COMPETITION

No. 594: Marooned

A publisher's advertisement currently in the public eye is claiming that a novel by a certain Miss Gwen Davis has something special to offer: 'If you've ever wondered what the end result would be if Mary McCarthy and Jacqueline Susann were marooned together for nine months on a desert Island with Philip Roth, then here's your chance to find out . ..' Competitors are invited themselves to suggest what 'the end result' of this intriguing situation might be —by submitting either the opening passage (limit 120 words) of a novel offering a similar opportunity for discovery, or 120 words of appropriate trialogue from Mr Roth and the Masses McCarthy and Susann. Entries, marked 'Competition No 594' by 13 March.

No. 591: The winners

Trevor Grove reports: It was recently re- ported that Dr Christian Barnard is to star in a romantic musical film, to be made in South Africa and featuring a heart transplant scene. Competitors were invited to compose an opening number, theme song or rousing finale for the picture, a proposal which elicited a wide variety of suggestions from readers, ranging from the unrestrainedly ribald to the frankly adoring, as this from Mary Holtby, who saw the film as 'a sort of oratorio' (and wins three guineas): 'Lift up your hearts!' We lift them, Chris, to thee; Here at thy feet thy fond disciples see: 'Lift up your hearts!' E'en so, for bane or bliss, We lift them up, we lift them up to Chris.

Above the swamp of those grey years between, The slips, the boobs, that telly dared not screen, The halting tongues, unused to play a part- 0 Chris, you lifted every human heart.

Lifted the organs which were yours to lift, Sorted and shifted, till the final shift; Short shift for failing hearts! the fertile brain And agile fingers fixed them up again. So when Doom's trumpet calls for you and

me—

`Lift up your hearts—wherever they may be!'

Still shall those hearts respond, in battered bliss,

'We lift them up, we lift them up to Chris!'

G. J. Blundell's entry suggests a similarly grateful attitude to the whole transplant business-and wins three guineas:

The heart I have is not my own; It was transplanted in me, My old one being long outgrown, A new life-span to win me.

I hope it ticks along quite well, With no attacks to stop it.

Until, my nineties reached, I shall Immediately swop it.

So, when I've matched Methuselah's score Of years, with parts refitted, Above his span I'll gaily soar, Senility outwitted.

And if I go on in this way, Not entering death's portals, I'll surely find myself, one day, Among the great immortals.

And three guineas to Edward Samson : 0, here's to the girl the motor-bike slew! And here's to the man the girl never knew! Those young in heart are ever so few, So, hurry up! Heave ho, me hearties! 0, here's to the man whose heart wasn't true!

She gave him her heart, what else could she do!

So, pop out the old, pop in the new, And scurry up where the spare part is!

Here's cheers for the man no longer afraid! Though his is the girl another man laid, He's happy to win the heart of a maid, So, hurry up! Now for the parties. Men who are wise a girl's heart don't reject; Keep it more years than we dare to expect; Or, till the rest of his body is wrecked, So hurry up! Cheer up! me hearties.

Clever references to Philip Sidney and 'My true love bath my heart and I have his' abounded, amongst them a pair of heart- stopping ditties from Maurice Reckitt and Cole Hawlings. But the final prize (four guineas) goes to Margaret Cash: We opened in Durban and lanced some carbuncles And turned two old aunties into quite rude uncles.

We sutured in Cape Town and swapped pallid livers, And purloined the vitals of gullible givers. But Christian always wanted, Christian dearly wanted, to slip his knife around a heart.

We drip-fed in Jo'burg and planted some giblets.

Rejection was patent—we told a few fiblets. We incised in Jamestown (three bladders re-shuffled And no public hair-piece was seenito be ruffled).

But Christian fiercely wanted, limelighted he wanted, to slip his knife around a hearts

We lopped in East London and remodelled noses, And shuffled the offal in between doses; Then in Groote Schur we passed up our scalpels While star-carver Christian caught us by our lapels.

For Christian got his wishes, a slicing so delicious, of tissue round a bleeding heart.