COMPETITION

Remember, remember

Jaspistos

IN Competition No. 1498 you were invited to write an acrostic poem in which the first letters of the lines, read down- wards, spell out GUY FAWKES NIGHT.

Nobody spares a thought for Mr and Mrs Fawkes, solid Protestants, whose con- verted, Popish son went from bad to worse. We should probably spare a thought for loony Guy too, cynically used by Robert Catesby and Thomas Winter, who coaxed him over from France to be the 'fall guy', celebrated posthumously, etymologically and pyrotechnically. At school in the Thirties, I used to be shown flickering films, of great length and near- invisibility, celebrating the history of our Island Race. One of them was 'The Gun- powder Plot'. I remember only one subti- tle, when a member of James's secret police observing Fawkes plotting melodra- matically in a tavern remarks, 'I like not ye men who bite their nails.' Since the Chinese invented them, fireworks are poss- ibly the only technological delight that has degenerated in this century. I suspect that 'Safety First' is responsible.

Despite my title, I didn't insist on the acrostic relating strictly to Guy Fawkes, but, as it happened, the winners' entries all did. They get /12 each. The best runners- up were Ian Flocon, D. A. Prince, Mortim- er Spreader and P. Pratt. The bonus bottle of Champagne Palmer Vintage 1979, pre- sented by Marie-Pierre Palmer-Becret. goes to Keith Norman.

Guy Fawkes is not a person to admire, Unless you're easily impressed by fame. Yet every year we celebrate his name; For, though he failed, he somehow lit a fire. As we ignite the paper and retire, We feel a kind of warmth that's far from blame. Know well that in our thoughts we're much the same, Each longing to act out some dark desire. So let us burn these longings with the guy; No word must ever tell our secret dreams, In case mere thought should turn at last to deed. Grab hold of evil plans and pile them high. Heap high upon the fire all wicked schemes. To fade and gutter with the flames they feed.

(Keith Norman) Gladly did Sir Robert Catesby Undertake to plan the deed: Yon chap Guy Fawkes — (Funny bloke, but Absolutely what we need).

'Would'st thou care, young Guy, to blow up King plus Commons? There's naught in it!

Earn thyself immortal fame, boy! ('Strewth! There's one born every minute!) Now then, take this high explosive; Infiltrate, and then inflame, boy!

Got it Good-oh! That's the ticket!

How's that? 'Course you'll be all right. Toodle pip! I'm off! . . . Goodnight!'

(T. A. Hunter) Gumboots and headscarves to the fore Under the dim stars' feeble light, Yells of excitement round the fire,

Faces expectant, ringed by night—

Always the magic is the same.

We gasp in unison, and sigh, Knowing a pleasure which for some Elusive reason will not die, Some pagan joy in flames and sparks Nothing to do with burning guys: In fact male dominance still speaks, Gloating to see the rockets rise.

However much you hate your dad, The burst of green stars makes you glad.

(Ginger Jelinek) Gather the wood, ignite the kindling twigs! Upon the griddle place the baked potatoes! Yonder the fireworks flare, the fiddler jigs, For this is how the English treat their traitors. A horrid fate, far worse than rack or screw, Waits on the rebel in these cruel shores. Keen though he be to join the martyrs who Enjoy posthumously the world's applause, Somehow the English never seem to care; Not even obloquy greets such a man. Instead of Lenin, Che or Robespierre, Guy ranks with Santa Claus and Peter Pan. Heap on the logs, then! Watch the rockets fly! Traitor, you say? No, no, that's good old Guy. (Noel Petty) Good gad, I'm cornered nicely in a hole! Until this moment all went well, but then . . . You have distorted history, gentlemen. For I was working, happy as a mole About my task, and drawing near the goal When you appeared. It wanted but for ten Kind minutes more to raise the loud Amen, England restored to Rome, and my poor soul Saved in an instant. What a glorious show! Nobody hearing it but would have quailed In awe, both saints and Protestants alike, Gazing at a new galaxy. I've failed. 'How very nearly I succeeded, though. That's the disaster. Easy with your pike! (J. C. M. Hepple) God knows I tried, each time it came around, Unflinchingly to do what fathers ought, Yet those expensive rockets I had bought Failed unaccountably to leave the ground, And one that somehow chose to go astray Went through a window-pane across the way. 'Keep your pets in,' said radio appeals, Excluding Daddy from this caveat, So out I went, much envying the cat, Nailing to posts reluctant Catherine Wheels, Igniting Roman Candles all in vain, Giving the kids their sticks of Golden Rain. Have I conveyed the rapturous delight That once a year was mine on Guy Fawkes night? (Peter Hadley)