COMPETITION

No. 560: Royal flush

'She is just a marvellous person and a wonderful mother . . . she has a marvel- lous sense of humour and is terribly sensible and wise . . .' Prince Charles's agreeable compliments to the Queen, in the course of his television interview, prompt speculation about how royal per- sonages of earlier times might have alluded to their families, or indeed how they might have expressed themselves on any topic, had they been able to appear face to face with Messrs Michelmore and Connell on the TV screen. Competitors are invited to supply illuminating extracts from the tran- script of any such royal grilling of the nineteenth century or earlier. Maximum, 100 words; entries, marked 'Competition No. 560' by 18 July.

No. 557: The winners Charles Seaton reports: As Land of Hope and Glory and Rule Britannia are being

dropped this year from the programme on the last night of the Proms, readers were invited to write the opening lines of a new national song more in tune with the spirit of the times. A popular competition and a good entry.

H. A. C. Evans earns three guineas tor his song: Land of Pot and Protest, Hash and LSD, Op and Pop and Freak-out, Mobs at LSE, Forward, then, with Tariq, Let's all take a trip, Join the march of Malik, Soul-mates, let it rip.

Make this square old country With it, swinging, hip.

G. J. Blundell's lines go with a good swing :

Come, heads down, my lads, to perdition we steer To lose something more in this damnable year!

Rotten planks are our ships, wisps of straw are our men.

We're always unsteady!

Ready, boys, ready!

We'll throw up the sponge, lads, again and again.

Two guineas to him and also to Lt-Col W. F. N. Watson for the following neat piece of verse: Did not those feet in ancient times Tread upon England's working-class; Did not the bosses ride roughshod, Exploiting working men for brass?

Give me the coupons for my pools, Give me a brace of toilet-rolls; With half a chance I'll down my tools, To watch United scoring goals: We will not cease from wildcat strikes, Nor shall our work be worth our salt, Till we have brought our motherland, This England, to a grinding halt.

Honourable mentions to Rupert Jackson, Eileen Tulloch, Peter Peterson, Edward Samson and Dr R. L. Sadler. But the first prize of five guineas goes to J. M. Crooks with his Spring-Rice: I owe to thee, my country, all earthly things I've got, Entire and whole and perfect, thy taxes take the lot.

The tax that's laid on smoking, on every drink or bet, That makes our life worth living, or helps us to forget.

The tax that's laid on income, till I can't pay the price, The tax that leaves me bankrupt, the final sacrifice.

And there's another bankrupt—my country and my home, Most poor to them that know her, most weak to every Gnome.

We may not count her armies, she can't afford the cost, Her Castle isn't what it was, her pride is almost lost.

And soul by soul and silently, her millionaires in grief Remove their wealth to other lands, the lands of tax relief