No. 520: The winners Trevor Grove reports: Competitors were g iven
ten words chosen from the opening lines of a well-known play and asked to construct round them part of the script for a play, musical, pan- tomime or film—and with almost no exceptions met with commendable success. The words chosen were from The Alchemist, and though the rare Ben Jonson's rare vocabu- lary provoked not a few to seek refuge in cir- cuitous delicacy, a very much larger body of repressed vulgarians seized the opportunity to launch into print with ferocious gusto—last night I tarried in my lady's chamber,/About to broach her chastity, when she,/0 most in- delicate, did hugely fart.' That was Brian Allgar, but for a rather more telling parody J. R. V. White wins three guineas by a short head: NERISSA What think you, madam, of the Nor- weyan lord that did fart at his coming in? PORTIA Let him be gone to the Pole with his own wind, say I. Oh, these men, these men! NERISSA A fig for the coxcombs! A fig for all that come so boldly to your house!. PORTIA Thou art too free of thy figs, Nerissa, and they are all wild. Take heed they betray thee not to one that will mar thy figure. NERISSA Ay, madam, there's many a whelp among 'em would die to fill a figuline. But are all men thus insolent? Fear they no judg- ment? NERISSA Alas, in these naughty times the court of love keeps naught but vacations, and Cupid himself is translated cupidity. There is no wise Doctor of Laws that can preserve thee from them save thine own virtue.
But the five guinea questionably to Len zany diction and the rivals the Master's : GREENWIT No further south than Hampstead, say I, for the Town lacks wit. My play's for clubmen and collegiates. SQUARECHOPS What of Mistress Spurting? She's a grave and youthful matron. GREENWIT Nay, she's a chilly grandam. Let a mad lad o' the Royal Court fart on stage to stagger the Cits, she'll not cry him down but rather laugh him off and prescribe a syrup o' figs for his windy inwards. She calls the wild boys nurselings, and delights to betray our sex's infancy to the mirth of the Amazons. Let her not see my play, for she'll mar all sport. HIPLING Why, you academical whelp, you're too insolent. Your wit's at the close-stool, for very your ve vacations are cloister'd as your term-time. Is London air unfit for your doings? Buz! Titivitium! Which being trans- lated, master scholar, would say: Let the pox doctor do his own thing.
There was no very formidable assault on your moderns, though scripts for a musical, a telly ad and a brief foray into the Absurd deserve mention. The best twentieth century piece, though, was Martin Fagg's cancelled sheet from Savonarola by Ladbroke Browne. Three guineas, and apologies to Max Beerbohm:
Savonarola's cell. `Enter Gaoler.
GAOLER A fart, on He is fled. (Rushes out) SAVONAROLA (crawling from straw and making discourteous gesture at retreating gaoler) So figs to thee, Thou greasy varlet. Success beyond my hope Most wild. Now no miscarriage can betray My wiles, no-bungling mar my guile. LUCREZIA BORGIA (also crawling out of straw) Ah not, So fast, thou cowled knave. Thy presence here I will disclose, unless thou promisest prize this week goes un- Smith, whose talent for unhinging period almost To marry me anon. SAVONAROLA Not a hope, get Knotted, wench. LUCREZIA 0 whelp most insolent, of creed Most false. (Draws forth phial of poison) This deadly nectar knocks me out, Vacations all my vital spunk. (Drinks it) I
die! (Dies)
SAVONAROLA 0 Lucrezia, thou art translated! (Swoons) DOCTOR (entering with Dante, BotticellBi,yCGosaimleno de Medici, Guelphs, Ghibellines and entire Papal army)
And Hippocrates, all verily she snuff'd it hath.
The prize of one guinea to the first entry opened correctly to identify the source of the words goes to M. Wollman.
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