VI RI %I 1I

01( 11 ‘111i11,N

COMPETITION

Salute to the Master

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1820 you were invited to write a poem in the manner of Ogden Nash on one of these subjects: the circus, the supermarket, the seaside.

Like all Masters, Nash is not as easy to imitate as he looks. It's not just a question of breaking up the lines irregularly (which, by the way, he didn't always do) and hitting on outrageous rhymes and half- rhymes, sometimes aided by joke spelling, you've got to catch that Ogdenish tone of voice, too. You did well. Most of you chose the supermarket, where 'checkout' and 'get the heck out' proved a popular combo. The prizewinners, printed below, get a pony each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Keith Norman.

Let me reveal a truth about supermarkets that has been hitherto suppressed: From the moment you approach the automatic doors you are being secretly assessed. There is simply no place to hide from the video-camera'a stare.

It's on you all the time, and it's taping your every move for analysis by Laurie Taylor and Anthony Clare, Or, if not by those two, by others of their ilk, The sort that ingested psychology, sociology, semiology and supermarket studies with their UHT or mother's milk.

This electronic surveillance records every item on your list, Plus all those additional temptations you proved unable to resist.

So your alco- or choco-holic tendencies will be noted sooner rather than later, Along with your Trolley Control Quotient, TCQ, and other related and unrelated data. And don't you ever be caught changing queues at the checkout — believe me this ain't paranoia - Or the computer will have you down as `indecisive', and no one will ever employ ya. (Keith Norman) What I hate about supermarkets, since you kindly ask it, Is the woman at the checkout sneering at my basket!

I've got Bulgarian (This Week's Offer) and Mother's Pride;

She's got six superior bottles of the sort you have to keep on their side.

She's got some okra, too, pudi, a handful of eddoes,

And stands there reading a copy of Thomas L. Beddoes, Looking in every sense a dish,

While I'm stuck next trawling Six Ways with Frozen Fish . . .

Still, at home my Instamix goes into the microwave oven, While she's prancing round the Aga with a floral fireproof glove on.

She may be cordon bleu, the height of fashion, But my chap unties my pinny and says I'm smashion.

(Alyson Nikiteas) While Dante's best years went to perfecting terza rima and Giotto's to painting frescoes, I go to Tesco's, And if I haven't achieved the notoriety of a Borgia or Savonarola, Well, when exactly was the last time they had to decide which of the myriad brands available was their favourite brand of Cola?

If I didn't have to stock up for the freezer I'd design a helicopter and paint the Mona Lisa, And perhaps I'd be more preoccupied with the question of whether the quattro- or the quincento was the slickest If I wasn't so occupied getting into whichever checkout line is moving the quickest.

So I'd say the existence of supermarkets is one of the reasons why There won't be another Renaissance, neither a Proto one nor a High.

(William Luscombe) The seaside isn't a romantic place like Florence or Samarkand, More like an inferno of crowds, flies and sand, Where even when you feel you oughta Make a splash and go into the water.

What puts you off is the abundance of those floating brown pieces Closely resembling faeces And the general feeling that while the setting may be delightfully scenic It ain't hygienic.

What's preferable is copping a look at the blonde in the next-to-nothing bikini While playing with your wienie, Except that public onanism is frowned on by current morals And leads to unsavoury quarrels. All in all, the seaside's a bit of a drag - Not that I'm knocking it for others, it just isn't my bag.

Personally, I hate all that beach traffic.

I'd rather be at home in the bathroom, with something seriously pornographic.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)