No. 1305: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a light but heartfelt valentine with all the ends of the lines rhyming.

That was badly expressed — I meant rhyming the same way — but luckily hardly any of you misconstrued me. The most popular rhyme-ending was naturally `-ine', but I confess to having exercised a small bias against the obvious. The Penguin Dic- tionary of Saints mentions two dubiously real saints of the name, but adds sternly, `There is nothing in either Valentine legend to account for the custom of choosing a

partner of the opposite sex and sending "valentines" on 14 February; it apparently arose from the old idea that birds begin to pair on that date.' No doubt P. J. Kavanagh is spotting something going on in Gloucestershire today as I write, but in London I am peering in vain for extra avian activity.

One of the valentines was for Llewellin Berg, but I'm not saying from whom: at least it wasn't Nell L. Wregible. Owing to the dreaded Basil's long-lined brilliance this week, there's room for only two other win- ners, which is tough cheese for the two Smiths, Michael and 0., who would have made up the usual quota of five. The large bottle of the Famous Grouse whisky, presented by David Potton of the Duke of York, Roger St, WC1, goes to Basil Ransome-Davies, and all three winners get £10 each.

At five past eight I contemplate the horrid mess I've made - The porridge-crust, the coffee-dust, the smears of marmalade.

With poignant doubt I fret about the way the big parade Has passed me by; I'm high and dry; I haven't made the grade.

But though my mood is solitude, and though this last decade

Has seen, I feel, my youthful zeal discouraged or betrayed,

While you are mine, dear Valentine, why should I be afraid To take a chance? To join the dance? To swell the masquerade?

You are, it's true, no ingenue, no innocent young maid,

But what the hell? I think you're swell. I wouldn't wish to trade Experience for innocence, or jealously upbraid Your past affairs. Whoever cares how many guys you laid?

Forget the names of foolish games that you and I once played: This moment counts, and ounce for ounce when mutual love is weighed It's deuce, a stand-off. Hand in hand, not one of us could shade The other's bliss, since in each kiss equality's conveyed.

So as I slump upon my rump and, thoughts of work delayed, Amid my breakfast's scattered wreckage seek the Muse's aid, In 1984 when hate is everywhere arrayed Receive, my dear, this most sincere, though humble, serenade.

(Basil Ransome-Davies)

O bright belle of South Fork, 0 Sue Ellen Ewing,

Your large eyes so lustrous have been my undoing:

Your dear name I murmured — my wife misconstruing

Has been to her lawyer: I fear trouble brewing.

I live for each Tuesday and eight o'clock viewing,

Your hidden admirer with you rendezvousing; Then sometimes in anger I hear myself booing At J.R., your husband, out scheming and

screwing.

Now only a valentine carries my wooing, Though sometimes I'm dreaming we're billing and cooing.

Shall I fly out to Dallas, all caution pooh- poohing,

To take you and love you, sweet Sue Ellen Ewing? (Ralph Sadler) As I've often ruminated, It appears that I am fated To be frightfully frustrated: Being alone is over-rated.

I am fairly cultivated, Not too badly educated, have been inoculated

And had nothing amputated.

Quick, before I'm desiccated, Or else superannuated, Or, for heaven's sake, cremated, Do you think we could be mated?

Or, if that's too complicated, Might you possibly be dated?

(W. S. Brownlie)