COMPETITION
In Competition No. 1395 you were asked to describe for a newspaper a sedentary game in the parlance usually reserved for Violently physical ones.
Last week Karpov's 'almost total para- lysis' became complete when Kasparov, whose sacrifices do seem to have a strange- ly aggressive quality, gave away two pawns, playing black, and took the decid- ing game in the world championship. There went my £100 — the most foolish wager, in retrospect, I have ever laid.
I did say a 'sedentary' game, so Kiss-in- the-ring and Shove-ha'penny, though they could conceivably be played sitting down by handicapped people, were not allowed. Nor was Croquet, which is in both senses a bloody game, as a mallet-inflicted gash on my forearm once proved, delivered during a Mixed Married match versus Mr and Mrs J. B. Priestley. Talking of domestic scraps, I liked Paul Griffin's account of Snakes and Ladders in suburbia: It was rough here in Rickmansworth, where Father beat Pru- dence 1-0, in a game marred by spectator violence.' John O'Byrne described the World Marbles Championship in Geneva ( unfair rolling, bunching and poking by the Americans and a bizarre "own marble" by Nagaer crowned a glorious Russian draw') and T. Griffiths chose as his pro- tagonist one of you: 'A Spectator competi- tion is about climbing Everest . . . He gasps for the oxygen of inspiration. He hallucinates. Commas, colons and stops crash about his ears, detached participles flap like bats, syllables crumble under his feet.'
The six winners printed below receive £8 each, Peter Norman's rule-bending entry (a commentary rather than a newspaper report) just squeezing in. The bonus bottle of Volnay Santenots-du-Milieu 1982 Comte Lafon (the gift of Morris & Verdin, Wine Merchants, 28 Churton St, London SW1) goes to John Norman for his peppy description of a game I have never played.
Trivial Pursuit It could so easily have gone to sudden death. During Sovereign's final attack on the centre, with Crispins striving frantically to equalise from 3 down, Brown conceded an easy shot by fumbling a classic Latvia/Lithuania selection.
But it wasn't enough. Robinson could only punch two more home before Bone bounced a fine Art & Literature off Eason, the Crispins' stopper, to regain the die. Silver still had work to do, however, but his insistent hammering of Sport & Leisure gave
Rough play
Jaspistos
Sovereign their chance. The free choice was taken by Crispins' talented striker, Ellis, but Brown redeemed herself with a dazzling straight answer to clinch the final. (John Norman) The speed and ferocity of Smashemov's Glaswe- gian Gambit, matched by the barbarity of Paunsnatcha's lacerating counterplay, had the crowd baying for blood. And they weren't disappointed. For some minutes nothing was heard but the sound of dead pieces slamming into the box, the menacing grunted 'Checks'. Obviously the pace had to slow. But the murderous, grinding squeeze-play that followed was horrible to watch. Crowding the centre with major pieces, Smashemov systematically strang- led the life out of Paunsnatcha till he was writhing, blue in the face, with nothing to hope for but Time Control. Two long hours away! Then, from nowhere, Paunsnatcha found a vicious pin, followed by an agonising fork to the Royals, and it was all over for Smashemov. (Gerard Benson) It was go, go, go all the way (at £200 a time) when Joe 'The Boot' Goldsmith smashed the capitalist empire of Terry `Top-Hat' Thompson in the grisliest Monopoly final of the year. Bricks rained on Thompson as his Mayfair hotels crumbled under Goldsmith's bone- crushing financial pressure: he lost his grip on high-rent blocks as the death-rattle of dice screwed top sites out of his white knuckles. Teeth bared, Thompson fought back, but the blood-letting proved too much. His Utilities gone, wrenched away in Goldsmith's bloody coup, Thompson was a pitiful wreck, bruised and battered by each fall of the dice. 'It was hell,' he confided later in the ambulance, 'but sport is sport.' (D. A. Prince) Maud Golightly is the new British all-comers' piquet champion. And that's official. But make no mistake, Hetty Banister slugged it out eyeball to eyeball with her all the way under the arc-lights in Tunbridge Wells last night.
It was never going to be easy, but right from the first deal, when the Croydonian crowned a ruthless repique with a cruel capot, she showed the jugular instinct. Hetty, the Beckenham brawler, is no vestal virgin herself when it comes to the hand-to-hand stuff, but the Croydon girl's venom made Alexis Carrington look like the sugar plum fairy.
One thing is certain — they'll be talking about this one in the clubs and pubs down Bromley way for a very long time. (Noel Petty) Oh my goodness! A bishop is actually threaten- ing the King! What absolutely extraordinary behaviour for a man of the cloth, Brian! And the King seems rather hemmed in . . he certainly hasn't much room to manoeuvre . . . I say!..This is astonishing! This is a remarkable turn of events! The Queen has physically thrown herself between her husband and the pugnacious pre- late. If you want him, she seems to be saying, you've me to settle with first. And . . . yes, the bishop has indeed backed down. He clearly feels he's no match for a queen with her dander up and I tend to agree with him! Well, Brian, to think that all this started a few hours ago with some minor skirmishes between rival pawns. . . (Peter Norman) Pugnaciously East launched a first-strike of 1 NT — so strong it positively blew the top of your skull off. South's questing double — a restless, probing inquisitiveness such as torturers employ when they perform surgery on unanaesthetised virgins — cowed West into silence. North passed. Now all hell broke loose. East rampaged up to 3 NT, South riposted with a vicious jab of 4 Spades and West, stung to action by his part- ner's double-jump triple-pronged goad, lurched into a staggering body-blow counterthrust of 5 Diamonds.
West, sweatily victorious in the bidding, trumped North's vaingloriously suicidal lead of the nine of Spades and, after a lethal tracer bullet burst of cross-ruffing, romped home, trouncing the opposition by 2 overtricks.
(Charles Mosley)
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