COMPETITION

Gilbertian

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1759 you were in- vited to carry on Gilbertianly after a given first line (which came from the Full Chorus by Wauchope, Horsfall, Klipstein and Krumpacker in T. S. Eliot's Sweeney Ago- nistes).

Space is short, for an obvious reason, so to make room for the maximum number of prizewinners I shall cut the cackle. £25 each goes to those printed below, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky is D. A. Prince's. A happy New Year to you all, from Hobart to here.

When you're alone in the middle of the night, and you wake in a sweat and a hell of a fright, You grope for identity (are you Lamont?) or were you Lord Lucan when named at the font?

The room's roasting hot — is this Dallas? or Windsor? or just global warming that turned you to cinder?

You must have drunk . . . rum? Laced with cognac? and port? it can't be just claret that's muddled your thought.

You recite: chunks of Plato will prove you're still sane — but the Greek that you utter sounds more like a drain;

And who's the Prime Minister? Hell, you don't know! It can't be . . . no, surely not . . . she had to go.

And are you alone? — well, that's OK — recalling your own name's enough for one day.

Are those noises downstairs or just indigestion? Can you land on a statement instead of a question?

Are you ill? Is your temperature fatally soaring? Were you woken by burglars, or just your own snoring?

Is the Rembrandt insured? Is the pound trading harder? Should you turn in the Bentley and buy a new Lada?

Are you married to wife number three or to four? Does she beat you? Is that why you're battered and sore?

Hell! banish all questions like this, s'i/ vous pouvez, and bury yourself in the pillow and

duvet. (D. A. Prince) When you're alone in the middle of the night and you wake in a sweat and a hell of a fright, When your bedclothes put up a strenuous fight and your nerveless fingers can't find the light, Your stomach clenches, you realise that the hairs on your nape are beginning to rise, So you summon your strength and open your eyes — then your nightmare's back in a cunning disguise, For things have stopped being what they were, and familiar shapes in the darkness blur, From the floor by your socks black shadows stir With a spicy scent which just might be myrrh, The air is oppressive and growing thick, your tongue is furred and you feel quite sick, The alarm clock's playing you a dirty trick as it's magnifying each pounding tick, On the roof there's a sharpening of monstrous claws and the soft, steady scrabbling of greedy paws, Then the chimney widens its sooty jaws and on to the hearthstone slides . Santa Claus.

(Alanna Blake) When you're alone in the middle of the night and you wake in a sweat and a hell of a fright, And you feel in your bones you've made an omission, or moved the wrong piece or confused the position, The win that was yours starts to fade like a ghost and your mind wanders back to the move in the post, Your brain is befuddled, you shiver and shake — now the stunning reply is a silly mistake, And nothing, 0 nothing can make it all better, for fool that you were you have posted the letter, And the game that was yours with the brilliancy prize is lost at high speed right in front of your eyes.

Your king looks in horror and totters dismayed, unable to fathom the move you have played, While the enemy queen that was yours for the taking gets ready to strike and your centre is breaking.

It's horrible, tragic, 0 how could you do it? Now night after night in your dreams you will rue It,

You knew he was beaten, your confidence • so.ffed, you answered his move with no glance at the board, But now in the darkness the game is in view and you know, God, you know, what he's going to do:

He'll smile when he sees you've gone terribly wrong and your pawn and your pride will be

lost, en passant. (Frank McDonald) When you're alone in the middle of the night and you wake in a sweat and a hell of a fright, And somehow the pillow's crept over your head and the duvet's slipped down off the side of the bed; Your arm has been twisted, your ear has been bent, your heart's beating fast for some threatened event (You're convinced to the core that you're under attack), there's a cramp in your foot and a crick in your back; There's a rattle of windows, a banging of doors, a squeaking of cupboards, a creaking of floors; There's the hoot of an owl and the howl of a dog, on a night when you thought you would sleep like a log . .

Take comfort, turn over, attempt it once more: at least there's no partner beside you to snore.

(Mary Holtby)

No. 1762: Midlife crisis

'Nei mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,/I went to Venice with a girl called Rita . . This odd couplet entered my mind the other day. You are invited, using any metre or rhyme-scheme you choose, to continue it after the word 'I'. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to 'Competition No. 1762' by 15 January.