caSIVAS R EGA

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION 1VAS RE-ca

.4, YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Double-you

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1682 you were in- vited to incorporate, in any order, 12 given words beginning with w into a plausible piece of prose.

`Dear Colonel Bagshot, Winnowing (please see below) through a wad of small ads, I see that you need a work-horse wallah having the wherewithal to do odd jobs for a retired, world-weary Wykehamist warrior . . .' Paul Wigmore went hell for leather for a good start. Beside him, equally bald-headed at the first fence, was David Heaton: 'Wick: Wednesday, Wuthering, winnowing wind whirls widder- shins, whipping waterfront. Wastrel Willy wends walkabout way with world-weary work-horse wife Winnie watching, withers wrung . . .' But this was a race for the stayers, perhaps the most difficult course I've asked you to run this sort of steeple- chase over. All honour, then, to the first

five, printed below, who get f.16 each, and to John Goodhand, who carries off the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky. (Where, I won- der, did the train-driver put that wad of cotton-waste?)

`When I first used this line,' observed Carruthers with a world-weary sigh, 'the only engine was a condemned Ivatt work-horse rescued from the Hooghly River delta. The driver wallah was a Bengali wino from Brasenose who, whenever he had the wherewithal, got so tight that he thought he was a werewolf, and at full moon would drive the monster widdershins round the marshalling yards at Allahabad. Eventually someone tipped the authorities the wink, and under the general winnowing out of staff known as "natural wastage" he was dismissed. He was upset, naturally, but I still don't think there was any excuse for where he put that wad of cotton- waste.'

'I heard,' I said, 'that when he was at Oxford he used to grow mustard and cress in a wok.'

Carruthers nodded. 'We must make allow- ances,' he murmured. 'After all, he was a Wykehamist.' (John Goodhand) Just didn't work out. Different objectives, see. I was walking widdershins, she was walking deasil. Guess I was just too world-weary. She thought it was hauteur; a bit of a pose. She wanted a work-horse, basically. How do you reconcile the girleen you meet on a misty morning, her hair 'soft-lifted by the winnowing wind', with the grown woman who berates you for not having a wok? (`The Savages have got one!' You said it', I said.) Same in bed. Wanted a werewolf. When I had the wherewithal, I had to book in advance. Well, she's gone now. I won't say in the wink of an eye, but still Interior design wallah, apparently. Wykehamist. 'A rather dirty Wykehamist,' as Betjeman puts it. Wad of money. She'll like that.

She said I'd end up a wino. Maybe. Can't stand the sedentary life. Much prefer lying down.

(James Tebbutt)

The men gyrated sunwise, the women widder- shins. Winnowing husks from the soul, they called it. I gave it a cruder name. Witches and warlocks, they called themselves; I called them trash. The Chief Warlock, a raddled old wino, allegedly a fellow Wykehamist, led the dance, partnering the Queen of the Coven, a world- weary old work-horse, all mane and nostril, obscene in her nakedness. Their wobbling flesh was a sight to discourage the keenest seeker after metamorphosis, and yet people thronged, each with a considerable wad, to witness the transformation of Rudolf, who would turn, so it was said, into a werewolf before our eyes. The wherewithal to effect this wonder, an evil- looking draught, was being prepared in what appeared to be a wok by a skinny wallah in a greasy loin-cloth. He fed a spoonful to Rudolf. In the wink of an eye, Rudolf's skin began to sprout rough hair.

(Gerard Benson)

Midnight. Dyspeptic and world-weary. Detective-Sergeant Ellis sat over a wad of documents, winnowing evidence. A wino's voice was raised in complaint from the cells. Sunt lacrimae rerum, he thought, but did not say: an officer of his rank could not safely admit to being a Wykehamist and DC Briggs, the old work-horse sharing the investigation, had a caustic tongue.

The case was absurd. Had the Chinese cook attacked the Asian customer who could have modelled for a punkah-wallah in The Jewel in the Crown, or vice versa — `widdershins', as Briggs said in his professional-northerner idiom? Who wielded the wok? Briggs sighed. His contempor- aries led lives of leisure; he, lacking the where- withal, had to work.

Suddenly nothing mattered. 'Let's nick them both,' he said — and was amazed to receive, for the first time, a friendly wink and a werewolf grin of acceptance from Briggs.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Marcus Berkmann reviews The Rolling Stones With a leer and a wink Jagger prances on stage.

Can this be the same man who, clad like a Satanic baddie from a Hammer werewolf movie, prowled widdershins around the world's stages in the Seventies? If Phil Collins is an Old Carthusian, one feels that Jagger could nowa- days pass for an Old Harrovian, with Wyman perhaps the group's Wykehamist. Thankfully, Richard is still the wrecked wino look-alike. Odd how winnowing Death takes a Brian Jones or a John Lennon, but ignores the world-weary Keef. Work-horse Charlie Watts flails away at a selection of ironmongery (including what looks like a jumbo wok), and Ronnie Wood takes it easy, squatting cross-legged like a punkah- wallah. But all eyes are on Jagger. Why does he still do it? The answer must be that, despite the size of his wad, he still needs the wherewithal.

(John MacRitchie)