SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 265 Report by Allan 0. Waith

A London brewery is re-equipping one of its pubs as a Victorian gin-palace, complete with original etched mirrors, porcelain-handled beer-pulls. mahogany panelling and studded leather. A prize of £5 was offered for an ode of delight or derision, in not more than twenty lines, from one of the following: Swinburne, Lawrence; Chesterton, 7'. S. Eliot, Edith Sitwell, John Bet jeman.

COMPETITORS seemed very unsure of what a Victorian pub must have been like, and rarely trusted their imagination to provide more items of furniture than were men- tioned in the competition-though one extremist did suggest a 'crystal cuspidor.' This perhaps explains the dearth of Betjemans, of which Sheila Knowles's would have taken a prize if she had been able to maintain the standard of her open- ing lines:

'From the air-conditioned lounge bars Of a hundred Dog and Guns, Where a thousand gin and tonics • And a thousand Worthinglons . .

As a result there was a certain sameness of approach, emphasised by the overwhelming popularity of Swinburne and Chesterton. Poor Swinburne in particular took a fearful battering and most of the 'apologies to A.C.S.' were well-merited.

Apart from the general regret at the pass- ing of the buxom barmaid, there was a widespread feeling that the strength of the beer should also reflect Victorian taste (though no one even dared to hint that Victorian prices ought to prevail). The Chestertonians naturally stressed this: 'I don't care where the Bad Taste goes if it doesn't get into the beer.'

(MAURICE B. RECKITT.)

'But Huggins is a publican And apes the bygone ways-

, God send his ale be half as good As in.those ancient days.'

(E. \V. FORDHAM.) (R. KENNARD DAVIS)

On a corner site, where the stop-signs stutter And myriad motors hoot and meet, Where the ghosts of journals litter the gutter The corpse of a Public fronts the street. The long glass echoes a thousand candles, The rich mahogany gleams afar, And the beer, deep-drawn from the porcelain handles, Froths and foams at the marbled bar.

But sadness sits on the studded leather, And hitter, bitter the beer we quaff, And we sigh as we drink and dream together Of the chaffing lips that have gone like chaff.

For lied is the form of the bright bar-maiden, Gone with the gleam of her golden hair, The buxom bosom with brooches laden And the bovine beaming, gone, all where?

Swallow, my brother, 0 brother swallow The last flat drop whence the foam hath lied. And paying my score for me. sadly follow Forth from the pub where the past lies dead!

(ALLAN M. LAING)

Ghastly Glories • (Fragment of a Swinburnian Ode) Planned palace, Victorian and vicious, Designed for display and delight, What barbarous brewer, ambitious, Has sanctioned thy sobering sight? Shall beer-pulls, when porcelain-handled, Slake sweeter the throat-swelling thirst?

Thy counters when ghastly gas-candled, By cads not be cursed?

Shall man find mahogany magic To jolly his jorums of gin? Are crudely etched mirrors not tragic, Suggesting old sorrow and sin? Thy benches of buttoned brown leather, Smooth-seated but empty of art, Are trials too much altogether : They harden the heart. The Porpoise at Peckham (With apologies to G. K. Chesterton) The Porpoise Inn at Peckham is as sleek and bright as sin; And Teddy boys creep out of it, and Teddy boys creep in.

Blue hands trembling from the night blasts cold, Raised to hail the barmaid with her hair pale gold; Beer-pulls handled by the barmaid-queen. With their white glint of porcelain and their silvery sheen.

Brown frothy beer, hurrah!

Domino gloria.

The Porpoise at Peckham is worthy to be seen.

Brown beer flowing as the lights gleam far (The landlord of the Porpoise stands smiling in the bar).

The walls are hung with mirrors of shim- mering, shiny glass; They reflect the leather seating, they reflect the hails of brass.

The room is thronged with people who have come from far

(The landlord oftthe Porpoise stands smiling in the bar).

The Teddy boys are lounging in the bright lights there,