And then it dawns on us. The ENT have had his leg amputated. You've got a lot of bottle, we tell him, but where's your future?' I become a spe- cialist', he says, 'unijambs."It's an outrage,' I say. 'They can't do this. Where's your contract?' I examine it. Unless it can be declared invalid, he hasn't got a leg to stand on.
(Gerard Benson)
I caught a faint whiff of smoke from the fourth- year common room. Black stools, borrowed from a science lab, were lying overturned, some with bro- ken legs. 'Who's stolen my bleeding gum?' Marjory Scrubbins was shouting. 'Language!' I said. 'I'm here to check up on the smoking situation. 'We've no fags to spare, sir', Morris quipped. 'Very funny! You'll have me in stitches. So who's been gouging holes in the wall and sticking plaster in the bin? Was it you, Morris?' Sirr he replied with mock indignation. 'How could someone like you with such a kind heart attack an innocent like me? Are you nursing a grudge after the staff defeat at foot- ball last week?' Morris knew he could ward off my irritation with his amusing repartee. Others might boil with anger, but I had learned to be patient with this self-appointed leader.
(Frank McDonald)
The temperature in the greenhouse was uncom- fortable as my sister took me in for observation of her specimens. It was my first visit since the acci- dent at the traction engine rally. There had been no funeral. I understood Sebastian had been cre- mated. Eliza's primary care had been to secure the ashes. Next to blood and bone, she said, they were the best top dressing for orchids. The purple kidney-shaped blooms with their irregular black smears dangled ominously from their special raised bed. Perhaps we could bypass the prelimi- naries, I suggested, and proceed to the practicali- ties. My sister removed the waterproof sheeting. With a deep breath, I swiftly took the requested photograph of orchids and tablet. 'SRN', it said (his surname was Nelson. I never discovered what the R stood for) '1944-1999 RIP.'
(G. Maraith)
No. 2109: Hudibrastics Samuel Butler's Hudibras was a comic poem in octosyllabic couplets famous for its ingenious rhymes, some of them 'femi- nine' e.g. bantam, phantom. Off you go, rhymesters. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to Competition No. 2109 by 28 October.
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