J 51 \GLE %MT SCOECN WHIS111

URA

ISLE OF

i U RA

thGEE 4 411 SCOTCH 11XI58I

COMPETITION

That is the question

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1977 you were asked to provide a light-hearted song, the first two lines being given.

The first two lines, as it happens, came from the works of our own, our very own Pam Ayres, and they provided an excellent springboard from which 120 competitors could soar into the blue skies of humour. The prizewinners (happily, three of each sex), printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is Noel Petty's.

Will I have to be sexy at sixty? Will I have to keep trying so hard?

Will I have to have pecs that ripple and flex And a back like a Grenadier Guard? Will I dare to eat pancakes and honey, Or must it be oatmeal and bran?

And is there some hope that I might smell of soap, Instead of this Paco Rabane?

Will my clothing still boast its designers? Will I still feel obliged to compete?

Will I have to wear jeans made for under-

eighteens That cut off the blood to my feet? And if, when they've worked out my pension, I'm still working out fit to kill, Will some kindly old pal spike my hi-tec lo-cal With an anti-testosterone pill? (Noel Petty) Will I have to be sexy at sixty?

Will I have to keep trying so hard, Still Shalimar-scented, platinum-tinted, Red-toenailed and black-Wonderbra'd?

Will I need to be sexy at sixty Or might I have learned to be good; Instead of flirtation prefer conversation On politics, property, food?

I might elect not to be sexy.

One's true tastes are settled by then. Equipped with bus passes and five pairs of glasses, I might prefer spaniels to men. And could it be possible, really, Or is it a losing campaign?

A bookie would gamble I'm set to resemble A cushion left out in the rain.

(Annalise McArdle) Will I have to be sexy at sixty?

Will I have to keep trying so hard, When I'm three times as drunk and my todger has shrunk And my belly's a mountain of lard?

Will the missus expect me to function Like the horny young stud of her dreams, As she lies on the bed with a towel round her head And a plateful of violet creams?

And what if I just couldn't function But drooped like a bluebell instead?

Would she broadcast the tale? If I happened to

fail, Would I be the Big Let-down in Bed?

It's a puzzle. But why bother thinking?

It'll only be more of the same: Her walking the dog, and me up in the bog With a copy of Jennifer's Shame.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)

Will I have to be sexy at sixty? Will I have to keep trying so hard? Will I thrust all my blubber in leather and rubber Or a leopard-skin print leotard?

Will I cram calloused feet in stilettos, Plaster make-up on two inches thick, Clad in short, slinky dresses, toss my grey tresses, Pretend I'm a real swinging chick?

Will I have to wear black fishnet stockings And suspender belts fripped out in lace? Will I act like a siren, wear red bras with wire in? Will I age with complete lack of grace?

Or perhaps I'll say, 'Sod this! I'm past it', Stand firm in my wide-fitting shoes, And surrender and fester in brown polyester As I lurk in the queues for the loos.

(Rosemary Fisher) Will I have to be sexy at sixty?

Will I have to keep trying so hard?

Will I lack any charms if I can't present arms, Or sleep when I should be 'on guard'?

Will have to perform like a Honda That bullets its way round the track, With a faltering crank, little juice in my tank And a chassis that's starting to crack?

Will I still have to strut it like Hamlet To put my times back into joint, With no spring in my gait, scant hair on my pate And no venom to tincture my point?

Will I struggle to spring to attention Or unthrottle the fire in my belly?

Will I keep up my rage on the sexual stage — Or shall I just watch it, on telly?

(Philip Dacre) Will I have to be sexy at sixty? Will I have to keep trying so hard? Will I still have to flutter my lashes As I'm flashing my OAP card?

Will Adonises help with my luggage If I do not keep up the facade Of Barbara Cartlandish simpers And stiffly mascara'd oedlades?

Will elderly suitors pursue me With more than fraternal regard If I double the gins and scoff cream cakes And measure my hips by the yard?

To hell with it, darlings! I will not

Be hoist with the ageist petard.

I'll grow crazy and fat and wear purple — And, I warn you, no holds will be barred.

(Manna Blake)

No. 1980: Sheer torture

You are invited (a beast of an invitation) to construct from the name of an author and the title of one of their works the name of another author and an inevitably surreal imaginary title (and subtitle, if wanted) of one of his or her works. Entries to 'Comp- etition No. 1980' by 24 April.