No. 1215: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: Competitors were asked for verses embodying the reactions of a public personality chosen as the subject of the drawing in 'Birthdays Today' in The Times.

Public personalities must, of course, be prepared to take the rough with the smooth, and if the rough includes an unflattering portrait or two, that's just the way it goes. True, Cromwell instructed his portraitist in these terms, `Mr Lely, I desire you would use all your skill to paint my pic- ture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but remark all these roughnesses, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me, other- wise I will never pay a farthing for it.' But your notables, like the rest of us, were not made in Cromwell's mould. Even that tough old warhorse Winston Churchill jibb- ed at Graham Sutherland's portrait of him.

The most likely reactions — apprehen- sion at the prospect of being portrayed and chagrin and wounded vanity at sight of the birthday picture — were well hit off by a number of competitors (noses and chins came in for most criticism, and one disgrunted notable — Pascoe Polglaze's even objected to not being chosen). The prizewinners printed below receive £8 each and the bonus bottle of the Famous Grouse Scotch Whisky goes to Trevor Field.

Who's that with such an ugly face, Contorted in a grim grimace?

His birthday can't be too much fun - Good God, it's me at sixty-one!

That pointed face is quite grotesque: The chin's so thin it's Grecoesque, With Spock's ears and Cyrano's nose - I'm not that ugly, heaven knows.

Though thin on top I may be called, I've got some hair — he's made me bald!

Call that a likeness? What a laugh — It's less a Griffin, more a Scarfe, And though I hate bad rhymes and verse Bad drawings in The Times are worse.

(Trevor Field) As man of many public parts And media pundit of the arts It causes deep offence to see Your vulgar little sketch of me. The crudity of line bears witness To your lack of sense of fitness To salute a public figure.

You prefer to raise a snigger. Had you asked what style I'd like I might have hinted at Van Dyck, A touch of Holbein or Vermeer, Not 'bob-a-nob' on Blackpool Pier.

But as the Finer Things of Life Are far above mere verbal strife I couch my views in tones of languor, More in Corot than in Ingres. (T.W. Hugo) Once I was a 'Pocket Venus', Famous for my looks and grace; But the Times cartoonist's pen Today has etched and wrecked my face.

Ten hideous words beneath disclose The Truth — which makes me crosser still; So many thought me just sixteen When crowned °The Queen of Dishabille'.

And now that All Has Been Revealed Whatever will Lord Fattbratt do?

Take back those pearls and promises Or else for False Pretences sue!

(Monica G. Ribon) At least the fellow's made me look imperious, A little like the Emperor Tiberius, With just a hint of very Low Church parson And lots of Ulster's greatest hero, Carson.

I look a man of force, a man effectual, With frontal lobes distinctly intellectual, Betokening my prowess as a scholar - A patriot who cannot curb his choler At renegades who manifest a tendency To mitigate the Protestant Ascendancy.

A countenance, in short, to brood and linger on - And yet, you know — it's hard to put one's finger on Quite what it is — there's something far less pleasing - I almost think this artist johnny's teasing: Why else should he have made me look, the cad, As if I might be also slightly mad?

(Martin Fagg) And is it true? And is it fair?

And is this Nightmare really me, From which (dispute it if you dare) My boldest grand-children would flee?

Those fish-like eyes, those bat-like ears, That ape-like and receding brow, Have I survived the Fleeting Years To be thus Times-encapsuled now?

Debased, dumbfounded, and pop-eyed I see my last illusions fade.

The Sun of my once Human Pride Has sunk; and I am for the Shade.

Cry Murdoch! and put Honours by!

Better ten billion Times to be De-moted in the Public Eye, Than 'featured' as a chimpanzee! (P.B.) My nose is not that long; my hair recedes, I haven't shed it all; as for my ears, He's made me look like Dumbo. Still, it reads Quite well, this birthday accolade. The years Have not been too unkind. Perhaps my birth, Though not exalted, gave me a good start: The scholarship, the legacy My girth!

It's so exaggerated. 'Fat old fart' - Does this cartoonist hate the human race, Or just those who succeeded? After all, I'm gourmet, not gourmand, And does my face Resemble Humpty Dumpty's on the wall - Hubristic, smug? But nonetheless I feel That 'All attention flatters' is the truth And when you're in the papers a good deal Who cares for beauty, shapeliness or youth?

(Basil Ransome-Davies)