Competition

No. 1050: Nobodaddy

Christopher Matthew's recently published Diary of a Somebody invites comparison with George and Weedon Grossmith's saga of the Pooter family. Competitors are asked for extracts from the Diary of a Present-Day Nobody. Entries to 'Competition No. 1050' by 19 February.

No. 1047: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: Competitors were asked for brief addresses to Melancholy occasioned by such mundane causes as train strikes or trouble with the neighbours.

Competitors' nets were widely cast and their doleful dumps were occasioned by such diverse causes as burst pipes (Keith Salvesen), an unsuccessful steak en casserole (Frances Rhodes), bunions (Helen MacGregor), riotous grandchildren (Pascoe Polglaze), Burns suppers (Dromore) and—perhaps the most to be feared of all of them — waking up each morning to face a new day (Edward Samson).

Too many entrants contented themselves with describing the immediate cause of their black humour, though Roger Woddis did it well enough to earn a prize:

Will the 8.20 take me all the way?

Yes, and round the bend.

And how long is the journey, would you say?

From morn to night, my friend.

And are there light refreshments on the train?

Refreshments? That's a laugh.

And once I'm there, will I get back again?

God, no, they're short of staff.

Shall I be seated? Will the signals fail?

A seat? You won't get in.

How are they packed, who go by British Rail?

Like sardines in a tin.

Do they reduce the service at the peak?

You're lucky if they run.

And will it be the same again next week?

Too bloody true, old son.

Closer to the traditional ode form were H. A. C. Evans:

Sweet Melancholy, aid my song Wherein I here rehearse the wrong Which brings me naught today but bitter woe Because the railway trains no longer go.

Once did I speed At need The city to and fro On eager wheels, the patient lines along.

But now, alas, I wait in vain On freezing platforms for a train While, like Tyrannosaurus, ASLEFs Czar Fights with the leader of the NUR.

Bp* Rs for me, I see No prospect, near or far, Of any end to this, our lethal bane.