COMPETITION

Acrostic

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1821 you were invited to write an acrostic poem in which the first letters of each line spell out `MAJOR'S GOVERNMENT'.

Has the Spectator any real political influence? It looks like it. Among the hundred or so contestants in this competi- tion, hardly a man jack or woman jill stood up for the Prime Minister and his crew. W. J. Webster was one of the very few who left the question open:

Strophe: Minor and marginal, toenote to his- tory: Elections for Europe will point to the exit. Antistrophe: Normally nice and quite open, no mystery; Tides are for turning when no one expects it.

Well, Canute thought so, too.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and once again Noel Petty deserves the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky.

Mid-term, season of disquiet: Awful figures from the polls, Junior ministers run riot, Other ranks heap on the coals.

Randy rot from backbench scribblers, Secret use of housing powers. 'Gerrymandering', cry the quibblers. Odd: we thought the press was ours.

Venery crops up like daisies, Ending all pretence of tact. Rectitude can go to blazes: No one goes until he's sacked.

Ministers can't help what's happened — ERM, arms to Iraq.

No one's fault, old boy; chin up and Ten to one they'll vote us back. (Noel Petty) Much have I travelled in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen, Journeyed through history to lands of old, Out to the planets and the future scene. Rulers I've met of every shape and size: Serious Senators, gold-laden Tsars, Grand Matriarchs, dour Daleks of the skies, Overlords, tribal Chiefs, stern Commissars, Viziers, Sultans, Caliphs in their tents, Emirs and Nawabs, petty gods on earth, Reichschancellors, elected Presidents, New-fangled Eurocrats of little worth. Ministers, none the less, I never found Equal to these, in any place I went; Now in Great Britain, as I look around, This is the nadir — Major's Government! (Gill Ewing) Meet motorman Major, unlikely survivor As Torydom's magical mystery driver; Joyless his mission to pilot the coach Of his party through odium, shame and re- proach. `Right!' says Portillo, of caution bereft. `Steady!' adds Dorrell. 'A touch to the left!' `Go straight!' Tarzan calls. 'Leave the Left in the lurch!'

'Or better,' chirps Gummer, 'sharp right at the Church!' `VAT's up?!' chuckles Ken. 'Let's unite,' mur- murs Doug.

`Ecrasez ces scroungers!' shouts Lilley the thug. `Round 'em all up!' yells Howard. 'We'll take 'em to clink!'

`Now stop it! I know where we're going, I think. My vision,' cries Major, 'is clear from the front; Everyone must accept that from now on I want No turning aside from the route that I've planned.

(Though perhaps I should add, on the opposite hand . . .)' (Philip Dacre) Mediocrity's the word Applicable to him: Just a petty-bourgeois turd, Otiose and dim.

Real charisma's flushed away, Stuff and nonsense rule; Gone the magic, comes the day Of a boring fool.

Vapid clichés dribble out, Earnest, feeble, dense.

Rot and waffle's what he'll spout, Not an ounce of sense.

Maggie was a bitch supreme; Even so, she shone. Now we've got a dull wet dream. Thanks for nothing, John.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Maggie Thatcher's star was sinking As my own began to rise; Just the chance I'd always wanted Opened out before my eyes.

Right away I showed compassion, Showed my decency, and, yes, Gave a cry of 'Back to Basics!'

On the telly, in the press.

`Very nice,' they said politely, `Even sensible, but we'd Rather have a brutal bastard: Niceness isn't what we need.

Murder manners, Mr Major; Effort's needed, so is fire, Now that Britain's star is chasing Thatcher's own into the mire.' (Paul Griffin)