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COMPETITION

Glimpse of the Beyond

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1870 you were invited to give an account of a brief visit to the other world — Heaven, Hell, Limbo or whatever.

`Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven,' wrote Francis Thompson, thus giving Max Beerbohm a golden opportuni- ty he missed — a cartoon of the old opium addict sitting, with his hands over his ears, unsuccessfully baby-minding a mob of 'lit- tle angels'. Hell lends itself to description (oneself, other people, interminable wait- ing in a packed airport lounge crackling with announcements verging on the under- standable), but Heaven and Limbo (which always suggests to me endless sugar-beet fields in a fine drizzle on a late winter afternoon) are harder to picture. Among the Hells glimpsed, the most dolorous was Bill Greenwell's, whose inmates had to perform Three Great Tasks: eating up everything you have ever left on your plate, listening to all the radio programmes which you heard only in part, and reading all the junk mail you discarded.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to David Jones. IU RA ,,GLE MALI 5 0101W/11Sn Thomas the Tank Engine gave me a conspirato- rial wink as I left the station and walked towards the waiting Lagonda. I stopped and handed a sil- ver threepenny bit to a newspaper vendor sun- ning himself in a broderie anglaise hammock.

'Welcome to Adlestrop,' he warbled, pointing to the headline 'TRUEMAN SCUPPERS AUSSIES AFTER GOWER DOUBLE CENTURY'.

A group of traffic wardens, busy polishing the car, doffed their caps. With an obsequious 'Bienvenu, monsieur' one of them ushered me inside.

`Don't know where we'd be without the French ies to pick up after us,' the chauffeur smiled. 'Now, sir, the ladies up at the house are terrified of meeting you — naturally,' he added with a giggle. 'Greta, Greer and Grace; the Supremes; all of the Mitfords.... '

We crunched over private gravel. 'Manderley,' the driver announced with pride. 'Incidentally, I'm Martin Amis. Your manservant for eternity.' `Thanks, Martin,' I said, 'You're fired.'

(David Jones) The sun shone all the time. There didn't seem to be any night. People didn't need to sleep, yet they all looked fantastically healthy and were unfailingly courteous. They didn't need to work either, they spent their hours in pursuit of leisure. There were huge shining shopping malls where you could choose whatever you wanted, just by showing a simple plastic card. Nobody had to walk anywhere. Everyone had cable TV. There was no litter on the streets; there were no traffic cones on the roads. There was no soccer violence — in fact there was no soccer at all. The beer was cool and refreshing, but it didn't make you drunk or give you a hangover. Everyone took an interest in personal growth: you could seen an analyst even if there was nothing wrong with you, and talk about yourself for hours. It was a land flowing with lo-fat milk and honey. Heaven, Hell or just California? I'm still not sure. (Peter Norman) Having risen up and passed through the usual tunnel, I found myself in a brightly lit place where A.J. Ayer was earnestly trying to get the attention of two angels who appeared not to see him. He kept gesturing towards a red light and seemed to be warning them of some impending danger, repeating over and over again that his main concern was not to discuss the possibility of survival after death, in which he saw no good reason to believe, but to draw their attention to a red light. It was apparent that he had been so occupied for some time, because he had a long white beard and mandarin fingernails.

Suddenly the red light turned green and he disappeared, leaving a slight odour of smoked salmon behind him. At that point I found myself lying in a car park being given the kiss of life by a bearded traffic warden. (T. Griffiths)

Darnley refilled his meerschaum. `Utter, unadul- terated lust, Toby. Five days' non-stop, hands-on hedonism. Stretch Continental to the Castle Priapus; meet-and-greet hostess Bessie — hotter than Krakatoa — leads me by the — just imag- ine — to my suite. "I'm putting you with the post-moderns, dahhling," she purrs, toplessly. "Catch you in the Ball Room. That's Ball Room. And you'd better be as fit as you feel. Here, we party forever and a lay." "Include me in," I fum- ble. "Honey," she tweaks, "while there's life in your member you're a life member. Geddit?"

'I got it, Toby. Seamless saturnalia. Orgy and Bess. Took years off me. And two stone. Cost me precisely zilch.' He kindled the pipe. 'Ergo, the best things in death are free.' `Sheer heaven, eh, Darnley?' `Heaven? It was pure Hell!' (Mike Morrison) Before me was a haloed figure, squat and flat- nosed. Some instinct prompted me to recogni- tion.

`Attila!' I cried. 'How — ?'

`Surprising, isn't it,' he said bitterly, 'after the press we got? Actually we were converted early on by this wandering missionary. That's why we were chasing the Vandals. We wanted to reason with them and stop them smashing altar-pieces. Only they wouldn't stay still.'

`But the pillaging,' I said.

`Typical Vandal tricks. We paid our way reli- giously, then, after we'd passed, they sent detachments round the back to swipe the money and kill everyone — and we got blamed.' He sighed. 'Things didn't get any better. I conked out on my wedding night, then my men were attacked by these loutish tribes and decided to turn the other cheek. Got cut to ribbons, poor chaps. You'll find some of them in the Pacifists' Milk Bar, opposite the harp depot.'

(Chris Tingley) No. 1873: Kate and Pet

In other words, Katherina and Petruchio, but in this competition the roles' are reversed, the male is tamed. You are invit- ed to supply up to 16 lines of rhyming dia- logue between the two, at the end of which the man lowers the flag. Entries to `Competition No. 1873' by 16 March.