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COMPETITION

Annus miserabilis

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1919 you were invited to compose a letter to a poor friend from a Lottery jackpot winner bemoaning the troubles that his or her money have brought.

It was Dickens's Mr Nicodemus Dumps whose friends 'thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was "the most unfortunate man in the world" ', and who was 'afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a year'. The sufferings of your overnight multimillionaires reminded me of Dryden's 'all the sad vari- ety of Hell'. 'Dot and me got well brassed off,' wrote Basil Ransome-Davies's couple in Barbados, 'and bought the hotel and the golf club but it don't make no difference.' 'And then there's the begging letters,' con-

cluded Tim Hopkins's Mr Lucky — 'we miss writing them.' It's the last time I'll buy a ticket!' moaned another martyr. I spare you the conscience-stricken writhings of Philip Dacre's overwhelmed monk.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to John E. Cunningham.

Sweet of you to write, but sorry your habit (I think you mean 'habits', dear) is so expensive and the grant won't stretch. Couldn't you 'demonstrate'? I feel like wearing a sandwich- board myself saying HELP!, but one daren't walk anywhere in Florida.

Yes, it's nice having a chauffeur, but no Filipino can make a decent cup of Earl Grey — sometimes I sigh for the Malvern tea-shops and those simple pleasures.

You said you weren't 'begging' — begging let- ters are the least of it! The threats! And that hor- rid newspaper getting my brother (we haven't spoken since my win) to steal those saucy old holiday snaps! I little thought when my friend — no friend any longer, I may say — in the Women's Guild said, `Go on, have a tiny flutter' where it would lead. My advice: never, never gamble. My masseur is here — must fly — no peace for the wicked! (John E. Cunningham) Thanks for your offer to fit a burglar alarm, Phil; I never knew I had so many enemies, and every- one from the garage to the house insurer seems to have been struck by what they describe as unavoidable costs. Jodie still hasn't got her rab- bit back from the local terrorists, and we've so far negotiated 60 bottles of strong cider for Pinky's safe return, with ears. I'm not seeing a lot of the wife lately. She says the private securi- ty guard camped downstairs needs early morning sustenance, but I'm asleep by then.

The relatives are a real rock of support. espe- cially your brother, who turns up every dinner- time with his burger van to distract the journal- ists while I sneak over the back fence to the bookies. You're a real mate, Phil. I'm sure you'll keep the Bentley safe in your lock-up while we're away. (A.C. Johnson)

You're well out of it. Honestly. First you get Camelot counsellors urging you not to feel guilty. Well, that makes you feel guilty right away. Then you realise you're famous — but not for any valid reason. You're on the front page of the Sun, and all you can think is, why not the Guardian? Why not a paper I might actually buy? (And the horrible thing is, you don't just mean buy a copy.... ) Well, finally you get around to some serious spending, and you dis- cover most really expensive things are so naff you don't want them anyway. I mean, think

about it — solid gold bath-taps, Cartier watches, Faberge eggs ... ugh. And when you do buy any- thing worth looking at — I picked up a couple of Rembrandts the other day — they make you keep them in a bank vault. Well, I mean, what's the point of that? (Peter Norman) A cry for help, I'm afraid. My life now could be summed up in a word: flaccid. A new car comes out? Buy it. A trendy restaurant opens? Go there. No snap, if you follow me.

Then there's the question of lady friends. OK, my love life might have been on the intermittent side before (a bit like yours, I imagine), but we'd talk about all sorts of things during the post- coital smoke: Shakespeare, ice-cream flavours, relativity, Robin Cook. My present regulars only seem to think about jewellery and maisonettes afterwards — and in some cases, I strongly sus- pect, during.

It's often the little things that niggle. The bank clerks, for instance, used to smile nicely and ask how I'd like my money. Now they push through pre-packed wads with a sort of distant air. It makes you feel unwanted somehow. Could I maybe drop round and talk things over?

(Chris Tingley) ... but begging bank managers I can handle. The problem, Brian, is women. They go too far. They use every conceivable subterfuge to get in. They come disguised as tradesmen, they faint outside and are carried in by passers-by. Once in, they threaten to sue for half the house under the new law. All 14 bedrooms are full and I can't get near a bathroom. The gym, pool and sauna are in constant use. I suggested they help in the kitchen, but was told it's demeaning and degrad- ing. Now they are suing for sexual harassment. A few have agreed to adorn the public rooms as Art Deco lampstands, but it's small compensa- tion. Brian, I've lost three stone, my eyesight's going, and I write with trembling hand. The last time I tried to leave, a beauty hit the car with her head and is suing me for aggravated whiplash.

Please help.... (R.G. Pringle)

No. 1922: Sonnet reversed

This was Rupert Brooke's idea and title. The sonnet is Shakespearean in rhyme- scheme except that it starts with the rhyming couplet. It is also, as it were, emo- tionally reversed: it begins on a note of romantic passion and ends in prosaic banality. You are invited to supply one. Entries to 'Competition No. 1922' by 29 February.