COMPETITION

Very vulgar

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1768 you were in- vited to describe, as a guest, an appallingly tasteless entertainment given to friends and parasites by a modern nouveau riche millionaire.

`Trimalchio came in mopping his brow and washed his hands in scent. After a short pause he said, "Excuse me, gentle- men. My bowels haven't been working properly for several days. My doctors are completely at a loss. But I've found that pomegranate rind and pinewood boiled in vinegar help. Anyway I hope my stomach behaves itself now. It rumbles so loudly you'd think there was a bull inside it".'

That was Petronius's vulgarian host. Nine- teen centuries later, I remember as a boy a man called Turnbull being pointed out to me by my parents as the nadir of bad taste. The fellow had a cocktail cabinet which played music when it was opened, he wore a kilt whose tartan he had no right to, he used the back of his mashie-niblick to putt with, and he had an indoor swimming pool — which we parasitically enjoyed, as my

parents did the cocktails. Times have moved on; the threshold of shock-horror is lower, as your entries colourfully demons- trated. Join the party.

The winners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Aberlour Single Malt whisky goes to our first Down Under drink-snatcher, Michael Kaufman.

The evening began with us tucking into a wonderful prawn cocktail, served in plastic replicas of the FA Cup. 'None of your Graham Gooch rubbish here,' declared our host. 'Fresh from "Iceland" this morning, defrosted in the microwave. More thousand island dressing any- body?' The Bulgarian red was pronounced altar wine by mine host. 'After each mouthful you gasp "Jesus Christ", ' he boomed, sloshing more into each brandy balloon on the table.

"Ere, this pheasant's got bits of bloody metal in it. I think I've done me plate,' he shouted during the main course. 'You get down the butcher first thing, Sharon, and if he gives you any cheek tell 'im I'll be down meself.'

The instant coffee in tasteful blue Wimbledon FC mugs and a new box of After Eights concluded the dining, and as a special treat we then gathered round to watch our host's very own video, with the sound down and the commentary by the star himself.

(Michael Kaufman) An exquisitely sculptured manikin stood centre table. Whilst seemingly hewn from ice, its distinctively jaundiced appearance evoked puz- zled glances from the assorted guests. Acknow- ledging that this chilly monstrosity had become the cynosure of all eyes, our host was led to remark, 'One hundred bottles of "champers" went into that, and yes, ladies, I'm sure my wife will confirm that it's modelled on yours truly.' At this, a servant removed a hitherto discreetly positioned loin-cloth to reveal the outrageously proportioned but anatomically plausible genita- ha. To make matters worse, the icy member was to serve as a conduit to direct a stream of defrosted champagne into a strategically placed tray of goblets. When they were eventually raised for the Royal toast, our host, draining his in a single mouthful, articulated his opinion that Krug (which he pronounced so as to rhyme with jug) always tastes better without the fizz.

(Merrick Moseley) Dear Sarah, The Palace-warming was hideous. It wasn't so much the queuing with 5,000 guests for pizzas in my gold lame décolleté, with the hand-painted Sevres plate in my gloved hand. It was the sight of the Deer Park as we swarmed out of the Great Hall. It had been turned into a stadium. (All his outlets are now selling Royal Stag- and Queen-burgers.) It was a scenario of smoke and appalling music; demoniac figures stamping and shrieking on a fume-wreathed stage seared by flashes of light, like the damned in some Faustian hell; demented approval from the night-shrouded guests . . . Nuremberg rally stuff; sex gestures sketched with guitars by strutting skinheads. And that was only for Handel's 'Water Music'. Then adverts. I didn't wait for the Wagner.

She didn't want to sell the place to him, God bless her. It was the income tax that did it.

(James Keenan)

Dosh and Lolly Newpence's Valentine bash was gasp-making — poor Lord Oldcoyne wouldn't have recognised Groate Manor! The rooms were hung in pink brocade with festoons of white lace; crimson velvet hearts and ribbons; silver mirrors, and gilt putti with Norman Lamont faces. Red roses everywhere! The Newpences were costumed in a matching amalgam of Hilliard and Gainsborough. The cerise-tiled swimming pool in the Orangery was full of pink champagne on which floated wild strawberries, cherries and Turkish Delight in doily-lined, plastic water lilies. Everyone was presented with an inscribed silver goblet emblazoned with a scarlet enamel heart. Lavish food continued the colour scheme — red caviar; smoked salmon; lobster, even cochineal-tinted rice and pasta! The piece de resistance was a heart-shaped cake on a gold chariot with a nubile Godiva/angel playing a harp, drawn by a Chippendale- physiqued 'Cupid' — both painted gold with strategically placed crimson feather hearts.

(Pip Lawrence)

No. 1771: Boring is beautiful

You are invited to write a poem (maximum 16 lines) in praise of some banal, prosaic and poetically neglected activity. Entries to 'Competition No. 1771' by 19 March.