COMPETITION

No. 603: Garden parties

Set by Molly Fitton: In a recent SPECTATOR article, David Walder tells of 'an energetic canvassing lady of my acquaintance who is capable of looking at the plants in a garden or the colour of a front door and judging thereby the politics of the occupier. Roses, for instance, as one might expect, are staunchly Tory . ..' With a general election hulking over the horizon, competitors are invited to supply an extract from a Can- vassers' Handbook proffering advice on equally esoteric means of determining electoral allegiance. Limit: 120 words; entries, marked 'Competition No. 603', by 15 May.

No. 600: The winners

Trevor Grove reports: To mark the occasion of the SPECrAToR's 600th competi- tion, competitors were invited to celebrate their own imponderable skills with an ode or sonnet to 'The Compleat Competitor'. Adam Khan pointed out that I had blun- dered badly by referring to this historic event as the competition's 600th anniversary, so I hope I may absolve myself somewhat by printing—and awarding three guineas to— Mr Khan's excellent panegyric to this six hundred year old SPECTATOR addict:

Ther with us was a greet competitour That ofte hadde stryven in the Spectatour: Up-on a sely hobbye-hors he rood; Of japerye, y-wis, he wroot a lood.

Smal wit hadde he, yet to it smerte tonge broghte, And mochel ginglynge poesye he wroghte. Moche hadde he lered; certes hadde he rede Of bokes of geste and rym mo thanne hundrede: And aldermost him list to parodye The werkes of alle auctours fetyslye. Ech competicioun wolde he wel avyse In hope therby he moghte acheven pryse. He lovede assaye hys conning genst alle othere, For gode devys, he wolde y-selle hys moder.

N. J. Rock's compleat competitor is some- what less mediaeval in his competitive ambi- tions than Mr Khan's mother-selling gingler, but wins three guineas nonetheless: See where he sits, oblivious of the screen, Hemmed in with tomes, pen poised, and on his brow Behold the furrow of his Friday plough, Drilled by the problem's earnest discipline! What matter it that week by weary week No mention of his name or work appears? Nor any vantage that his pocket cheers? These not the prize his lonely searchings

seek! Rather the guerdon to perfect the task, To be in tune with other, clearer minds, To pilot skilfully where Lethe winds And Sloth lies torpid and the Sirens bask. Well may he sing who made six hundred

tries: The running, not the runner, rates the prize!

In the same spirit—a slightly doleful. very English. acceptance of one's own limitations and the perversities of fate—K. S;Lightfoot suggests a slightly more pessimistic view of the whole thing: If you can dredge up snippets of quotation, And parody your betters to a hair; If you can make competing your vocation,

And neither be too with it nor too square .11 If you can try for every competition However far beyond your scope it's set You'll end up with it as your sole ambition— And ten to one, that's all the joy you'll get, Other competitors, perhaps sharing his views, were content simply to detail some of the obstacles along the path to weekly . pre- eminence; as Rhoda Tuck Pook put it: '0 Fagg thou shouldst be winning at this hour/ (As very probably, indeed, thou art) . . Here's Peter Peterson, who wins three guineas, on the same subject (though I advise readers not to take the dark hints too seriously): Fagg, be not proud, though some have

called thee Khan and O'Dowda; for thou art not so. Never from one brain could such fancies flow: Thou art not three in one, but one in three. Resistless trinity of wit, must we, Whom your bright sallies weekly overthrow, Each week yet weaker and more witless grow, While you each week divide the victory? Since thus your wits do in contention thrive, Would they were one, and so the less compleat!

Then with thyself thy self would weakly strive, As fearing not a mightier match to meet; And we might hope, at height of phantasy, That three of us might equal one of thee.

In punning mood, Joyce Johnson, who wins three guineas:

And who is this Competitor? ?is he Who weekly through the mazy Grove

will see

The wood for trees, though Smallwood

there may be.

Seizing the paper, quickly will he seek The back ("Watson? Woddis the theme this week?"). His fertile brain will then concoct a brew Of wit the next a.m. (and P.M. too?). Next will he Boyle it down to small confines And T ticket all away in fourteen lines; All hums and Hawson starting he declines. He knows that he can fail, and

Adam Khan't.

A Fagg at times? At optimistic most, It's fun for Cash. This much he'll gladly

grant,

Then put his best Foot forward to the post.

Honourable mentions to W. A. Payne, R. L. Sadler, E. P. Heriz-Smith. Nancy Perry and and Messrs. Greenhalgh and Cohen, and a final three guineas to another punster, Edward Samson: Some earn, perchance, a guinea now and then: Their strength is hope, for theirs is weekly wit.

Few reach the Grove of Academe's top ten; While you, Competitor Compleat, ne'er quit, But take with ease (and Roget) ev'ry prize. Surely, you have outgrown our tiny stage: Make room for dimmer lights of lesser size, Who strive to fill the nicherupon this page. Six hundred times you, or your winning kind. Bedazzled us with verse and sparkling prose; On different lines now work your tireless mind, That our, the light beneath the bushel shows. Retire with grace, your laurels and your

gains :1 Guinea-pig supreme! You have proved

your brains,