- 001MMONDs•

COMPETITION

Country matters

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1791 you were invited to follow in Max Beerbohm's foot- steps and express a hearty dislike of some traditional country 'amusement'.

`It is a fact that not once in my life have I gone out for a walk. I have been taken out for walks; but that is another matter. Even while I trotted prattling by my nurse's side I regretted the good old days when I had, and wasn't, a perambulator . . .' That is Max's opening to his counterblast to coun- try walks, and of course, since he is the Incomparable, I didn't expect you to attempt his manner. As for the matter, or matters, I was amazed at how general is the detestation of ferreting — 'I understand that some fellows carry their ferrets in their trousers,' Sid Field remarked almost incre- dulously. T. Griffiths was scathing about rural venery CI would say that an infallible way to find a needle in a haystack is to make love in it') and Alyson Nikiteas had Dr Johnson horrified by a pique-nique: `Sir,' said he, 'here a man may not take his tea in peace but must share it with a thousand orthopterous pilferers.'

The prizewinners, printed below, have £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drum- mond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to D. Shepherd.

The newcomer to the country looks forward to his bonfire. He takes his newspaper, covers it with debris, lights his match, and is vastly gratified at the thick plume of smoke that results. His gratification lasts as long as it takes the paper to burn. Undismayed, he searches for cardboard boxes; the result is the same.

Using his urban cunning, he decides that kindling is the answer and gathers sticks. He is unaware that there is no such thing as a dry stick in the country, and his plume of smoke lasts about as long as the first letter of an Indian smoke signal. He draws the false conclusion that the thing is to get the sticks well alight before adding the debris; their dry surface burns up well, but the third forkful of debris extinguishes everything.

A sadder and wiser man, he realises that there

is smoke without fire. (D. Shepherd)

You've capitulated. After all, Sculbery's your boss. Hauled from bed at 4 a.m. and driven through howling darkness, you're deposited on desolate marshes with gun, shooting-stick and instructions to hide in invisible reedbeds alleged-

ly twenty paces ahead. The eighteenth pace drops you waist-deep in water. Rain slashes, hail lacerates, frozen blackness tediously splinters into icy grey. Shapes loom overhead, numbed fingers inadvertently pull both triggers, the double recoil knocks you sprawling. Glum aeons later, an enormous goose flaps suicidally to- wards you. Old forgotten ground-to-air embers rekindle, you lock on, fire, grimly watch the quarry splash mightily down. Absurdly smug, you hasten to retrieve. Nothing. You search, wildly, vainly. 'Of all bloody uncomfortable, futile, fruitless pursuits,' you're snarling, when arctic sunrise brings Sculbery's labrador, and Sculbery, festooned with mallard — and one goose. 'Enjoy yourself?' he asks. 'Marvellous!' you croak. 'Splendid!' he enthuses. 'Knew you

would.' (W. F. N. Watson) It's called a Pun Day'; 'Fund Day' would be more accurate; it's your money they're after. You splosh through a muddy field, lately fre- quented by extremely incontinent cows, your ears assailed by cacophony from a tinny loud- speaker and your nose by the odour of oniony beefburgers. You patronise a rash of stalls selling things nobody wants, and come away with one roller-skate, the second volume of some novel and an elderly geranium. Then you fancy sampling the pig-roast, and queue for a roll with a sliver of burnt meat for £1.50. You may be foolish enough to participate in a tug-of-war, and travel several yards on the seat of your pants. Among other 'delights' will be a dog show. If you can't stand dogs you can try matching the beasts' faces with their owners', sitting on a scratchy straw bale, fighting a losing battle with a wilting ice-cream.

(0. Smith) Is it friendlessness, imbecility, or some more compelling weakness that drives certain citizens to skulk in woodland or hedgerow, clad in curious waterproof garments, clutching binocu- lars and notebook, spying on birds? A man found in possession of jemmy and swagbag may be arrested for 'going equipped for burglary'. In town, the mere appearance of the common-or- garden birdwatcher should, in a just world, result in his being taken in charge for going equipped for blatant and unrepentant voyeur- ism. Any lingering doubts would be dispelled by his possession of a woolly bobble-hat, the mark of the obsessive.

Birdwatchers will confess to a consuming passion for the minutiae of avian existence: they like to study birds 'close up'. Yet it never seems to occur to them that the judicious employment of a .22 rifle and a handful of slugs would enable them to examine even the rarest of species at their leisure.

(Peter Rowlett) The summer crowd assembles, amid a penumbra of excited children. The men thrust reddened knees from shorts of varying lengths; the women bulge from garish and inadequate beachwear. At the end of East Street the sea glimmers invitingly. 'Come back,' it calls. 'After only two weeks you must return to Wandsworth, Acton, Homsey. Enjoy me while you may.'

But they are plunged in the rural dream, waiting outside a guaranteed unspoilt rustic inn in a country village by the sea; and here, from inland, as advertised, come the Morris dancers.

Tinkle and hop, tinkle and hop, to their concertina: here is the old and great tradition of the English countryside. Afterwards, they quaff the ale offered by admiring visitors; then, as lunch approaches, they creep back to their minibus and, champing sandwiches, return home to Hornsey, Acton, Wandsworth.

Pity should predominate; but one is human. (Paul Griffin)