IN COMPETITION NO. 1798 you were invited to produce a
description of a sporting event by an ex-cookery writer, or a cookery piece by an ex-sportsperson, in which the language of the writer's former trade is inappropriately dominant.
"Game, suet and mash", one might say,' as Frances Orme excruciatingly pun- ned. There were more cooks in the park than sportsmen in the kitchen, but among the latter I enjoyed Leigh Hooper's ending: 'As big Paulo sped away in his Ferrari, manager Key Combo explained, "The boy cooked great, but it was always an evening of two halves, the serious diners at the 7.30 sitting and the drunks at 9.30. We're going up, and you can quote me." ' The winners, printed below, get £20 each, with the exception of Tim Hopkins, who disqualified himself by ignoring the 100-word limit, but is included because his
COMPETITION
Mixed trade
Jaspistos
entry deserves to be read. The bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to David Barton.
Although, admittedly, both managers had been challenged by the injury-depleted menu on offer at the scrag-end of the season, the ingredients should have produced better fare than the simmering enmity served up as entree, a wooden spoon event to boot. After both sides had given each other a gentle midfield basting for about twenty minutes, I despaired of things coming to the boil and was leaving, when a player, turning up the heat, scrambled a try. This added some flavour to the game, but as it hadn't hung quite long enough to stimulate my gastric juices, I whisked myself away. (David Barton) The difference between the teams was largely one of texture: where Leeds were thick, heavy, lumpen, a mixture unlikely to rise to any occasion, Wolves were always light and crisp, everything done to perfection. Their second goal was a classic demonstration. Bailey's chip, long and delicate a la francaise, found Wagstaffe on the left, where he turned up the heat, roasted the right back and delivered the kind of pinpoint cross that a bun gets at Easter. Dougan, waiting at the far post, had simply to apply the icing, which he did with an elegant finishing swirl.
(W. J. Webster) It had all the ingredients of a classic contest. Short, the cream of British talent, versus Kas- parov, widely puffed as world number one. Everyone wanted a slice of the action, and early tickets sold like hot cakes. But what a dis- appointment! In the opening game Short's defence rapidly crumbled, whereas Kasparov was clearly on a roll. Nice as pie away from the board, he possesses the killer instinct that Short
is, well, short of. For sheer bravura play, Kasparov's skilful petit four in game two, leaving Short's king, queen and bishop hopelessly en croissant, really took the biscuit. From then on it was a piece of cake. Short was in a terrible jam and took quite a battering before resigning the
game. (Peter Norman)
Try and get your blackberries in early — you'll be sick as a parrot if you upset the punnet and have to chase fruit all over the park. Then mix the crumble: flour and sugar, butter cubes in nice midfield formation, and knead. But don't knacker yourselves: make the mixture do the work. Next, spread the crumble evenly over the fruit, but don't press. Crumble down, fingers up, and you'll score. Finally, old favourite or not, crumbles are filling, so don't kick off with anything heavy beforehand. Remember the Alex Ferguson recipe for repeat success: `They've got to be hungry!'
(Chris Tingley) Jockey Omelette Take eggs out of chicken from henhouse, bring them under chef's orders and the odds are ten-to-one against they're off. Eggs should be well broken-in to the starting bowl, making the going soft, and then whisked at a canter until good-to-firm. Add your favourite cheese and seasoning and jump them all safely over into the frying pan. As you come into the final stages they should be running well until you start to whip. Check the standard course time and unsaddle the omelette onto a carefully groomed plate. Dead heat or you may have a fire-blanket finish.
(Brian Miller) I handled the dough, lobbed it into the bowl before curling a few sweet balls into the baking tray. From the corner, I took the sugar substi- tute — a quick throw-in and then a mazy dribble with the lemon. Weaving my way to the oven, I opened up the front formation and pushed the tray into space. When the buns came out after the interval, I took down the cake-tin and slotted them home. The wife was over the moon. 'The Aga done great!' she said. I took a swig of the cooking sherry and soon felt sick as a parrot. As I left the kitchen I hit the upright and had to be stretchered off. But at the end of the day it's all about who gets most buns in the back of the throat. The in-laws came for tea and we handed it to them on a plate. (Tim Hopkins)
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