No. 1314: The winners

Jaspintos reports.. Competitors were asked for an extract from a story in the 'artfully Orwell left-wing' boys' paper which `irwell once suggested founding. For the curious, Orwell's correspondent On this subject was the writer Geoffrey Trease: see Bernard Crick's biography of Orwell, Penguin edition, p.385 and note. Hardly any of your efforts could be des- cribed as 'artfully disguised' and most of You stuck to Greyfriars and the Fat Owl, though there are plenty of other institutions and characters to paint red. What about the Weekly comics of yesteryear (or are they still Whi alive?), the Champion and the Hotspur, in ch avidly used to follow the fortunes 01 a bicycle team, Racer Dan and his Whirl- Wind Wheelers, and of The Red McGregor, da violent but conservative Scot who ons, yed the opposition by hurling his per- caber caber with uncanny accuracy? Slight- grUdgingiy, I award £10 apiece to the five k W: in nners printed below, though, God ows, they have earned it.

The: day of the inter-house cross-country race enrrived. Neville and Franklin were eager to compete. But the new boy, Josef, wore a frown. 'What's the matter, Josef?' asked Neville.

uo they make us run against one toTter?' replied the swarthy youth. we ought

enemies. Trying to beat our chums makes us a `'"'es. Wouldn't h make more sense if we 'gr.,.,,eed not to compete?' all very well,' put in Franklin, 'but if y'y 017on't try it means that b know he always wantseastly to be first. Kraut will win.

'

Joseres, do know.' There was a wry smile on s together face' But we can breast the tape We'9113sh'' all get

said Neville. 'What if we're caught? a horrid wigging.' Rut that

tveri 's it. You see.' Josef handed out some it tog —ting Strip from his tuck-box. 'If we all do a s,_ther they won't be able to put the blame on hoe one of us. It'll be a super wheeze. Collec- securit, I call it.'

(Basil Ransome-Davies) .ouch Yarroo, you chaps, leggo my prep,'

work °ung Kinnersley.

out 'It's taken ages to

- many trade-unionists need many Years ow to build an old people's home.' how

(Mark Gilbert) The Doctor glared sternly over his spectacles as he addressed Assembly next morning.

'Boys,' he announced grimly, 'due to a public- spirited pupil, acting upon the prompting of Divine Providence, the thief among you has confessed. Come forward, Llewrog.' A murmur of concern spread through the Lower Fourth as the diminutive Welsh boy, known as 'Pony', stepped bravely towards the stage. We knew the truth. The sneak Ponsonby, son of Lord Piles, had obeyed his conscience again. Not for himself had Pony searched the pockets of the Cons. Club Sixth Formers while they were at their beastly meeting; he was acting under orders from us, the Underdogs. We had sworn a blood oath to ease the lot of Mrs Clagg, our charwoman, whose drunken husband and seven children made her whole life a misery.

in his time of trial. I hope our signal — a low grow] — helped him (Jean Hayes) Inch by inch, with the rope about his waist being let out, Jack crawled down the slope towards the curate lying crumpled with blood on his head where it had struck a gargoyle. Expertly he tied the other rope about the curate's waist with a double knot. 'Haul in!' he cried, feeling faint for the first time. 'But what made Mr Stewart go on the roof?' he asked as he drank a glass of lemonade hastily fetched from the vestry. 'Ruskinism!' said the Rector. 'Peering at old carvings meant only for birds and angels. Ruskin was an art-writer and Socialist.'

'A Bolshevik?' Jack had heard of grand- duchesses killed in cellars and thrown down mine-shafts.

The Rector smiled. `No, an English Socialist. Same as William Morris. Wanting England to be fairer, in all senses. Jack, you'll find the others fairer to you from now on. You had more pluck than anyone!' 'And, you petit-bourgeois blighter, you've got it wrong,' smiled the leader of the raid on the bumptious fag's study — Stansgate, the only fellow in the House who'd played at Lord's. 'You haven't grasped, as even Skinner has' and he pointed at the school bully — 'that the problem involves central planning, so that for each man working you must calculate 1,625 actually required.' Kinnersley gazed in admiration. 'Gosh, Scan- ners... that means less unemployment... more wealth-generation ... better facilities for homo- sexuals.' 'Precisely,' beamed Stansgate, 'and if the Eleven can only be democratised, every boy in queer the pitch.'

the school can exercise his right to (P. M. G. Shiel) The trouble with Quelch, the Fat Owl mused bitterly, was that he was a whale on bourgeois ideology. He never listened to William George

Bunter's authentic proletarian voice. obtuse. Quelch was a beast suelchho.nle-made

bramble jam was theft initohleQ' Quelch Expropriating Mrs ignored the Marxist roots of Bunter's answers in history class, preferring to describe them as deponent verbs, those exploded relicsit came to relics of an obsolete stage of history. Yet failure to meet Quelch's standards — the standards of a class enemy! — invariably meant six swipes across the tightest trousers in the Remove. It was hard on a chap. Especially when the chap had always had strong conscientious objections to corporal punishment.

(George Moor)