18 NOVEMBER 2000, Page 88

71 1 1 1 Y <1 1 1 7 : 1 - J

COMPETITION

The People's choice

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2162 you were given 12 words which according to a 'sur- vey' are among the nation's favourites, and invited to incorporate them in any order into a piece of prose.

A fax arrived for me at this office which simply asked, 'What is a muggle?' It was good to know that somewhere out there was someone still innocent of having read the Harry Potter books. A muggle can also, in slang, mean a reefer. J.H. Munro refers me to the OED for another meaning, tail, and I have had to take that on trust since I haven't got the multi-volume dictionary. Among the nation's favourite words which I rejected for the comp were 'onomato- poeia' and `supercalafragilisticexpialido- cious'. Count yourselves lucky.

The prizewinners, printed below, collect £25 each, and the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky is Thomas Braun's.

What is so hilarious about the word fuck? As a laconic expletive it does, I admit, sometimes escape even my own lips in moments of unthink- ing irritation. But I hope at least some Spectator devotees will agree with me that it should be used rarely and never printed. Dr Johnson deliberately omitted it from his Dictionary. It remains unsuit- able for home reading. No serendipity is required to find a happier alternative. Please show some compassion for your more sensitive readers, and leave the endless repetition of this stale and unprofitable expression to English football hooli- gans, Welsh rugby players from Jesus College, Oxford, irate down-and-outs in eleemosynary insti- tutions, surly muggle-smokers and unimaginative competition-setters in inferior weeklies such as

Hello! magazine. (Thomas Braun)

Jesus, thou art all compassion,/Pure unbounded love thou art.' Well, hello! There's serendipity for you. One could hardly hope for more than one rel- evant word out of 12 in the first hymn on the sheet, and straight away I home in on two. A good omen for the eleemosynary inter-church match after choir practice, from which both organ funds will benefit. Even our laconic choirmaster will play for the Lord — football of course, not quidditch, he being a muggle if ever there was one. But first we have to plough the fields and scatter the good seed — and if you insist on finding that so hilari- ous, Harry, you'd better fuck off and practise

penalty shoot-outs. (Alanna Blake)

My dear fellow-Americans' , you've heard my clever opponent say I'm laconic. Well, I sure as hell hope I'm a man of fewer words than he is. He claims to believe in serendipity. I say the voters aren't going to give him a fat chance. He disap- proves of what he calls eleemosynary giving — say, isn't that what we in this country call compassion? He likes to say hello to Jesus. So do many Americans. Me, I like to stay home Saturdays and watch football on TV with my kids. This little old opponent of mine thinks that is hilarious. Frankly, I don't give a fuck what he thinks. I've been called the Wisconsin wizard — I guess he's the Michigan mux e. (David Heaton) He that seeketh, findeth,' said Jesus, and how true of Scrabble, for there are times when, from seven random tiles on a rack, a wondrous word is conjured from the very borders of consciousness: pure serendipity! I glanced to see what word my octogenarian mother had tabled on the green chequerboard (metaphorical football field) of our Champions League match. FUCK. 'It's in your dictionary,' was Mother's laconic comment and she was right, for Chambers encompasses the coarse. But when, later, she tiled MUGGLE, she added, 'I hope it's in Chambers,' since she knew — and knew I knew — it wasn't. 'I'll allow it,' I magnanimously declared, 'as an act of compas- sion. Eleemosynary deeds begin at home!' Actually MUGGLE allowed me to smuggle on to the board my seven-letter word ending in S. `Hello, I seem to have won,' I cried in mock sur- prise, and Mother's face was a study. Hilarious!

(Jeremy Lawrence)

I wondered: could things get much worse? There was little hope of a train running, even on the emergency timetable's serendipity. A callous gov- ernment had crushed eleemosynary instincts by diverting spontaneous compassion from urgent beggars in the street to a distant telephone account. There might, somewhere, be garages able to sell petrol, though whether it was worth- while rushing home for the post-watershed televi- sion programmes that most nights seemed literal- ly fuck-all in postures varying from mutely lacon- ic to frankly hilarious was debatable. The pure magic dished up by Nigella had ended, to be replaced by a mere muggle. Football, of course, was cancelled because of flooded pitches.

But at last I reached home, sank down and poured a restorative whisky. Nothing more could trouble me — until the doorbell rang. Framed against lashing rain and broken branches were two eager young men. 'Hello,' they said. 'May we talk to you about Jesus?' (D.A. Prince) 'Hello! What's this?' exclaimed Warburton, usually so laconic. 'A muggling, by Jesus! A genuine tailed man! After looking round the world for one and giving up hope, here he is in my own home woods. There's serendipity for you. And what a fine muggle!' The man in the undergrowth sullenly swished his long thick tail. 'Ain't there no private place where a man can take out his tail for air and exercise without being laughed at?' You're noth- ing hilarious to me, my man.' Fuck off, why don't you.... Er, got any spare change?' Though a man of compassion, Warburton disliked this eleemosy- nary approach. 'Look here, I'm the chairman of West Spam Football Club. You're just the man we need. No regulations against manipulating the ball with your muggle, you know!'

(J.H. Munro)