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12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION

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Secrets of the deep

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1712 you were in- vited to write a blank verse soliloquy, Browningesque or not, by the ghost of Robert Maxwell.

'I don't reckon him ornamental, now, do you?' said Israel Hands of a dead fellow- pirate in Treasure Island. Apt words for Cap'n Bob, whom I worked for, well below decks, until recently, and who still owes me £500. If he were only alive, I could at least attempt my brother's Mkt, who in the Pergamon days was owed much more for much, much longer. In desperation he rang the bell of the Headington mansion one morning and the door was opened by the Captain in a be-dragoned dressing-gown. Mutual amazement. `Ah, Professor, to what I owe this unexpected pleasure? Sit down, have a drink.' My brother remained upright and dry, and after a quarter of an hour left with a cheque personally signed by Robert Maxwell in his pocket. That's Scotch chutzpah for you. Like the narrator in Thurber's 'How I met D. H. Lawrence', I myself almost met your actual fellow. Along with other menials on the European I had received an embossed invitation card, from Maxwell pere et fils, to a party. There was some cold red plonk waiting to receive us and six television sets round the room, all showing a long puff for the paper. Six Maxwells flickered on the screens, but none turned up in the flesh. I guess the chopper was delayed. With pub- lic relations at this level, it was hardly surprising that none of my shipmates piped an eye when the 'tragic' news broke.

It was a splendid entry, especially diffi- cult to judge, even allowing for my bias. The prizewinners, printed below, get £16 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Andrew McEvoy.

And all the time, within, two forces fought.

One was my urge to ape the English gent; Assimilate so utterly that I, Accoutred in my deep-pile velvet voice, Became more British even than the Brits.

The other was my scorn for their 'fair play' (Mere flabby indolence), a 'decency' That makes them loath to kick the man who's down When that's so obviously the safest time To kick him hardest. How ironical That this most independent-minded race (Or so they boast) should yield so rich a crop Of pliant sycophants, of toadies apt To execute my every ogreish whim — The hearts that spaniel'd me at heels', who now Sick up the sweets they wolfed so slavishly. • (Andrew McEvoy) Ahi quite a task I've set you! Please don't stop. It much amuses me to watch you frown And sink beneath the weight of balance sheets. Yes, 'sink' — I read your thoughts. That story, sirs, Will not be told today — not told, that is, By me — there will be those who'll wag their tongues

And sell my life in plays and firms and books. In death I'll yield a profit to outweigh The piddling sums I owed at my demise. Let others gain. Non nobis nascimur — My motto, sirs. You wish me to translate? 'It is not for ourselves that we are born.' What's done is done, and everything I did Was done for others, not myself. That's why I fought so long to keep my schemes afloat. 'Afloat'? You've heard me say I'll not be drawn!

(Keith Norman) I longed to be a Hero of the State.

Which State? you ask. Now, please don't interrupt!

I hoped it would be Britain; flung around Millions enough to fortify my claim.

Yes, they were someone else's. That's quite true; But all the same, one day, I told myself, The sums would come out right. Lord Maxwell, then; Maxwell of Pergamon was one idea; Maxwell of Maxwell, even. All no use: Time in its wisdom dubbed me Captain Bob.

One chance remained, thanks to those millions thrown Into the State of Israel: there in peace (Shalon, they call it) with the great to lie In high Jerusalem. It all went well.

Boy, what a funeral! By now, of course, Itzhak Shamir has learnt a thing or two.

(Paul Griffin) Of course I'll talk. Just one thing — please don't ask How I departed. There's a fee for that: Your budget for a century, paid — you've guessed!

But am I happy here — what would you think?

Where corporate governance radiates from One Who, sadly, isn't me, who calls a tune Impossible to drown, ignore or gag?

No enterprises here, no gambling haunts, No dressing-up, directorships or yachts, No Mirrors, pensions, Europeans, writs, But life's an infinite intimate review Of all you've ever done, to nurture thoughts Of honesty, humility, remorse, In cleansed and classless souls, afloat, sublime, In vast, ethereal equilibrium. It's known as Paradise. I call it Hell.

(Philip Dacre) Well, I admit to ambiton — that's no flaw, Else how would all your great men rise? — a taste For power and influence, honours, chair- manships

(In Who's Who that fills fifty lines, no less), And, above all, a love — aye, talent, too! — For the great, ruthless Football Game of Life. 'Admit', said I? Nay, 'boast', I will assert. What if men called me upstart, bully, cheat, Name-dropper? That's just rivals' jealousy. What count in the world are chutzpah, steady

nerve, The courage to fight back, brazen things out, Cut corners, call the shots! The goal was fame — But then I heard a distant whistle blow, And the grand ball-play had to end at last . . . Now, safe within my tomb upon the Mount, I can ignore the vultures crowding round.

(Geoffrey Riley)