COMPETITION

Damn dozen

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION No. 2059 you were given 12 expletive words or phrases and invited to incorporate them, in any order and using them non-expletively, in an entertaining piece of prose. This produced a bumper harvest, which I gleaned with joy. I wish I could include W.J. Webster, David Heaton and Geraldine Perriam among the money-earners, but space forbids. The prizewinners, printed below, are awarded f25 each, and the bonus bottle of The Macallan The Malt Scotch whisky goes to Giles Ewing.

If a lifetime as a staunch Wee Free qualifies for sainthood, Catriona McTavish was definitely my sainted aunt. None of the concomitants of grac- ious Highland living entered her sober farm- house. No warm fires counteracted the 'cauld blast' that would blow from the Cairngorms, no

warming toddy with its dash of whisky and spoonful of sugar, no hot stone pigs in the icy beds whose threadbare sheets were more darn than flannel. If Uncle George dared visit the pub, she showed no mercy. I won't forget the occasion she dragged me off to retrieve him. 'I dinna ken why I bother, but souls must be saved.' As we entered the hostelry, a favourite tale, recounted by George, was reaching its dénoue- ment: 'It wisnae a sheep, it wis a coo. And he didnae bugger her, he ... ' Spotting his advancing wife, he concluded, with admirable presence of mind, 'He milked her.' (Giles Ewing) 'Three parts fertiliser to one part sugar,' my Aunt Cecily used to say, 'and a dash of petrol-

eum jelly. It makes for an even blast.' Deserted by George, my uncle, a pornographer and a bug- ger, Cecily was a gracious recruit to urban terror- ism. Did the National Viewers' Association need a military wing, the Distressed Gentlefolks' Association a punishment squad? It's no bother, dear, she would coo as another sex shop or gay bar would blow itself apart, or the Porsche of some pensions swindler erupt around him. Eventually a characteristic darn on her favourite crocheted black balaclava ('it doesn't stain, dear') gave her away and she fled to join the Sisters of Mercy in Paraguay. I would like to describe her as my sainted aunt, but after the fire-bombing of the Vatican Bank even beatifi-

cation seems unlikely. (Nick Syrett)

Not so long ago my sainted aunt Ermyntrude, whom the gracious mercy of the Lord has hither- to preserved from every blast, blow and bother of old age — my sainted aunt Ermyntrude, as I was saying, having put a hefty dash of sugar into her

preprandial glass of brandy in order to top up her courage, knelt down by George, her husband of far too many years, and in a gentle, dovelike coo whispered into his ear, 'George, if I swear to darn every last sock you possess, will you, please, Just bugger off to Bognor and leave me to enjoy the autumn of my days in blissful solitude?'

(Pat Utechin) Jeeves shimmered in, an angel of mercy, with his pick-me-up of raw egg, pepper and a dash of Worcestershire.

'Jeeves, don't have aunts.'

'Sir?'

'There are exceptions, like my sainted aunt Dahlia: tough as boots but sweet as sugar under- neath. Otherwise, avoid them.'

'Yes, sir.'

'For reasons beyond me, Madeleine Bassett had donned plus-fours and shooting jacket for an assignation with young Gussie. Unfortunately, they'd started to bill and coo when, like a wolf on the fold — you know, that Assyrian chappie by. ..'

'George, Lord Byron, sir. "The Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast": 'Absolutely. Aunt Agatha. Seeing them kissing, she shouted, "That man's a bugger!" to a passing Member of His Gracious Majesty's constabulary. There was a sport of bother and the odd blow was struck. Upshot, Gussie is now in choky, learning to darn mailb ags or whatever. Jeeves, to the rescue!'

`Very good, sir.' (Nicholas Hodgson) 'A bother? No, I love bothering,' said my sainted aunt, dubbed 'sainted' (to her consternation) after she once made a mercy dash down the Ml to get sugar for a diabetic dove belonging to a neighbour which refused to coo without it. She's like a blast of warm air that will blow through any household she visits. Yesterday she offered to change his library books for old Mr Biergutt, a gracious gesture indeed, since Mr B., a one-time bugger for the security services, has little use for intrusive females except occasionally to get them to darn his underpants. `Go away!' he'd shouted at her immediately she appeared, but instead she'd gone ahead and returned with works by George Eliot and Jane Austen. 'All right!' he'd finally snapped. 'I'll have the George Eliot, but you can take the Jane Austen straight back. I never read books by women.' (Tony Joseph) We entered a gracious long gallery hung with portraits. 'That's the first baronet,' said Gervaise. 'Built the house on profits from sugar and slavery. It's by George Romney. On the left is his son, who proceeded to blow up the West Wing doing experiments in progressive agricul- ture. The blast was heard in Norwich.' I looked suitably impressed.

`William, younger son of the fourth baronet. Has a certain dash, wouldn't you say? Rather too much, apparently. Couldn't leave the maids alone and became known as Master Bill-and- coo. Used to watch them undressing through a hole in the tapestry — see the dam? Killed in India after trying to bugger a holy cow. They didn't bother with a trial.'

'And the lady?'

`Ah. My sainted aunt Eulalia, the white sheep of the family, Joined the Sisters of Mercy and spent her life in the Karachi slums. We never mention