COMPETITION

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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Was he there?

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1697, having been reminded that there may exist journalists who were not present at the scenes they describe, you were invited to write a report of some 'interesting' event by one such alcoholic bluffer.

I, too, have been an alcoholic bluffer. At university I was given a grant, named after some illustrious mountaineer, to do some mild climbing in Europe during the vaca- tion and write an account of it afterwards. I headed towards the Pyrenees in good faith, but got no further than Paris, and no higher than the top of the Eiffel Tower. On my return friends urged me to concoct 'a mountain of lies', even offering to help me with the research and the fantasy. But my nerve broke, and I confessed to the authorities. To my relief, none of the committee seemed remotely interested in literal climbing. They nodded, half- disapprovingly, half-smilingly, and re- quested from me instead an account of the cultural treasures I had seen in Paris. With the aid of a few Phaidon art books, and without the aid of my disreputable friends, I cobbled something up, to everyone's satisfaction, in no time. What a let-off! Do they make dons like that any more?

This was a disappointing entry, more redolent of alcohol than artful bluff. The winners, who were easily pickable and are printed below, get £18 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Chas F. Garvey. The war may be over, but anyone with a vestige of sensibility who attended tonight's perform- ance of Our American Cousins at Ford

's. Theatre will be acutely aware that the nation's sufferings are not ended.

In crying off, General Grant must have received intelligence other than the military kind. The President's wife, however, resisted feigning one of her notorious migraine attacks and steadfastly remained by her husband's side throughout this puerile production.

I spotted that normally genial thespian, John Wilkes Booth, at the rear of the stalls. Even he seemed incensed by the prevailing banality, but why the furtiveness? If looks could have killed! Had not professional integrity triumphed, I would have left after the first act. At the final curtain the President smiled benignly upon the assembled cast, thus publicly demonstrating his twin dicta: `Malice towards none' and `Charity for air.

Such forbearance inspires the prayer `Long live Abe!'

(Chas. F. Garvey)

The latest addition to Britain's battle-fleet lust the one — was launched by the Queen on the Clyde today. Wearing spring colours and a hat, she contrasted sharply with the sombre grey of the shipyard scene. A dash of tonic.- From my vantage pint in this old battle-cruiser by the quay, I could scarcely contain my emotions as the great vessel glided down the slipway, the coiled chains thrashing angrily in her wake like awakened sea-monsters. She slid

into the water with hardly a disturbance. Just a splash.

Afterwards the Duke could be seen talking to the deck crew for several minutes before dis- appearing from view down the hatch.

There is concern in Palace quarters that the Queen's programme has been unduly taxing of late. It has been suggested that ways may be sought to lighten the burden without diminishing her public appearances. Perhaps a double.

(Noel Petty) There can be no sound more thrilling than the cumulative roar of the terraces, when, scenting a goal in the making, they give forth in unison, like a well-drilled male voice choir. Such was the clamour, all throat, lungs and spirit, that greeted United's second, ten minutes after the interval. As McQuaid's shot sped past goalie Griffith's groping fingers the roar could be heard half a mile away. 'You don't get many like that!' remarked my colleague from The Courier, a man not given to overstatement. It was only a minute, though, before the Blueshirts pulled one back and the familiar 'Let's Have Another One' (to the tune of 'Down by the Riverside') was echoing round the stadium. And were they disappointed? They were not. During injury time, as cars sped away from the ground the unmistakable home roar again rent the air, leaving a well-merited two-all draw for the listings. (Gerard Benson)

That the Bastille has become a symbol of the present regime at its most despotically repres- sive there is absolutely no gainsaying. Nor can there be any doubt that this close symbolic association with the powers-that-be has made its continued hulking presence upon the Parisian skyline a source of fervid, nay fanatical resent- ment. That an attempt would be made to storm it and subsequently raze it to the ground was therefore only too predictable; and that such an attempt is, at the present moment in time, being carried through is something that one would be rash indeed altogether to deny. To forecast the outcome of any such endeavour would clearly be equally foolhardy. All one can safely assert beyond a peradventure, given the ineluctable uncertainties with which we here at the unforgiv- ing interface of time and destiny are hourly grappling, is that the Bastille will either stand or fall. Concerning that, there is — there can be -