COMPETITION

Prose or verse

Jaspistos

In competition No. 1577 you were asked for a piece of either prose or verse with a given opening.

I was playing golf the day That the Germans landed: All our troops had run away, All our ships were stranded; And the thought of England's shame Altogether spoilt my game.

As several of you were quick to point out, the source is Harry Graham, Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes. Oddly enough, I myself was playing golf when Chamberlain announced the declaration of war. Even more grahamishly, my father died in a bunker (not the Hitlerian sort). In a grand entry, verse preponderated heavily over prose, and my choice of prizewinners reflects the ratio. A special pat on the back for some irregulars and newcomers who performed particularly well: C.H. Lobel, Paul Wigmore, Gustave Warwick, John Phillips, A.G. Corrigan and Stanley Shaw. The winners printed below take £15 apiece, and the last bonus bottle of Rioja Gran Zaco Reserva goes to Peter Hadley. Thank you, Becket Drake Ferrier Moseley, 57-59 Neal St, London WC2, for your generous patronage over twelve com- petitions.

I was playing golf the day the Germans landed, And we watched them come ashore across the bay:

With a birdie at the seventh And a two at the eleventh I was seven up, with seven left to play.

My opponent, Billy Tomkinson, suggested That we ought to join in welcoming the Hun. I surprised him by refusing,

For I didn't fancy losing

The fiver I had very nearly won.

And so it was that we, like Drake and Churchill, Fought bravely on regardless of the cost: That most shameful word 'surrender' Was not in our agenda, And in the end, like Germany, I lost.

(Peter Hadley) I was playing golf the day the Germans landed And I didn't want to meet them at Heathrow, So I put the case to Ali — he and I were rather

pally—

And he readily agreed that he would go.

'My teacher, you are teaching me my English; In return, I meet your German group tonight. How much they be? A dozen? I will also meet my cousin Who is travelling from Dortmund on the flight.'

Ali promised he would put them into taxis And send them to the Durham Road in Hendon; They were due to spend six weeks there learning various techniques there In connection with the language we depend on. There's a Hendon Road in Durham — yes, you've guessed it: There are angry Germans roaming Durham still, For that little group from Essen's vainly looking for its lessons, And I'm saving up my green fees for the bill.

(Paul Griffin) I was playing golf the day the Germans landed — How lamentably thoughtless of the Hun To pick a Sunday, leaving us quite stranded. Out on the ninth, miles from the nearest gun.

The landing-craft were glinting in the sunlight Down on the little beach below the links. 'Look here, one's always ready for a bunfight,' Said Bill, 'but frankly our position stinks.'

`Nil desperandum,' I replied, in Latin.

'Our country's proud defence upon us falls! Your golfing type will never throw his hat in As long as there's a good supply of balls!'

I teed off, driving far beyond the fairway, And he felled their leader with unerring aim; His routed rabble swiftly went on their way - I'd won the war, but lost the bloody game!

(Peter Norman) I was playing golf the day the Germans landed — And my wood was perfect off the thirteenth tee; When a steady stream of Junkers relocated several bunkers,

So I missed the green and holed out in the sea.

Having settled for a double double bogey, I drove off from the fourteenth in a huff; For it's hard to go one under when the air is rent asunder, And mortar shells are landing in the rough.

The fairway on the fifteenth was a nightmare, With parachutists landing by the score; The cross-fire was intensive, and their language quite offensive When I tried to warn them off with shouts of 'Fore!'

There were mines on all approaches to the eighteenth;

On the green, a Panzer corps in serried ranks; Could I face the pro's derision if I made the wrong decision?

Did one use a lofted club when facing tanks?

(Watson Weeks) I was playing golf the day the Germans landed

the famous Spaghetti Contract. I remember it well. The rain had been heavy and I had to hack away at the long grass even more than usual. His ball on the green, Helmut would wait patiently for me to arrive from whatever fairway had finally accommodated mine. We were about to tee off on the tenth when his mobile phone bleeped. Expecting his wife again with some domestic preoccupation, Helmut was brusque: 'Do you realise I was just addressing the ball?' But he quickly became serious. 'It's Rome', he muttered. That was the beginning — computer- controlled pasta manufacture. Little did we realise as we meandered towards the clubhouse that it would mean the end of the EC's spaghetti .subsidies, the collapse of the Italian economy and the start of the civil unrest which led directly to the Third World War.

(Brian Ruth)