Competition - Win a bottle of champagne

No 3583 Set by Ross and Rogers

You were asked for poems on Sophie from the Poet Laureate, with a reference to Chris 'n' the royal breast.

Report by Grace Elegy

When we said Poet Laureate, we meant the current PL, our dear Andrew Motion. £15 to the winners. The bottle goes to Anne Du Croz. So very clever.

Sophie. You are the favoured girl

that Edward chose - a tomboy, years ago

pictured in jest in the back of a car -

so what: give them two fingers! But

be careful! Royals are Hello! people

always pursued in the fast lane: cross

them if you dare! Try for obscurity,

mundane marriage. Remember -

"It's likely an accident," that's what they said,

he "was drunk". She died, your beautiful lookalike,

there in the underpass: gone in a flash -

accident? Maybe. No more dangerous play.

Anne Du Croz

That it should come to this:

the brother of the heir apparent

almost married to lips that gave a kiss

to Chris Tarrant?

That a man balder than Brynner

should open a private bra

to all and Sundry. Is he not a sinner?

If not, then who is? Or are?

Royalty must press the flesh,

but the tabloids reverse the process:

the better, it seems, to enmesh

its readers in a national psychosis.

Let the zoom lens be thrifty!

And what of Tarrant, in the end?

Did he ask the audience? Go 50-50?

Or phone a friend?

Will Bellenger

Down there, in Hardy country,

winter-born Tarrant rips the covers

off the Snow Queen, awakening lust

in Jack Frost, Sun King of the north

(Incy-Wincy ate my ladybird ate my ladybird, shout

the gossamer morning headlines).

Balmoral rapes Osborne, Woden

strangles Hermes - Mittwoch is held

in the Euro-weak force. Plath-powered,

Ted Hughes as Doctor Death frightens

Larkin into a second, deeper grave.

As PL, I could see canals

on Mars, und Tombaugh saw

Pluto, King of Deadtown and

of Sophie, Tarrant and Prince Ed.

Robin Oakley-Hill

Driving at dusk in the West End

after work and "hospitality"

you dreamed of a man for all reasons,

but knew it wouldn't be Chris

whose alert fingers tugged your top

in a professional rough-trade manner

as the camera snapped

on a fraught, shadowy nipple.

And that's all. Or if not,

if there was any other delving

the images are hidden, absent,

left to our loyally censoring imaginations.

Better for all to picture

the royal caress, the less-than-blokeish hand

free of disc-spinning inanity

creeping into your knickers.

Basil Ransome-Davies

No 3586 Set by Leonora Casement

"With the benefit of hindsight there were alarming signs of a twisted mind at work . . . which included getting up at 6am and cooking a roast meal for breakfast" (Times). We'd like 200 words on a twisted mind seen with hindsight, by 8 July.


This article first appeared in the 28 June 1999 issue of the New Statesman, Buy your home and kill a job