No. 1246: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a unseasonable poem in dispraise of Christmas.

Schenorhavor Dzenount! Roomsaid Joulu Puhi! Boldog Karacsony! Nodlaig Nait Cugat! Those of you who are Arme- nian, Estonian, Hungarian or Gaelic-

speaking will understand. My meaning may be clearer in Japanese: Meri Kurisumasu! Get it? Yes, I wish you all a happy Christmas, thoroughly deserved after the entertainment winners and losers alike have given me throughout the year. And in the case of the gentleman who attempted only one competition in 1982 — by telex from Hong Kong — please come back!

`Season of lists and fellow-fretfulness!' wailed P.M.G. Shiel, one of several com- petitors who cleverly adapted a celebrated poem for anti-celebratory purposes. Gerry Hamill's Scrooge figure signed off with a charming snarl: 'So Christmas cheers to you, brave dears, I'm just a noel coward.' George Moor took an antique Roman stance:

A Jew, a Buddhist and an incredule I count true friends. 1 think it monstrous hard Acquaintances expect a Christmas card Because of Emperor Constantine — weak fool!

Those three, together with 0. Banfield and Paul Griffin, just missed getting some of the loot in my sack. Since I'm in the giving vein this week, an exceptional f12 goes to each of the winners printed below. Pedro Domecq's bottle of Carlos III Selected Brandy is bagged by Philip A. Nicholson, and the second prize, a bottle of Château de Barbe Villeneuve 1971, is now the property of Belle R. Welling.

Alas, the time is come again To make the sacred more profane, To summon up the festive zeal, The bonhomie one does not feel, Time to fix the idiot grin As ghastly Christmas gifts roll in, And from their gaudy wrappings creep Evil things that burp and bleep.

Once more on TV screens appear Worn-out films of yesteryear, Cards arrive from persons who Will not be blessed with one from you, Feuds, preserved with loving care, Wither in the hate-starved air.

The saints preserve us through this season That plunders pockets, peace, and reason!

(Philip A. Nicholson) A curse on every Christmas, and a plague upon its presence!

It's a season for the queasy at unreasonable prices, When lowly High Streets dress up dreck in dreadful luminescence, And a weeny peek-a-boo begets an economic crisis; When shoddy goods, inflated by their `value'- added taxes, In that never-never-never land, the world of HP sorcery, Are purchased by poor parents in a wild excess of Access - That open door to EXIT, and the cause of more divorcery; When turkey necks are jerked to bring on bloated bird bonanzas, And umpteen sad-sack Santas sit bedraggled, ragged, blotto, To be bearded by some bloody kids for piddling plastic Panzers In an all-too-aptly designated 'Father Christmas Grotto'.

Yes, it's Christmas and the Tiny Tims are stuffed with packet Paxo Till their bellies and their bowels are repulsively distended, While their relatives run rampant with some rather risque cracks. Oh, Good God! give us a blessing — let this festival be ended!

(Belle R. Welling) How drear the days of Yuletide, When families are massed To squabble over trifles And disinter the past; When prezzies are recycled The same old talc and socks; Surfeit of fowl and spirits And chocolates and the box.

Such caterwauling carols! Such silly party hats!

Such hyping in the high street!

Such mercenary brats!

So pass the festive humbugs, Let holly wreaths go hang, And emulate those three wise men, Who missed the whole shebang!

(Bridget Loney) Bogus are the carol-singers stumbling through a verse, Bogus are the charities a-tugging at my purse, Bogus is the Santa and the snowflakes on his back - Bogus as the 'home-made' pudding nestling in its pack.

Bogus are the thanks we give for over-pricy tat, Bogus is the goodwill of the letters on the mat, Bogus are the tired old stars appearing on the box - Bogus as the shepherds all a-watching of their flocks.

Bogus are the churchbells as they call us all to pray, Bogus are the worshippers who only come that day, Bogus is the bonus for the Old Sods from the State - Bogus as the 'Yule Log' in an all-electric grate.

Bogus is the tradesman with his 'Spare a thought for me', Bogus are the plastic candles on the plastic trees, Bogus is the merriment that some call Festive Cheer - Bogus as a Spirit that appears but once a year! (John C. H. Mounsey)

Oh Lord, your birthday sure does come around! Once more I face interminable parties, Cherubic choirboys with their jubdates, Observant shepherds seated on the ground, Reindeer and robins on repulsive cards, My annual wrestle with the dindon rod, Aunt Flossie's present (always Talc de Coty), Monopoly — or shall we play Charades?

The tree sheds all its needles on the floor While twirling angels hang from every ceiling, My cartilages ache from over-kneeling, The same old carols penetrate the door.

Good will my foot! To shun my fellow men I'd journey to the Pole in Terra Nova: Thank God the jamboree is nearly over, And war on earth will soon be back again.

(Peter Hadley)