No 3580 Set by George Cowley
We wanted a profile of a typical comper.
Report by Ms de Meaner
The shortest entry came from R J Pickles ("Loser"), which indeed is true. But hell, it's the profile of a typical Lottery entrant, too, so you must be used to it by now. Strange how the word "loner" came up so often, and "keeps himself to himself". Didn't Duncan Campbell in the Guardian once point out that this is what the neighbours always say after someone living in their street has been found to be a mass murderer? The winners get £15, an hon mensh to K Roken ("Compers are the most glamorous, sought-after celebrities on the international social scene"), and the bottle goes to David Silverman.
You want to know about a comper, do you? Well, let me tell you about my mate.
He's a good pal, this one. A real diamond geezer. If he takes a liking to you, that is. Always good to his old mum, too. Never forgets her birthday, always brings her a present. Gave her a set of flying ducks last year, real tasty they look on the wall of her semi, they do.
Mind you, you've got to say that some of the things he's done have been a bit out of order. I mean, that business with Jack "The Shoe" McBiscuit was a bit naughty. Still, it's only when he forgets to take the tablets that he goes a bit, well, funny.
Thing is, he's got this hobby, and that's doing your competitions. Loves to have a go. Wins sometimes, too.
But not much just lately.
And that's the problem, see? Because he's not winning, he's getting a bit, like, edgy. Looking you up on the map, sharpening his axe, things like that.
So let's hope I - I mean, my pal - starts winning again soon, eh?
After all, we don't want anything unpleasant to happen, do we?
Michael Cregan
Age 30-60, going on nine.
IQ As above.
Sexual orientation Definitely.
Literary tastes Haikus.
Appearance About once a week, if you're one of the lucky few.
Surely you're not implying favouritism in the judging, or bribery and corruption? Absolutely not. The integrity and probity of the judges is beyond question.
What then - a lack of critical ability? Wrong again. The intelligence of the entrants is surpassed only by the brilliance and wit of the judges.
Then why lucky? Wouldn't you feel honoured to appear regularly in the pages of such a high-quality magazine?
Oh, I see. What about political views? Champagne socialist, with a touch of enlightened self-interest (ie, who cares as long as it wins?).
Most likely to say I didn't really think it would win anyway. Good old Bill, he deserves the champagne once again.
Least likely to say The truth.
Do say Darling, that's marvellous! And it's all in perfect iambic pentameters. Oh look - zeugma! And is that a chiastic construction? I'm sure it'll win.
Don't say Get a life.
Not to be confused with Cowper, Compo, Complete waste of time.
David Silverman
Mr Basil Ransome-Davies, when not head-down in the latest Nick Hornby, is a contriver of shadow-animals, a man who has kept faith in an art form perilously threatened by the video age. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he lugs along a film projector - a slide projector will do, at a pinch - to the local hostelry, and there creates an astonishing menagerie with the aid of only his thumbs and fingers (one of which is missing a joint: he is his craft's Russ Conway). At his home in Weybridge he contrives to find time to write verses, under a variety of ecumenical pseudonyms, for the local parish magazine. None of his fellow worshippers, it transpires, know of his fondness for the left-leaning lyrics of the New Statesman, although he does display his back numbers of The Nation and The Week-End Review, to both of which he subscribed in his youth. A former staff writer with I-Spy, Mr Ransome-Davies attributes his longevity to his "tincture" - a concoction of gin and creme de menthe, which he drinks, eccentrically, through a whistling straw, for which he has the patent. Mr Ransome-Davies learns a new word every day: this Tuesday it was the turn of "morganatic".
Will Bellenger
The patient appears to be suffering from a rare form of obsessive-compulsive disorder focalised on a minor literary competition in a small-circulation and once left-wing weekend review. His own explanations are difficult to follow, because he embroiders them with a wealth of puns, allusions, quotes and in-jokes, but they feature a strong paranoid overlay with a distinct suggestion of sexual envy. "Is Bill Greenwell sleeping with her?" is a phrase he often blurts out, and he also curses aloud such names as Noel Petty and Basil Ransome-Davies. We can take it as read that these are his imaginary Oedipal rivals for the Mother.
All his normal psychosexual energies have become displaced on to an activity that, though entirely trivial, occasionally brings him renown; but it feeds his suspicion as well as his vanity. Monomania has usurped his personal and social identity. At present he should be allowed controlled access to a word processor, but I recommend that this should be progressively diminished until he is pressured to desert his schizoid fantasy realm and recognise a measure of shared reality. The treatment is unorthodox, but this is a case of "desperate remedies".
G M Davis
No 3583 Set by Ben Ross and Margaret Rogers
Step forward the Poet Laureate. Surely the photos of Sophie 'n' Chris (Tarrant) are important enough to warrant a line or two? Entries in by 17 June.
E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk
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