COMPETITION
Tricky ten
Jaspistos
In Competition No. 1549 you were in- vited to write a plausible piece of prose containing ten given words (with a hidden common factor).
About 20 of you spotted the common factor, including Mr James Friend, aged 13. The first correct answer I opened also happened to be the wittiest, so the fiver goes to Dominick Harrod for this pertinent communication: 'An erstwhile friend of James Thurber, with whom he played word games, in defiant mood challenged him to find another word including the letters "abc", "dabchick" being, Thurber claimed, the only example. There would have been much sighing by Mr Thurber and his fellow players at the examples in The Spectator such as "hymnology", "stud", "canopy" and "hijack". But it is calmness amounting to effrontery to sup- pose that top-quality word-play permits a hyphen in triple serial alphabeticism.'
Dabchick' and 'hymnology' were the major nuisances. Paddy Maher, Margaret Konrath, J. J. Webster, Stanley Shaw and P. I. Fell distinguished themselves in a large and sprightly entry. The prizewinners printed below have £15 apiece, and the bonus bottle of Château Cantemerle 1979, kindly donated by Asshetons, Solicitors, 99 Aldwych, London WC2, goes to Keith Norman.
Lately I haven't been finding life too amusing. Let's face it, it's a pretty second-rate world. I know I used to spout about 'this goodly frame, the earth' and 'this most excellent canopy, the air' and so on — just gas! This is no top-quality designer universe, believe me. There's a lot less in Heaven and Earth, lads, than is sung of in your hymnology. Life in Denmark feels like a hijack of a prison sentence; they've got you where they want you, and there's nothing you can do about it. But don't mistake my calmness for some kind of sighing. shrugging resignation. Deep down I'm angry, defiant even. And I've got my wits about me. I know a kite from a dabchick all right! I'm just fed up with man in general. Oh yes, and woman too! The erstwhile great stud of Elsinore just isn't interested any more. (Keith Norman) Although showing his customary calmness in the face of danger, Ranjit Gandhi admits as serious the trouble he is having with a defiant band of so-called Christians, aptly called the Dub- Dubis'. Dub-dubi is the Hindi word for dabchick and erstwhile residents in India will remember even top-quality marksmen sighing as these birds dived headlong into the water before their shots could reach them. In their most recent hijack several Dub-Dubis are now occupying the Maharajah of Udaipal's palace where, from under its silver canopy, they chant part Christian and — it seems — part devil-worshipping songs. They have also occupied the Maharajah's stud and held to ransom several of his most valuable sires. Their unlikely leader is the ageing Profes- sor Chan, spectral, sardonically smiling, who, though not himself a Christian, is an authority on hymnology and in his youth was both an amateur jockey and a first-class mrksman. (Laurence Fowler) `Hymnology. Of course!' Sighing, I laid down the completed crossword and contemplated my fiancee. 1 loved Linda for her simplicity, calm- ness and lack of guile, but sometimes hungered for my erstwhile secretary, a defiant and unpre- dictable slut. I still fancy myself as something of a stud, and possession palls. The train passed an ornamental lake where I noticed a dabchick snatching a crust from under the beak of a swan, then slowed beside the canopy of a little station, and my glance fell on a pair of legs, really perfect top-quality legs, which were descending from the antiquated footbridge. As the torso above them came into view the truth dawned. I couldn't marry Linda. I leapt up with I know not
what gabbled excuse on my lips. I had to follow and hijack the vehicle conveying those legs whether it proved to be a Porsche or a push- bike. (Jermyn Thynne)
'Welcome to the White House, a top-quality demesne.' The speaker, a Quayle look-alike, stood on a podium under a low stars-and-stripes canopy in front of the main entrance. Having greeted each of us by name, he then proceeded to give a jazzed-up rendition of 'God Bless America' — not, I'm afraid, part of my hymnol- ogy. Our host was the picture of sartorial elegance, his only disconcerting feature being a diamond stud embedded in one check. After coke and cookies, we were led on a tour of the building, our company of young and old hissing, sighing and grunting like an old steam engine. The commentary was strong on tittle-tattle. 'This is the room where the defiant Nixon prayed for an end to Watergate. . . this the guest-room of our erstwhile First Lady's astrologer, . . here Kennedy ordered the CIA to hijack one of Castro's cigar ships. . . little Amy Carter's "calmness room". . . a stuffed dabchick Ford
killed with a golf ball. . (John O'Byrne) 'Hymnology,' opined the Dean, slurping his Cola, 'needs to hijack the pop movement. Some top-quality group offering Ecstasy and Acid House in the Lady Chapel and you'd zap funding problems and bring in the kids.' He twirled a dreadlock and grinned. 'They don't call me the Defiant Dean for nothing!'
The Bishop sat silent, mourning for the erstwhile calmness of his study. His wife in fact, always referred slightingly to the Dean as the Demented Dabchick because of his silly habit of pecking at the latest idea floating past. Sighing inwardly, he gazed across the weedy cloister. Another gorgoyle had fallen off the canopy over the D'Elye tomb, felling an American tourist. Another insurance claim; the cathedral needed more money. Turning to the Dean, who was toying with his nose-stud, he struggled with a question.
'This Acid House,' he murmured, 'does it
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