COMPETITION

Toad-eating

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1734 you were in- vited to write an 'ode' in honour of Jaspistos's 65th birthday.

The toad-eater was the assistant who accompanied the travelling mountebank and ate, or pretended to eat, a toad (then considered poisonous) so that his master could appear to cure him. Some of you really swallowed the toad, some of you only pretended to. As with the. toads, so with the odes: some of them were Pindaric, others 'pretend'. All were acceptable. A few of you sent messages: I got a delightful birthday card, a demand for prize money allegedly unpaid in June last year, and a claim, by a fellow in North Uist, to be distantly related to me. Why `Jaspistos'? I have often been asked. It was the name given to me in boyhood by my elder brother, for whom I acted as toad-eater on many occasions. The `Jas' is for James and the `pistos' is the English equivalent of the ancient Greek word for 'loyal', often ap- plied to slaves. There you are.

The especially blessed prizewinners this week, who are printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to Lindsay Ardwyn. Thank you for your teases and salutes.

On your natal anniversary, congratulations cursory!

Though strange it is to hear you're still alive; It remains an unsolved mystery why great men throughout history Are mostly long deceased by sixty-five.

Lucan early wrote his poem (for which act we chiefly know him), Keats and Byron went as far as they would go; At the age of thirty Shelley had been quite reduced to jelly, And another decade did the same to Poe.

It would hardly rank as slander if mentioned Alexander Or the Kennedys, who met a bloody end, While Rimbaud died rich and friendless — but the catalogue is endless, And I'm sure by now you see the common trend.

I have sent these thoughts to cheer you as decrepitude draws near you And you contemplate the rotting of your brain. To the best of your ability take pride in your senility And gaily race your wheelchair down the lane. (Lindsay Ardwyn) A day for fanfares and displays of pomp To greet the umpire of the weekly comp: To you, Jaspistos (may you long survive!) Our fond regards on reaching sixty-five!

Your burden is to judge and not to shrink From drivel that would drive a man to drink, From limping verse that breaks the basic rules And laboured slabs of prose by bloody fools.

As every sportsman knows, the game's the thing, The purest pleasure comes from entering: It's nice to gain a prize, but God forbid We do it merely for the twenty quid!

A curse on those who fail to toast your health By pleading ignorance or lack of wealth! I take their pretexts with a pinch of salt. (Better, with Aberlour Pure Highland Malt.) (Roger Woddis) I'm trying to concoct a cunning code, Honest but humble, pithy but discreet, For Jaspistos' mandatory Birthday Ode, Conveying kindly thoughts, and still not cheat. But can the man be really sixty-five Already? Well, I trust that he will thrive.

Old age of course is technically beginning. I hope he's agile, and retains his hair; But if it's sparse and all-too-quickly thinning, Well, hang it, that is only right and fair Considering competitors are tearing Theirs out by handfuls, baffled and despairing.

The weekly competitions he contrives Challenge the grey cells far into the night, And over scores of very varied lives He wields his rod for victory or blight.

(Jermyn Thynne) Come, join with us, the OAP brigades Who sometimes wonder how on earth we stuck it (The Swan said Seven Ages, not decades, Before at 52 he kicked the bucket), Let's thumb our nose at the advancing shades, For Age brings benefits of all descriptions: Bus passes, Saga Tours and free prescriptions.

Be welcome amongst us, who in this race Accompany you to worlds unknown or chthonic; Whose faculties stern time can't quite efface, Although our short-term memory's simply chronic - Join us, who beg of fate one final grace: That competitions may, in Hell or Heaven, Still tantalise the sons of '27.

(John E. Cunningham) Thou long unfathomed judge of prose and rhyme, Begetter of a thousand tasks that tease, At whose behest I while away my time In searching out some trifle that may please, All hail to thee on this thy natal date, As I, enlightened now, rejoice to see Thou art one man, no soulless syndicate, That lurks behind thy strange identity.

Nor art thou, henceforth, ageless and aloof Like some Olympian god, beyond my ken; Thou hast, alas, no armour that is proof Against the lot of ordinary men.

But thou shalt flourish while the rest retire; Still shall thy weekly offerings endure To tantalise, infuriate, inspire.

Still shalt thou tease and we accept thy lure.

(0. Smith)

No. 1737: Damned by praise

You are invited to write a review of an imaginary book (maximum 150 words) whose enthusiasm is far more likely to turn the reader off than on. Entries to 'Com- petition No. 1737' by 17 July.