COMPETITION

Doc's orders

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1441, you were invited to write a piece of plausible prose incorporating at least six of the clues (punctuation changeable) in the Spectator crossword of that issue.

Out of the 36 clues involved only one was loony enough to defy all your attempts: 'TV camera tube's semi- established painting'. Your collective ing- enuity delighted me. Joanna Jones created a Sloane Ranger called Maori Fort-Dance. Frank McDonald had a nice touch in his chess tournament: 'The Vienna and Leningrad systems enjoyed popularity, such city openings causing digressions from the book, leading to exciting middle games.' And Chris Smith ended his picture of a desperate Mozart very deftly: 'If his librettist didn't soon show some creative fire, damaged current finances would be- come disastrous penury. An idea! But where to find one? "At end of watch-chain there's a small masonic seal" ran absurdly through his mind to the tune of Voi the sapete. He paused. A masonic opera. Why not?' Gwen Edwards and Noel Petty also scored high. But the prizes (£9 each) go the competitors below who didn't bite off more than they could chew and managed to digest their clues without grimaces or borborygmus. The bonus bottle of Pol Roger White Foil Champagne, presented by Colin Dix, Wolseys Wine Bar, 52 Wells St. London Wl, goes to Stephen Truman, despite a small hiccup.

Please, please use a typewriter if you can. Handwritten entries can be difficult to read and so off-putting; and if they are to be winners they have to be typed out by me for the printers.

Once, at school, I joined some other boys in afternoon break for a game of football. A fight started and I blacked the opposing captain's eyes. I was taken to the Headmaster. His love to scold and harangue us was only exceeded by his efficiency in our punishment. I was caned and was told to write out Scene I of Hamlet. The Head gave his victims a note for their mums and dads. Suffering a caning was painful, but hand- ing that envelope over was worse. Dad was strict with me. As it has been of old, tomboy's stunts from Fiona were passed over while my least faults earned slipperings.

Next day I returned my imposition. The Head read it and laughed. 'A mote it is to trouble the

mind's eye,' he said. 'Cross out "a note" and do it again.'

My only consolation was the panda-like appearance of my late opponent.

(Stephen Truman)

[The Eurovision Song Contest, Reykjavik.] A lugubrious Turk (Turkey produced last year's winner) meanders his way through a plaintive folksong that makes absolutely no concessions to the present day. Shouts of joy — 'Goodbye!' `Not before time!' Get him off!' — greet his final bouzouki flourish. Icelandic audiences, used to rough-and-ready home-grown talent or, if they're lucky, a singer coming up from Scotland, love to scold and harangue a performer who doesn't come up to scratch. Next, the rather under-rehearsed Finnish entrant — halfway through she actually stops to ask the orchestra to cross out a note and do it again! The audience grows restive during the intermission; a sea- man's heard storming on about the cost of this junketing to Icelandic licence-payers. Then another sadly talentless hopeful takes the stage, equally eager to snatch the Turkish title. Taking precedence this year, however, is France's Michel Mondieu with 'Tout le Monde Dit

Dooby Doo!' (Peter Norman) `It gets so boring,' yawned Jason. 'Passed Dad on the way up. In drag again. Claims he's May or someone this time.'

`Such gall has its day in May!' snorted Bella. `Don't be so bloody literary,' he replied. `That's just as boring.'

Hut Dad's suffering. . , said Vanessa.

`The concerned nun strikes,' sneered Bella.

`Actually,' said James, ignoring them, 'there have been some unconventional aliases. May's really quite restrained. Think he's wearing falsies? We should...'

`Check one pure siliceous substance?' said Dad, sweeping in. 'Best quality silicon, I assure you.' He took one out. 'As for this. . .'. He pulled out the bra, pirouetting. 'Cotton yarn is seen in old length, reversed. Silk's passe, I'm told.'

`Well,' sighed Bella. 'It's better than usual. It's definitely an improvement on the Home Secretary's coarse hemp.'

(Patrick Walsh) His behaviour was, by Grandma anyway, not applauded. Out of duty to the editor he had agreed to continue his weekly column, 'Old Tomboys' Stunts', during our vacation. Brittany, however, was not conducive to work and Dad's suffering was evident. He would cross out a note and do it again and again, shaking his head at our cries: 'Take a break for a game, Dad.'

Grandma didn't help. She would love to scold and harangue — she was paying for the holiday. One evening she decided to roll a large map out, making a figure of the kilometres to be covered next day. Dad rebelled. 'After St Malo with all its city openings causing digressions we're staying put tomorrow. Besides, I have work to do.'

Isolated, he sat on the sand. I crept behind, peeping at his morning's output: 'Religious isolation is the reverse of number one's source of pain.'

(Ba Miller) Though competitors love to scold and harangue Jaspistos when they fail to win, they are mostly playful creatures. They enjoy assuming false names. Among some unconventional aliases are `Basil Ransome-Davies' (actually a hockey mis- tress from Derbyshire who still enjoys old tomboy's stunts) and 'Noel Petty'.

It is an open secret that Petty is the editor's son, and he is fiercely loyal. At a recent staff meeting to announce redundancies he ap- plauded, out of duty to the editor, a harsh and tactless speech. `Dad's suffering more than anyone,' he explained.

Bill Greenwell', by contrast, hides the identi- ty of a venerable figure of the demi-monde, an ex-protégé of Aleister Crowley whose prison pallor and dark-ringed eyes give him a panda- like appearance.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Dad's suffering, at least, will end. His early tears turned from love to scold and harangue as we wring my last hours out in this cold cell. Blaming me more for being caught than for killing, he wonders at my stupidity, most of all some unconventional aliases I adopted — 'flaunted', he wails, 'almost to invite detection'.

But in the end the catching came not from cockiness but from greed. It seems a local bobby tacked up a handwritten notice advertising a reward, using a capital letter, we hear, for 'Bounty'. And that appeal to my hunters' lowest motives sealed my fate.

After more talk, reading from the newspapers and other irrelevancies, Dad and I break for, a game of cards, playing with a soft, sticky pack. The dog-eared suits are sodden with sweaty fear, as I while away time, waiting for the jerk of the Home Secretary's coarse hemp.

(Toby Dawe)