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COMPETITION

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Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1733 you were in- vited to use heroic couplets to present a satirical portrait of a contemporary politi- cian from any country.

The two best single shots in the gallery, apart from the prizewinners' successful fusillades, came from D. A. Prince and Geoffrey Riley:

Lord Archer! — shouts ascend from town and shire To show how all the country loves a squire In whom both politics and literature Combine in fertile, heady, rich manure.

and, after the Danish referendum: Minuscule tyrant whom half Europe loathes,

Emperor of Europe, where are now your clothes?

The winners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to Peter Norman.

The earth hath naught to show that's more absurd Than the urbanity of Douglas Hurd, Whose blandishments would make a third world war Seem some remote, inconsequential bore.

'I don't think one should get worked up about This kind of thing,' he'd say. 'We'll sort it out.'

Likewise, in that uniquely testy voice, He would describe the Tory Party's choice Of Genghis Khan as leader as 'a small, Internal difficulty — I think that's all.'

When Hurd's own bid for leadership was beaten (Because, of all things, he was sent to Eton) We lost the chance of having for PM The tight-lipped author of this kind of gem, Who'd show, even while putting out the cat, The guarded polish of the diplomat. (Peter Norman) Behold the Euro-hero, demiurge Of Western values, barbarism's scourge.

Behind the florid face and rhetoric, What agitates Le Pen? What makes him tick?

One-eyed and maty, convex as a vrac,

He roars out hate, and hatred echoes back.

The soldier with a poker up his arse Can galvanise the frightened middle class By cursing immigrants and baiting Jews Or preaching blood from Paris to Toulouse.

Strike up the MarseilimSe! Unpack the gun!

Release the bigot hordes to rage and run And act out frenzied dreams, until they find

It's their position that's been undermined.

When that day comes, be certain that the French

Will rig a tumbril for their Ubermensch.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) When Ferdy died and you were left to fight For what both you and he considered right, You soldiered on towards those mystic views, A pilgrim with a thousand pairs of shoes.

Thanks to your foresight, up and up they mount, Those dollars in an Alpine bank account, And, keeping step by step by them, you choose The newest of a thousand pairs of shoes.

You were not one to linger idly by, But like an eagle swept across the sky, Joined in the battle, did not count the cost; And if a cruel fate decreed you lost, One sweet memorial you'll never lose: This woman had a thousand pairs of shoes.

(Richard Blomfield) Lamont, sir? No one's poodle, more a pug: Plump, oleaginous, cherubic, smug, See how he fawns on all the Brussels heels, Enjoying dinners in exchange for deals, And smirking when he should be making war Against Napoleonic Jacques Delors. In South America, the two-toed sloth Hangs upside-down all day to foster growth; So Norman, standing facts upon their head, Turns sinking trends to buoyancy instead. How gleefully this Mister Half-per-cent Cuts interest rates, as though on pleasure bent. Alas, he is no Minister of Fun, Whose all-consuming interest's number one, Who acts the part of bluff, determined Norman In hopes of being, one day, ermined Norman.

(David Heaton) You can't dislike a man who isn't there, One of a crowd of grey suits and grey hair; Who with a wap-box and a social charter Made Kinnock's red rose a complete non- starter; Who got our votes like money for old rope, All softly, softly spoken, soft as soap; A nice, kind, caring man — at our expense Who pours forth a remorseless stream of sense; Who sees as far as streetwise sight allows, Avoiding accidents and head-on rows; Who wants us all to be, like him, at ease, Watching some cricket, grinning, if you please; Who's cast himself in the heroic mould Of Chamberlain and Baldwin, so we're told: All Europe's his, like Charlemagne's, estate, Whose name suggests he should be more than great. (Robert Roberts) Those weasel eyes that dominate the screen Belong to someone rich, and richly mean.

H. Ross Perot, the moral candidate, Lacks all the vices tabloids love to hate.

It's certain he has fathered no love-child, Sniffed no cocaine, nor run the least bit wild.

No bimbos whisper tales of 'five a day', And no sane man could ever call him gay.

Embarrassments arise from natural feeling: H. Ross Perot prefers financial dealing.

Now he campaigns successfully (and cheaply)

Because he knows America so deeply,

And in the face of riots and distress Can give full voice to small-town nastiness.

His is a carapace no passions dent - I give you Perot, the next President!

(George Simmers)