.151%61.1 MALI 1(1,1701 WHAM
IMSLLI %ALI SCOMI 0115111
A fête worse than . . .
IN COMPETITION NO, 1864 you were invited to supply an extract from a local newspaper's account of a village fete in which there are at least a dozen risible mis- prints.
`Proceedings were opened by the village squirt, who got everyone into a baying mood' (G. M. Davis); 'The deaconess underwent the rigours of the ducking stool for over two pours before taking Drench leave' (David Barton); 'We were dully hon- oured by the presence of our MP, who shat effectively at the rifle range and was deservedly clipped by the onlookers' (Alanna Blake). Rustic comedy abounded; my great difficulty was to decide how gross a misprint a drunken rustic compositor might commit. 'Bizarre' for 'bazaar'? Surely not.
The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Kate Cottrell.
. won the clay-pigeon shoot. Few can equal Fred with a gnu. Major Crump, veteran of many bottles, captained his tug-of-war team to victory; they later gave a thrilling display of marital arts. (The re-run sick-race was won by little Debbie Dawes.) A flower-fairy ballet was performed in the rose-garden by pupils of Miss Potts' Dance Academy (looking like newly-blown noses them- selves). Applause broke out when, across the stream, Brownies appeared disguised as rabbis, and after hopping up and down on the little hump-backed bride, joined the others in an energetic navel hornpipe. A merry call on the bulge summoned us to the tea-tent, where a team of expert crooks had assembled lots of live- ly things to eat. All the raffles were popular, especially that for the bottle of malt whisky kind- ly donated by the Vicar's Sottish fiend. Altogether a successful day — we were lucky it was so funny. (Kate Cottrell) The Little Fiddling fête this year was marred by the presence of Lord Grimbly, who opened the proceedings in informal style, leaking against the vicarage wall. Lady Grimbly deceived all the guests, looking radiant.
In the absence through indisposition of the Vicar, who was deeply pissed, Mr Simkins the Curate proved unexpectedly randy given the equipment at his disposal.
The prize for the biggest leer was again won by Mr Jenkins, one of the best-known gropers in the village. Mrs Goldsworthy took the prize for the most accurate estimate of the quantity of lice in Mrs Purslove's capacious ear.
After these events had been fudged, Mr Simkins proceeded with the customary waffle, and a generous quantity of hash was collected for the Church Lads. Miss Cuthbertson nicked the winning number in the draw. (Noel Petty) The fête was graced by the presence of Lady Epsilon, who brought with her a lively little pong from her stables, much to the delight of the many youngsters who enjoyed being taken for rides in its crap throughout the afternoon. Fittingly, her ladyship — renowned as the acne of elegance herself — agreed to judge the boni- est baby competition. Remarking that God must have made rabies to reveal the true beasty of nature, she eventually licked young Bin Filler `for the sweat pimple in his chin'.
It was a lovely moment in a day ever blessed by summer sin, the hots of the ladies and the gentlemen in their skirts. In the words of Lady Epsilon when presented by the Vicar's wife with a posy of panties collected from local gardens, 'I treasure this symbolic tribute from an ancient village whore nothing seems to change.' (W.J. Webster) St Chad's fete, in aid of repairs to the hoof and isle, was as usual hell in the vicarage garden. Lady Windermere, who opened the fête, was greeted by a guard of honour of Sprouts in uni- form and presented with a bouquet of roses and anenemas. The weather was uncertain, but the arrival of a tight rower at three o'clock failed to dampen the happy moo. Madam Vicari, the cel- ebrated clairvoyant, read psalms and the farts competition was won by the Cruet. The ladies of the WI presided over the tea-tent; their home- faked spiked bums quickly disappeared. The proceedings ended at 6 p.m. when a small crow, accompanied by the choir, sang the National Anthem. Lady Windermere, who stayed to the end, thanked the Vicar for the best Jay she'd had in years. (P.D. James) The Revered Jones entered into the traditional spirit of apple-robbing, and announced the win- ner of prizes for the best contribution to the pil- lage. He also took part in the sack rape.
There were three hearty cheeks for the carni- val queer, before a display of fork dances. Station Master Thomas Carruthers (7) opene'd his mouth for a festive hymen, his solo vice delighting all who heard it. After wining the raf- fle Mrs Raine showed off. Her splendid picnic humper — everyone crowded round to congrat- ulate her on her tremendous duck.
The Red Bull team proved stranger in the thug-of-war contest. The exhibition of animal- fearing was a special teat. The wether was excep- tional, and everything went off without a hutch except for the rabbit race. The children had a new entertainment, thanks to the bouncy cattle lent by our good elves. (Bill Greenwell)
No. 1867: Club of Queer Trads
You are invited to write a poem (waspish or Dronish) commenting on the fact that lady members of the Oxford and Cam- bridge Club in Pall Mall are denied access to both the bar and the north library. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to 'Competition No. 1867' by 2 February.