No. 1234: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were asked for a poem in which a testator bequeaths part of himself to some public figure or body. You may be interested to know that the skull of Mr Andre Tchaikowsky, the con- cert pianist who inspired this competition, was duly delivered by the undertakers Reeves and Pain to the RSC and is in storage. If a poetic bequest were binding and the old theatre still in existence, the Bir- mingham Hippodrome would be guardian of the `behinds' which Auden and MacNeice light-heartedly left to it in Letters from Iceland. W. F. Owtram kindly reminded me of the hero of 'The Dying Aviator', the anonymous second world war ballad, who with his last breath distributed his various bits widely and wittily (can anyone tell me where I can find the poem?). Among your beneficiaries were naturally the Inspector of Taxes, to whom N. H. Finucane left 'a piece of my mind', and, less expectedly, umpires (index fingers and in one case a larynx). E. Miller awarded 'my left, unwinking, sea-green eye' to Richard Ingrams.

As for my own awards, they consist of £8 each to the six winners printed below and my thanks to you all for giving so generous- ly of yourselves.

My life — though not my cash! — is

nearly spent, And spent it was in quasi-legal fraud; You'll wonder, doubtless, where on earth it it went, That treasure which eluded you, the hoard On which you hope at last to levy duties; But I have left you something far more dear With which to tax your Inland wits, my beauties: One buttock (since I'm in arrears, I fear!).

And so at last you'll get your pound of flesh, For that, I think, is what you yearly seek.

Fear not, my will provides it shall be fresh, That when I'm gone you may admire my cheek. (Belle R. Welling) In fanciful terms I have missed them for years, If they ever were there to begin with; My parents dissolved them with guilt- induced tears, For fear that I'd use them to sin with; And clergy and schoolteachers all took a hand, And my wife, and my sons in particular, Played their part (a conspiracy — must have been planned) In rendering me non-testicular; While only last week, with a surgical sneer, My mistress cut deeply (she hates man).

But still — for the stingiest prizes all year,

I bequeath my two balls to the Statesman.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Some folk no doubt have the temerity To leave their bottoms to posterity.

But me, I long have had a yen To leave my tongue to Tony Benn.

Then each time he gets up to spout 'Democracy!' and 'Tories Out!'

He'll find instead he's said, you see, 'God save the Queen and Mrs T, Support the police — the troops as well - And send all militant Trots to hell' And many other things of sense

(When my tongue becomes Tony Benn's).

(Tony Joseph) To Lionel Murray my bequest Is, lovingly, a shoulder bone (The left), since he's so sadly blest With such a chip upon his own. Besides, the times he is jocose, To put it mildly, are not numerous, And so, to make him less morose, He might appreciate my humerus.

(P

Dear President of Common Room, instead

lladleY)

tead Of sitting hours for some RA to do

My portrait, I would rather leave my head After my death — the likeness would be true. Expertly filleted, heat-shrunk in sand, And economic both in time and cash. There's nothing slower than a painter's hand Yet still the finished daub is only trash. If Common Room will wait a little while To save themselves the cost and me the sitting, I They'll get a real reminder of my smile. (Or else a scowl, if that is felt more fittinri g). ) (T. Gffit115 The Weathermen have forecast rain Which means we'll all be boiled again; Though if they'd prophesied a scorcher , Can't you hear them snigger 'Caughtcha! When, striding forth, you've hardly trodden Twenty yards before being sodden.

To obviate such boobs as these,

I leave the Weathermen my knees,

Whole aches infallibly declare Each threat of moisture in the air Old knobbly-gnarled automata, My own built-in barometer.

(Andrew MeEv°)I