COMPETITION
THE MALT
IN COMPETITION NO. 2037 you were told the story of an unpleasable ten-year- old boy who, at the end of a country house party for children, wrote 'Crap weekend' in the visitors' book, and invited to supply from his diary his view of his stay.
Although I insisted on adult spelling, I was pleased by Susan Therkelsen's angry, dyslexic lad forced to go in for a fishing competition 'in the murky glodfish pond with silly cheap nets on boobam sticks'. Food was the diarist's most frequent com- plaint. As the father of an 11-year-old boy with extremely eccentric dietary demands, I was amused by Peter Smalley's grumble: `Frightful roast everything — and Waitrose cola! Not even one glass of the Lynch Bages they were having.'
The prizewinners, printed below, take £25 each, and the bottle of The Macallan The Malt Scotch whisky goes to Llewelyn Thomas for his horrid, precocious prig.
Friday p.m. I meet the other children. Not exact- ly intellectual powerhouses.
Saturday a.m. Samantha wants to play Doctors and Nurses behind the shrubbery. I choose to be St John Chrysostom, one of the Doctors of the Church. I just don't get it, she says. Saturday p.m. The grown-ups organise a garUe of Charades. I choose a book, Principle Mathematica. Billy guesses Noddy in Toyland. Sunday a.m. Danny suggested Sardines. This leads me to present some interesting thoughts, on the European fishing industry. 'Go and hide, says Pauline. 'Please.' After an hour alone in the airing cupboard I come downstairs to find them all watching Scream on video. Sunday p.m. I ponder my comments for the visitors' book. I am tempted by that famous poem of Mayakovsky's, where he writes .of `brazen-throated horns in the fog of philisturi- ism', but perhaps something a little more suc-
cinct is required. . . (Llewelyn Thomas) Broke as usual. High hopes last weekend -- party at Snotty Bogart's. Three likely men, none took bait. Asked S's uncle first — come into shrubbery and explain cobwebs. Said busy. He,, have paid up quick, too. Schoolmaster. Scared stiff. Ha-ha. Major G. said yes, then looked funny and passed out cold. Too excited, expect. Tried butler. Thought he'd come good, but new kitchen boy heard and I got black eye. Also had to pay him twenty quid for not telling. Got lucky with S's sister, but that doesn't pay. She lent me twenty, though. (P. Wingrove) Friday. Dad dropped me off at this rural dump. Fried Fred, Grainy, Chloe the Cruncher and Co. are here too. Rosko's old man made us ponce round with name cards as if we didn't know each other.
Saturday. No sleep because they've put me next to Pop and Ma Roskos' room. They never shut up. Breakfast ghastly, fish the old boy caught (in the sewer probably). Then an infantile game with guns firing pink dye. Aimed for Ma's backside but my gun wouldn't work. Sunday. Rosko's dad reckons he's Lord of the Manor but he borrowed £1.20 from me for the paper man. This afternoon a smelly 'entertainer' tried to do conjuring tricks. I knew them all. Then we had karaoke. Being a non-singer I sat in the lay.
Monday. Ma Rosko handled the farewells. No sign of the old man or my £1.20. (Michael Birt) After breakfast, Lady Benchmark organised a treasure hunt around the estate so we'd get to know it better. As it's all snot-green trees and
stupid animals, and as the 'treasure' is bound to be chocolate, which I despise, I skived off to Lord Benchmark's library. All his books stank of old people, there was no science fiction section and the dictionaries were too old to have any swearing. Spent the rest of the morning torturing woodlice in the arboretum. After lunch, Lord Benchmark got a yokel to show us the livestock. Nothing died or got dangerous, so it was boring. Everyone else wasted the evening playing board games. Bored games, more like. Was going to stay up and see the house ghost. Lord Bench- mark said it's a girl so didn't bother. Food here is awful. It took ages for Lady Benchmark to get
pot noodles from the village. (Adrian Fry) Friday 13th. Arrived 1 lish. Other children far too excited. Went bike riding, but the bikes were awful. Only 12 gears. Luncheon roast lamb with vegetables — how proper! Went riding, very uncomfortable and the horses were nothing like Herpes and Footrot at home. Supper was pasta with minced beef, probably with BSE.
Saturday 14th. From breakfast till lunch, we walked round the gardens, only 50 acres, could you believe? Luncheon was soup with bits of who knows what in. Then time to watch tele, but only for an hour and a half. We watched The Fifth Element. I'd seen it so many times before. Then a walk with the pekes, awfully small, and we shot air-guns. How horribly ordinary! Sunday 15th. Another fry-up for breakfast. Theh we went paintballing. The paint didn't splat like it does at home. Then back to home, sweet home. (Freddie Woolfe) Camilla told me she'd brought her mouse for the weekend, but she's stupid — it's a sniffy, furry animal. I wanted to stay in and do Level 4 of Macho Thugs, but old house electricity wouldn't fit my charger and the power ran out and Uncle George said we must all go fishing, including me. We had to walk miles and miles and after ten minutes my trainers were wrecked and Levis all muddy. Fishing's boring. Uncle George said I was just unlucky (so why was everyone else lucky?). Horses smell, so do dogs. Everyone expects you to like them. They slobber. Auntie Prue smiles too much, like a horror film. Uncle George played cricket until his face went purple. I was caught out (unfairly). Their TV's history black and white, like in museums. When I grow up I'm going to be prime minister and ban the
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