COMPETITION

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY Gr-IVAS REAV

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Malediction

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1684 you were in- vited to write 'a Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse' on any person or thing.

In a less easily embarrassed age, I'm sure there would be, in that endlessly proliferat- ing series, an Oxford Book of Maledic- tions. It would certainly include the `Greit Cursing' which the Archbishop of Glasgow placed on the Border Reivers circa 1525: `the watter of Tweid quhair thai ride mot droun thaim as the Reid Sey drownit King Pharoa and his pepil of Egipt persewing Godis pepill of Israeli' (thank you, Noel Petty). Lear knew how to curse, so did Caliban, who, like an uncouth modern pupil, turned on his schoolmaster with `You taught me language; and my profit on't/Is, I know to curse.' The best verse curse is surely James Stephens', launched at the barmaid who wouldn't give him a glass of beer on tick, which ends with the ghoulishly precise hope:

May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

Although Belloc's poem never formu- lates a curse — it runs out of breath before delivering one — I think that this competi- tion calls for a malign wish. For this reason Geoffrey Riley is just unplaced, followed by E. S. Goodwill, George Moor, D. A. Prince and Ern L. Weilbilge. The prizewin- ners, printed below, get f14 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to David Thompson.

0 execrable Edward Heath

Of florid face and tombstone teeth, May fiends from Hell make you regret Your foul assaults on Margaret.

May you be haunted by the ghosts Of countless patriotic hosts

Who died to keep our country free

From European tyranny; Your life be ruined by fiats Issued by Brussels bureaucrats.

Now, for my final, furious curse - And I can think of nothing worse - May you, you mean, embittered man, Live out your life's allotted span In a dungeon cell with a locked door, Accompanied by Jacques Delors.

(David Thompson) Heaven strike all those of impious heart That bring to ale the chemist's art And set their tawdry whizz-kid crews To market foul, synthetic brews. May mildew borne by roosting bats Encrust and blight their noisome vats (Though, on reflection, that's no curse It wouldn't make the flavour worse); And when, well-rotted, they descend Where all malignant creatures end, May baleful fiends forever follow, Forcing them still to gulp and swallow, Through all the realms of nether shade, The hogwash they so long purveyed, While gloating imps in endless line Quaff CAMRA-cited barley wine. (Chris Tingley) Away from home, what I can't bear Is hotel bedroom carpets where Too many guests before have trod Bare-soled, their feet unsocked, unshod, Unknown and probably unclean, By corny outcrops made obscene, With flaking skin unhoovered while Clipped toe-nails nestle in the pile - Soles scrofulous, verruca'd soles, Soles sporting whiskered warts or moles And, more distressing, fungicides I fear infection from besides, Like athelte's foot spread, I suspect, Between their unwashed toes, unchecked.

A curse on all those feet unknown With soles less chaste than are my own!

(Monica G. Ribon) You, sir, who ruin this sublime Chorale of Bach's by beating time, And swaying in your creaking chair With such a vague and languid air, May you spend all eternity Enduring the cacophony Of Highlights from the Rolling Stones Arranged for bagpipes and trombones; And here on earth, before you're dead, May Muzak follow you to bed, And disc jockeys disturb your rest With H. Birtwhistle's Hundred Best; May shrieking divas fill your house With Benjy Brit and Dicky Strauss; And may Bob Dylan's ghastly whine Be your companion when you dine.

(Gerard Benson) Let everlasting heartburn fall On Botsford, Grossman, Lawson — all Who in the media repeat Each gross refection that they eat; Who hymn, in phrases high and phoney, Prosciutto and zabaglione; Who detail every bite and sup Until the reader is fed up!

Let them, in expiation, be Ignored by every maitre d', Let the sommelier scorn their hype, And pour them British Ruby (type), And as they groan, plethorically O please, Lord, make them pay the bill! Or else be this their epitaph: 'They perished in a transport caff.'

(Alyson Nikiteas) No one can honestly pretend That any dog is Man's Best Friend.

One does not look for friends who growl And scratch and bite and bark and howl And commandeer one's best armchair And cover it with fleas and hair.

One has to be prepared to find Dog unembarrassed, unrefined, Dirty dog, dog copulating, Dog de trop, dog defecating, Dog ferocious, postman-mauling, Dog elsewhere when thieves come calling, Dog chasing sheep, dog brought to book, Dog with a guilty hang-dog look.

I hope this curse will not have failed By being, like dog-watches, curtailed.

(D. Shepherd)