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COMPETITION

Hit list

Jaspistos

PROMPTED BY KOKO'S SONG in The Mikado, Competition No. 1883 invited a song or poem (not necessarily Gilbertian in style) listing people whose loss would be a distinct gain to present-day society.

Aggressive motorists, rascally brewers of chemical beer, next door's saxophonist, these were predictably on the hit list. Less predictably were photographers at wed- dings who behave like small dictators, buskers dressed as Mickey Mouse, ventril- oquists who can't control their lips, anyone who recommends a way of losing weight, 'Snoopers for litter and sniffers for fire/Dressed in archaic safari attire', and smug, well-ordered people who are always making lists. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Philip Dacre.

Oh, what jealous joys subsist for the true misanthropist In rebarbative assertions of one's secret pet aversions, Like the bumbling hacks of science who provide your new appliance With unfathomable text on the model after next; All who sell financial durance under pretext of insurance Or address your banking needs with grotesquely prancing steeds; Folk who say, 'I'll ring you back' when they mean, 'Forget it, Jack!'; Those who write of wine as oak laced with pebbles, grit or smoke, Or with fruit of any shape unrelated to the grape; Playful pups whose recreation is a lavatory- fixation, And that stupid grinning doll who is some buffoon's 'Nicole!'; Every girl with skirt exiguous whose presence too contiguous Excites a pointless twitch in my atrophying flitch; Esther Rantzen, Richard Gere, David Mellor, Germaine Greer, And — before my thoughts desist from their happy, envious list - Any competition freak who wins instead of me this week. (Philip Dacre) Let's send packing all our bishops — either arch or otherwise, And people at our garden club who always win a prize.

Then what about Virginia — oh yes! — and Auberon Waugh, And those Jehovah's Witnesses who knock upon my door, And the gentlemen in pink who bray and read the Horse and Hound, And Harrison Birtwistle, who makes that awful sound, And, of course, our old Paul Johnson — well send him off to Rome: With his 'frail old man' and cardinals he'll feel much more at home.

Let's get rid of almost everyone — the world won't be bereft If I and Richard Dawkins are among the few still left. (E.M. Blackburn) As the population grows apace it cannot be denied That certain of our fellows might be asked to step aside: The telesales inquirer who addresses you by name, Who's 'sorry to disturb you', but ploughs on just the same; The opera fan who cries 'bravo!' at every dying fall Before the note has ended, just to prove he knows it all; And chaps who give no-obligation holidays in Greece Which oddly disappear when you decline a time- share lease.

Some others we can do without: the public mobile phoner Intent to show he's doing deals from Omsk to Barcelona; The friends who've found, post-Hornby, they've been football fans for years And analyse the offside rule until you're bored to tears; The motorway repairer with his sneaky little ways Of laying out his cones before he buggers off for days.

Yes, there's lots of room for growth upon this small terrestrial sphere, We simply have to nail the ones who'll have to disappear. (Noel Petty) Now comes the opportunity for canines to be ground And betes noires to be hissed — the chance must not be missed!

Imagine all those uppitys just waiting to be downed: So here's my little list — yes, here's a modest list. There's the po-faced politician whose self- appointed task Is to answer all the questions but the ones the pundits ask; Those readers who the sense of things consistently disturb With their stress on preposition and auxiliary verb, And the grinning weatherperson who for metaphors still hunts With his toppling and his trundlings and his pushing up of fronts.

But all these are on the telly — let's get down to real life: There's the guest whose load of drink depends on water for his wife; There's the oaf who can't get through a meal without a 'little smoke', And the one with loads of money who complains he's always broke, And then that new acquaintance who assumes you must be kissed — Though discouraged, he'll insist ...well, perhaps that's half the list. (Annie Brooks)

No. 1886: Sandman's song

You are invited to supply a poem which would help even a hardened insomniac to get to sleep. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to `Competition No. 1886' by 15 June.