COMPETITION

A dozen odd

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1412 you were in- vited to compose a plausible piece of prose including a dozen given words, in any order.

This formula always produces a lively and large entry, so I was not ashamed to reproduce it. Ingenuity is never in short soPPly but plausibility comes rarer. I am slightly biased against pat solutions: a detective called Sandy Goldberg is too obvous a way of disposing of `tartan' and `kosher' in one fell snoop. On the other hand, I am always charmed by a word used ill an unusual sense — only Ginger Jelinek made 'tartan' a Mediterranean sailing ves- sel. Surprisingly 'gag' was scarcely ever presented with the meaning of 'retch', despite the tempting associations of 'tar- tan' and 'mopping', and 'quidnunc' and ergo' were of course the stumbling-blocks. Although I gave no word limit, I was not Prepared for the amount of over-run that Watson Weeks and Peter Lyon supplied, two competitors who gave great pleasure, as did Frances Rhodes, Basil Ransome- ds, Ginger Jelinek and Noel Petty ho did it in 60 words with a cheeky matrimonial ad, ending: 'Kosher replies °MY, please — this is not a gag'). The winners get an especially well earned £9 .?.ach, and the bonus bottle of Champagne Victor Canard (Brut), presented by The John Milroy Soho Wine Mart, 3 Greek St, 1-0.. ndon W1, goes to Ba Miller, not only for sheer plausibility but also for coping with 'ergo' so inventively.

`Not that way, girl. Try widdershins.' Aunt pushed past me, grabbing the thermos. `Can we gag her?' my brother Freddy whis- pered and added, reverting to our old childhood code: 'Yllis ergo!'

As he spoke, the top flew off and the flask fell to the floor, spurting grey vegetable matter, a by-product of a kosher meal.

Instantly Aunt was on her knees mopping up with Freddy's tartan scarf and her usual zip and purpose. She straightened, threw the scarf into the pedal-bin and rubbed her hands. `All shipshape again,' she boomed. 'Now let me tell you the latest about Mildred.'

`The great Mrs Fortescue?' Freddy mur- mured.

Knowing Aunt to be the village quidnunc in matters heterosexual, we waited agog.

`That's just it.' Aunt's small dark eyes twink- led with malice. 'It appears that, due to a technicality, she has no right to be called "Mrs".' (Ba Miller) His contemporaries accepted him, but to us he does not seem quite kosher. It is not just his tartan waistcoat. He was, after all, a by-product of his age — a typical Victorian heterosexual male, but with the American zip of a Barnum and the hide of a rhinoceros. Yet it is too easy for posterity to play the moral quidnunc. He was denied the see he hungered for on a technicality. He seems to have felt and reasoned that he was a bishop or nothing; that he was destined for the mitre; the Church barred his way, ergo the Church was wrong. Ordered to keep silent, he spurned the gag. His doctrinal basis is merely a Christianity that goes widdershins. The Church founded on his rock is not just financially shipshape; every year sees it mopping up more billions from its massage-parlours, sports- grounds, TV stations, eateries and banks, and converts from all over the world.

(George Moor) Commander Featherstone stood proudly on the first tee of the Old Course. Everything, he decided, was shipshape. He addressed. He swung.

`Widdershins, ye daft gowk,' growled his tartan-tammied caddie, 'ye ignorant by-product o' a haggis puddin' an' a heterosexual cleek.'

The technicality of the insults became so obscure that Featherstone, for all his years in the navy, found himself out of his depth. Why had he insisted on a real kosher caddie rather than the smart student who had offered his services?

`Your swing is deficient, sir,' that young man might have said; `ergo the ball tends to zip in the wrong direction. Gag me as an interfering quidnunc if you wish, but . .

Pretentious, perhaps, but less humiliating.

Mopping his brow, he asked for another ball.

(D. E. Poole) `Darling' (my daughter speaking), 'I've just

landed. Flew back widdershins from Taiwan so I'm a bit worn, but I simply had to zip to the phone-box and give you the news. I've met the most alluring man. He's Syrian or Palestinian, I'm not sure which, but it's only a technicality because he lives in New York so he's a by- product and I do so want you to meet him. I told him we came from Scotland, ergo he's brought you a tartan scarf from Hong Kong. I think he said Hong Kong but maybe it's just a gag, and, darling, you won't be an old quidnunc will you and go telling everybody before you've even seen him? He wears rather exotic socks and ties and things but don't worry he's tremendously

heterosexual. Actually I've asked him to dinner tonight but don't start mopping your brow, you'll love him. And I know you'll see every- thing's shipshape and have something really nice to eat — kosher of course . .' (Joan Vickers)

LADY BRACKNELL: Being `gay' merely leads to an advantageous mopping up of a husband's surplus energy. Being heterosexual is not, ergo, necessarily satisfactory for married men in society, as my great-grandmother observed. JASON: I'd like to have a family . . .

LADY B: Children are a comparatively unimpor- tant by-product of marriage, the provision of which would be a mere technicality to a well educated girl. Nor does one have to gag any interfering quidnunc nowadays.

JASON: But to have one's case mentioned in the Times . . .

LADY B: The journal is immaterial. It is now quite kosher to have one's sexual predilections discussed in public. How foresighted to have a zip in those tartan trousers — buttons make it harder to terminate a casual encounter, as my husband, the late Admiral, remarked, consider- ing that a little buggery kept a marriage ship- shape. Now, Mr Budleigh-Salterton, cease circ- ling my drawing-room widdershins, and we will turn to your family background.

(Morris Clarke) It wasn't the usual type — no spies, no bribes, everyone heterosexual — but it was a kosher scandal nonetheless.

The rest of the Cabinet goes one way over selling Westland; Heseltine goes widdershins and resigns, with the by-product of a ministerial reshuffle. That gives a chance for junior minis- ters with a bit of zip, and a field day for the quidnunc with his 'Who's in? Who's out?' Younger moves to Defence, ergo we need another tartan-wearer in the Cabinet.

Then the Solicitor-General spots some tech- nicality and writes to Heseltine. The usual gag on the Law Officers' advice is removed and there's a leak. Brittan resigns and off we go again: more promotions, more attempts at mopping up the mess, and the Government looks considerably less than shipshape.

(Nicholas Hodgson)