COMPETITION

Off course

Jaspistos

iSISGLE EMT SCO1rH %NMI

ISLE OF

�luwA

HIS LE 5511 E 0111114 51555

IN COMPETITION NO. 1953 you were given 12 words (all golfing terms but not to be used in that context) and invited to incorporate them, in any order, into an entertaining piece of prose.

You turned in good score-cards over what I regarded as tough twelve holes. I salute G.N. Crockford, V.M. Cornford, David Heaton, Bill Greenwell, Carole Angier and Chris Tingley for their nearly winning entries. In choosing the prizewin- ners (£20 each), printed below, I gave points for ingenuity and only allowed one winner a culinary theme, which was inevitably popular. The bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to KG. McBeath.

Hitler bit the bowl off his soup-spoon and stabbed the shank into his bisque. 'Never trust a transvestite fly-boy,' he spat, learning the Reichsmarschall had assumed power. 'Doesn't know whether he's Carmen or Goring.' Above ground, the Nazi flag hung limply. Gone the crisp links-rechts of goose-stepping soldiers. Defeat was in the Luft.

Those hapless few in the bunker prepared for a long tirade but, muttering something about an albatross round his neck, Hitler lapsed into gloomy reflection: 'Italian army was my first handicap; Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour stymied my Weltherrschaft; now treachery from an old pro. Still, I've had my Augenblicke. I, a non-driver, designed the Volkswagen ... Well, no man who loves small children and dogs can be all good. I've got Biondi and ... what's-her- name? ... Eva. We'll die a loving threesome.

'Why doesn't that wet, Wenck, drive a wedge into the Russian front?' he suddenly screamed.

(KG. McBeath)

The ship ... becalmed and adrift for a fortnight. The men ... spirits starting to flag badly. Our galley threesome ... links to the men highly tenu- ous, dependent on the provision of edible meals. Cookie, our leader, the driver of our efforts, the only pro in the kitchen, had done wonders with petrel shank au rhum and osprey-egg quiche each seaman receiving a delicious wedge with his evening grog. Now, our larder was down to one albatross and several coconuts — a major culi-

nary handicap. But, like those brave men at the Battle of Bunker Hill or MacAuliffe at Bastogne, Cookie would not be stymied. 'Nuts!' he said. `That's it! I'll simmer that birdie in coconut milk • .. make a bisque!' Hope soared like an eagle. He'd do it! Sopa d'Albatross Coco Loco made its successful debut at the evening meal. A fair wind soon blew us back on course, of course.

(Constance Lord O'Sullivan) Bond addressed his lobster bisque, but Kronstedt immediately handed over the envelope.

They were bedroom shots; a threesome. The male was M, enthusiastically penetrating Soviet intelligence. Bond knew of links, but not this kind. He had to admire the old pro — though age was certainly no handicap here — even if he'd rather not share his nuclear bunker.

The picture fluttered to the ground. Retrieving it, Bond passed his shoe's heel over it while pressing the shank, talking to drown the shutter's click.

'The lady, of course, is Kryslov's mistress. I wouldn't drive a wedge in there. Some saying about bad news and messengers?'

Kronstedt's confidence began to flag. 'The sec- ond lady?'

'M's driver,' said Bond firmly. No need to shop Moneypenny.

I am, as you say, stymied?' `Killed the golden goose, old boy. Shot the albatross.'

`Albert Ross? Whose side is he, please?'

(Noel Petty) 'I'm in the bisque, Lewis, right up to the albatross around my neck.'

'Albatross?'

Roger sighed. He was the youngest Home Secretary in forty years, but his face was grey.

'A threesome. Years ago. I've dished out wedge to keep one ... participant quiet, but the other's threatening to go public.'

'Is she a pro?'

'You bet. I'm completely stymied.'

'Can't you lie low, bunker down for a bit?'

'Be realistic, Lewis, there's a by-election next week, I've got to fly the bloody flag.

'Surely a sex scandal's not a handicap? After so many?'

'I agree. I'm talking about contract bridge. The three of us used to 'take' old dears for their savings. In Bromley. Wait till the press links that to my stand on crimes against the elderly.' 'A boot across the shank?'

'I should be so lucky.' (Nick Syrett) a world too wide for his shrank shunk shank shrunk ' Stymied, I curled up with embarrassment_ I'd never make an actor, not with this vocal handicap hanging like an albatross round my neck. My enthusiasm was beginning to flag: the voice coach — a real pm, but a terrible slave-driver — had already driven a wedge between me and the threesome opposite (Orsino, Viola and Touchstone) by mocking my spooner- istic tendencies mercilessly. 'To attempt Shakespeare,' he smirked, 'is to take a very rig bisque.' My fellow tyros tittered appreciatively. `Just think — the audience links you in its collec- tive mind with the greatest thespians of our time: Olivier, Gielgud, Sir Richard Ralpherdson ...'

(more sycophantic guffaws) so if you can't get your bloody words straight you may as well pack your bag.' Little wonder that I was develop- ing a sort of bunker mentality.'

(Peter Norman)

No. 1956: Velvet melody

These two words tied for first place in a Sunday Times poll of readers' favourite words in 1980. You are invited to write a rhymed poem (maximum 12 lines) featur- ing a list of words that especially please you, or of words that especially displease you. Entries to 'Competition No. 1956' by 24 October.