A to P

Lucy Vickery

In Competition No. 2543 you were invited to submit a poem about the things people need to live on, in which the first letter of each line spells out the first 16 letters of the alphabet.

Martin Parker, self-confessed ‘crawler’, played the flattery card (he was not alone), which had no bearing whatsoever, of course, on his inclusion in the winners’ enclosure. His is a Betjeman-esque nostalgia for a now almost bygone era. It provides a nice counterpoint to Mike Morrison’s grim lament on what makes today’s world go around. He bags the extra fiver, while the other winners, printed below, net £25 each. Honourable mentions to Brian Murdoch, Basil RansomeDavies and R.S. Gwynn.

Thanks to sharp-eyed Roger Brunskill, who has pointed out a case of gender reassignment — accidental or deliberate — that I failed to note in Alan Millard’s entry to last week’s competition. Mr Brunskill quite rightly points out that the horse in ‘Widdecombe Fair’ is a mare, and not a ‘he’ as Mr Millard has it.

All-you-can-eat emporia, cheap booze, Botox injections, trollopy tattoos; Celebrity chefs who cannot cook for toffee, Doner kebabs, foul four-quid high street coffee; eBay, the trading post for not a lot,

Friends Reunited, facebook — sad or what? Goss on la Winehouse, Doherty and Moss, Handbags from Prada, suits by Hugo Boss; Internet scams to ‘find your perfect mate’, Jordan, whose joke-shop jugs we venerate; Kitsch’n’sink drama, ishoo-driven soaps, Leather settees, horrendous horoscopes; Manicures; rings and studs in strange locations, Naturopathic nonsense medications; Obligatory sport purveyed non-stop by Sky, Plasma-screen wall-wide televisions — why? Mike Morrison

Aston Villa, apple pie, Beer in pints, the W.I., Cricket, Crimmond, bonfire smells, ‘Disgusted’, still of Tunbridge Wells:

Elgar, Evensong, Top Gear,

Fish and chips on Blackpool Pier, Grand National Day, the Boat Race too, Hardy’s Tess, King Lear and Pooh: Inglenooks, Joan Hunter-Dunn, Jerusalem, the Sally Lunn, King’s College Carols, Keats, Bird’s Custard, Lord’s, black cabs, real English mustard:

Marmite, Beachy Head, mince pies, New Labour’s imminent demise. Or, best soul-food for this narrator, Prize comps to season The Spectator. Martin Parker

Artists argue all is inspiration; Boozers claim old ale, a quart of porter; Canons say the soul, at confirmation; Despots reckon bread and dirty water. Educators offer facts (so filling!); Fornicators swear by supple flesh; Generals want drilling, or else killing; Healthcare experts rate thin air, if fresh.

Ignore them all — each one’s a fraud or fakir. Just make sure that each moment’s there to treasure, Knowing that you’ll one day meet your Maker: Live life for kicks, and don’t repent your leisure.

Myself, I go for shelter and warm clothing, Not stinting on my meat or drink — or style. Or luxuries. Don’t live upon self-loathing: Push out the boat, and lie there with a smile. Bill Greenwell Alcohol I could not live without, Beers, spirits, wines, I think, are our true fuel, Champagne I love, rare absinthe, common stout; Drink de-edges life, makes it less cruel. English (Lang and Lit) I can’t eschew, French has scant vocab, German is coarse. Gallimaufry English is how you Hear Shakespeare, Austen, Dickens at full force. Imagination — one can’t be without that Just think of being confined to the mere real, Knit your brow, conceive a world so flat, Let its own lack be imagination’s big reveal. Music feels essential to the soul.

Not jazz or pop, but Schubert, Mozart, Bach, Oh, words fail me — I can’t describe its role Play some and your soul will sing up, hark! Adrian Fry A floor is needed first of all, Because without it we must fall Clean through the Earth until we find Down far below, beneath its rind Earth’s very core, where in a flash Flesh and bone will turn to ash.

Given a floor on which to stand, Having our feet set firm on land, Initial joy becomes despair Just in a trice, without some air. Keep air from lungs, and they collapse, Leaving us far from healthy chaps.

Make sure of air, and all seems good. Nevertheless, we now want food... Oh, many needs oppress the heart! Perhaps it’s better not to start. Paul Griffin A spacious and elegant Georgian house By the river, in reach of the City, Comfort and love from a beautiful wife, Desirable, cheerful and witty.

Enough money to live in the style that we wished, Friends that would often come over to dine, Good food in abundance to put on the plates, Huge racks in the cellar of excellent wine.

I lost the whole lot when redundancy struck, Just couldn’t keep up with the payments, Keeping cheerful, although I am down on my luck, Lying here with a couple of blankets.

My needs are quite simple, just water and food, No longer for wealth do I hanker, Oh, please, my old friend, as you hurry on by Please remember the ex-merchant banker. Tim Raikes

No. 2546: Mix and match

You are invited to submit a dialogue between unlikely pairs from real life or fiction who happen to share the same surname (maximum 150 words). Entries to ‘Competition 2546’ by 22 May or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.