No. 1356: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a teenage Valentine poem in the appropriate jargon.

This was an educational comp. for me; since my jargon has not kept pace with the times, I had to telephone several teenagers (reversing the charge, as they do) for elucidation of odd words. Some of you, sensing that I might need help, kindly appended explanatory footnotes. The jar- gon ranged from punk to Sloane Ranger to computerese, as in Paul Griffin's nice couplet: Disconnect from the other guy's marketing spiel.

Only his deepdown throughput's for real.

The prizes (six winners take eight pounds each) go to the poets who managed to inject an uncouth, naive note of sincerity into their offerings. Ron Rubin, D. A. Prince and Charles Mosley were enjoyable but unlucky this week. The bonus bottle of Vosne Romande Les Beauxmonts 1980, presented by the Chelsea Arts Club, is awarded to Peter Shotact.

Commies are red, Tories are blue, But I prefer the Parties 'eld by you.

I want you for My Valentine, I think you're really Great, say you'll be mine.

You can share my Bostik and pot, 'Cos I fancy you Loads, I tell you what - Be at Sid's caff Friday at three, The guy with the bright Orange 'air, that's me. (Peter Shotact) 'Ere, Tracey, if we two was, like, To, well, shack up, I mean ter say, We'd 'ave a lovely time an' all, An' see each uver every day.

An' we could go for walks an' that, An' ave a dog or somefink like, An' go an' see your Sis down South An' see the country on me bike. I reckon we could save enough To get our gear an' stuff up West, An' you could put a good bit by 'Cos I would buy you all the best.

It sounds dead tasty, don't you think,

An' we'd do Clubs, an' all that too!

Oh, come on, Trace, an' say you will, You must know that I reckon you.

(Bridget M. Rees) You're so aware and cool and street, The way you move is really neat; You always freak out all the guys, You're so together bodywise.

You've got me totally amazed, Your consciousness just leaves me phased; My heart is beating fit to bust; You're where it's at, you've got it sussed.

I'm into this romantic scene And everything you've ever been; You'll be my girl who's got the funk, I'll be your argot-conscious hunk.

(Jonathan Webley) You are my luv, my 'eart's desire, You cheer me up, take me 'igher and 'igher, I'd whisk you away on the back of my bike, But I've still got my L-plates, so you'll just 'ave to 'ike.

I'd give you all the world and more, Even my Boy George poster stuck on the door.

I luv you madly, I'm off my trolley. 'Ere, who're you calling a soppy wally?

My 'cart goes wham! my mind's a-quiver.

On Valentine's Day I hope you'll stand and deliver.

A cracking bit of stuff that's what you are, Worthy of a brandy and Babycham down at the bar.

I'm not a poet, nor yet a rapper, All my chat's off a choc-bar wrapper.

But you're my Valentine for all futurity And we'll live together on social security.

(Ronan Fitzgerald) I saw you up the pub the other night. You was addressing Mandy.

I was undressing you. I'm Andy.

The other slags are only out for kicks.

You move more kind of lazy. That sweat-shirt turns me on Real crazy.

My trendy slut! My tart! My Valentine!

Call up your drink — I'll buy it.

My key would fit your lock.

Let's try it. (Mary Ann Moore) Tracy yur grate I think yur bewt Iv luvd you sins You pewkt on mi sewt.

Tracy yur fab Top of mi pop hits I remember the time I first sor yur zits.

Tracy yur reel I kiss yur ringd toes Reed yur tatoos And wip yur peerst noes.

Tracy yur mi Valentyn Yur notta drag I luv you ownli Coz yur a slag. (R. J. Pickles)