COMPETITION

Conduct unbecoming

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2104 you were invited to write a poem deploring the ungentlemanly behaviour of Major James Hewitt as an ex-lover of the late Diana, Princess of Wales.

Around the obviously unpleasant and not very bright figure of James Hewitt there hangs not only 'a faint aroma of decaying seals' but also a whiff of almost comic caddishness, personified so outra- geously by Beachcomber's Captain Foulenough who, as a gatecrasher at smart parties, when challenged to name his regi- ment used to reply brazenly, 'The north- north-west Rutlandshire Camel Corps'. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky belongs to Geoffrey Riley.

If the public call you names, You have well deserved them, James: Words like bounder, blackguard, heel, Are appropriate, we feel, For the men who kiss and tell. But for those who kiss and sell Some more potent term seems due To describe a parvenu Who makes money from his passion In ungentlemanly fashion.

Such rapacious lack of shame Surely merits a new name: Anyone who stoops to do it Should be simply called a 'Hewitt'.

(Geoffrey Riley) Fate was unkind to her, everyone knew it, Stole her Prince Charming, sent her James Hewitt; Teased her and mocked her, a mere adoles- cent, Promised a gentleman, gave her a peasant; Someone who should have provided a shoulder Turned out a Judas who kissed her then sold her.

She must have imagined a major would never

Sully his name for a handful of silver. Fate threw her vermin, a scoundrel who lusted For regal embraces, and sadly she trusted. How could he run with the dogs that pursued her After he comforted, counselled and wooed her?

But what do rats care as they feed from the gutter?

They're viewed with revulsion, but what does it matter?

All we can hope is, when hounded and harassed, Hewitt will hurt, like the folk he embarrassed.

(Frank McDonald) Though Milton doesn't mention it, A space is saved in Hell, A corner of the fiery pit, For those who kiss and tell.

And those who kiss and tell and sell Are damned a thousandfold — The thieves of love, who stooped and fell To scoop up tabloid gold.

They occupy the darkest cell, Imprisoned, flayed and burned Where no delayed remorse can quell The agony they've earned.

In anguish, they may scream and yell, But never douse the flames That scorch their carcass. You'd do well To think about it, James.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) An officer and a gentleman Is always much deplored For bragging to a Sunday rag About the way he's scored.

For any careless kind of Ken To spill the beans on Barbie Is quite as bad as bribing lads To throw the Epsom Derby.

One thing to bonk the bored young bride Of our prospective ruler, But I draw the line at Valentines Being auctioned for the moolah.

I hope Her Majesty the Queen, Noting how low you stoop, Will see that you are turned into A brownish Windsor soup. (Bill Greenwell) Out of the blight that covers him, Beleaguered in his self-dug hole, How can the one-time lucky Jim Uplift his base, two-timing soul?

In the fell clutch of greed for pelf That disaffects the disendowed, Without a gamp he finds himself Under a dark financial cloud.

Beyond this place of hurt and tears Lies one who, having loved too well, Must now be spared post-obit smears. Though he has kissed, he shall not tell.

It matters not how lurid his Report, how revelation-crammed: Seen for the bounder that he is, He'll fail to publish — and be damned.

(Ray Kelley)

No. 2107: The final solution

You are invited to write either a poem (maximum 16 lines) or a piece of prose (maximum 150 words) entitled 'The End of the Detective', either beginning or ending with the words 'He died while filling in 21 across.' Entries to 'Competition No. 2107' by 14 October.