COMPETITION

No. 622:-Book of the week Competitors are invited to incorporate the titles of any eight books advertised for in the 'Books Wanted' columns of this week's or next week's SPECTATOR in a piece of verse which is to be not entirely meaningless. Limit fourteen lines, with a special prize for the best short entry. Entries, marked 'Competi- tion No. 622,' by 2 October.

No. 619: The winners

Charles Seaton reports: According to Rude Pravo, Adam Khan told us, Czechoslovakia is producing too many books on cookery, Catholicism and masochism. Readers were asked to provide a short extract from one of these interesting productions. I expected the three Cs—cookery, Catholicism and Czecho- slovakia—but got plenty of the three Ss as well—sex, sophistication and suspense. Richard Probyn gives us one form of sus- pense: My uncle Dubrov, whose famous recipes follow, was head cook to the notoriously austere Cardinal Czevemy. A culinary per- fectionist, my uncle was also a devout and strict Catholic who ruled his kitchens with a rod of iron. He was one day administering a well-deserved chastisement with a ladle to an idle, blasphemous scullerymaid, a persis- tent offender, when he saw on her face, re- flected in a shining copper pan, a look of ecstasy. Amazed, he desisted; whereupon she turned and, panting 'Patron! Patron! It's kil- ling me! Don't stop! Don't stop!', embraced him shamelessly. At that moment, His Emi- nence entered.

Richard Probyn Here are two examples of the other sort (three guineas for the heretic, and two for Peter): First catch your heretic. Hang by.the wrists for four to five days. Flick a tablespoon of incense over a clean altar, and set lightly smoking. Cut down heretic, and inquire over a low flame for about six hours. Grill, roast or boil according to taste. Reduce to utter despair. If heretic screams 'I like it! I like it !', he's obviously been hanging too long. Re- move from heat. When pain can no longer be felt, he should begin to scream for mercy. Convert into a small Catholic. Serve to your Bishop.

Malcolm Downing Life for a brother was very difficult, thought Peter as he hung above the stove suspended by his ankles. Not only was his sense of taste distorted by his unusual posture, and the Abbot was exceptionally comminatory should there be too much salt in the bouilla- baisse, or if the creme was unduly brfilee, but he was not finding the satisfaction he once did from the thongs' cruel embrace. His thoughts increasingly reverted from the consideration of the Natuan heresy enjoined by his superior to the law of diminishing returns cloudily remembered from the economics semester of his cordon bleu course.

W. D. Gilmour And now to come to the red meat—if that is the right expression. Two guineas to C. L. Bundela and three guineas each to the others printed below. Commendations to K. S. Lightfoot, J. D. Crispin, Joyce Johnson, G. J. Blundell and E. 0. Parrott.

Ludmila, back from Mass, sampled the spaghetti bolognese as Jindrich knelt trembl- ing at her feet.

'Mm. Sauce—tolerable. But the spaghetti —boiled twelve minutes, at least, instead of eleven. Twelve strokes, I think. Trousers off. Bend over the table'.

Ecstatic agony rippled through Jindrich's body as the lash descended. At the third stroke, he made a ritual protest.

`Mistress—remember—you are in a state of grace ...'

Ludmila's lip curled.

`Punishment of a slave is no sin; excessive punishment is only a venial sin. Is this ex- cessive?'

Jindrich trembled.

'N-no, Mistress'.

`Good. After that interruption, we begin again. At the beginning'.

'Loki' 'I used to be a fine upstanding Comrade,' sobbed Borislav, 'but it's cooking that's been my undoing, Father, I'd see a bowl of cream and it would whisper "Please, please whip me," and as I broke an egg it gurgled "Beat me! Beat me!" and the onions were lying there desperate to be chopped and the car- rots begging to be scraped . . . Even at the supermarket I'd hear a thin scream of plea- sure when the bacon went through the slicer. I can't tell the other Party Members about this, Father, but your Church will under- stand. Don't I deserve flagellation for my sins?'

1. M. Crook)

Leopold von Sacher-Masoch's recipe for `Omelette Catholique' is simplicity itself. Have four eggs beaten well into the but- tocks by a severe nun using a blunt crucifix (a female Franciscan over seventy with a black moustache if obtainable adds piquancy to this dish), scrape off with a serrated knife. then drip into a pan hot enough to blister the fingers. When the omelette has just begun to set it is to be replaced on the buttocks to finish cooking. Salt fingers, pepper backside and serve with groans. Bon appetit!

T. Griffiths What is sin?

Sin is ruining an omelette.

What is the best safeguard against this sin? A thick pan of cast iron.

What is the ideal number of eggs per person? The Holy Trinity.

How should the eggs be mixed?

With moderation. Better to whip yourself than beat the eggs too harshly.

How hot should the pan be? As hot as hellfire.

How should the butter be sizzling? Like a soul in torment.

How long should the omelette be cooked for?

An eternity, if the desired end is an abomination.

And for perfection? Forty-five seconds. Roger Woddis 'In the name of the blessed St Ignatius Loyola'. bawled the chef, crossing himself with a brochette, 'get your bare arse off that spiked carving dish, you perverted slut, and help me chop the herbs for the Sauce Béarnaise.'

C. L. Bundela In 1921 my father was made Curt of Prjan- skj. where my mother became his house- keeper. She was justly proud of her culinary skill, and as my father was something of a gourmet, they got along all too famously. Eventually, after a supper of Boiled Bacon, Bramborak and Heavenly Flavours, my father, heated by the choice and appropriate wines accompanying each course, so far forgot his vows that, in the following Sep- tember, I was born. Overwhelmed with re- morse, my father became ascetic, and when 1 was old enough to wield a knout, he taught me to prefer flagellation to females.

_ William Hodson