Competitions nos. 167A and 167B: results

A spot of bad planning here. Last week we had Pope. This week we have Pope. That surely could have been avoided unless it’s a case of ‘No-one says ‘No’ to Naomi Royde-Smith‘. She asks for up to 21 lines (21! One competitor chides her for suggesting there could be a line over) by Pope on the premise that he has had lunch at the Ivy, and spent the afternoon round Covent Garden and Fleet Street with various editors and agents.

Royde-Smith is taking no prisoners here. Why do the entrants start writing before reading the instructions? Her brief report is a slightly cack-handed piece of disguised Pope:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERADamon is the only recipient of any prize money:

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The second competition, however, is, even allowing for the fact that Royde-Smith thinks it is, something of a success. Competitors are asked to come up with ‘six suggested improvements to the human frame’. She prints two winners, but also some of the other suggestions. One of these entrants is P.Y.Betts – Phyllis Yvonne Betts – then a short-story writer in her early twenties, but later to fade from view until 1989, when her memoir People Who Say Goodbye was published to considerable acclaim. (She had vanished, rather as Jean Rhys did, from sight – first to East Anglia, then to a secluded part of Wales.) There is a very good blog about her here.

People-Who-Say-Goodbye-coverThe main prizewinners are Majolica and Little Billee.

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Competition no. 162: results

Akron headlineMartin Armstrong sets just one competition, inspired by the crash of the R101 in 1930 (a disastrous flirtation by Britain with airships, which killed the Air Minister, amongst others), and the very recent disaster that had befallen the USS Akron, an American airship that had crashed on April 4th 1933 because of weather conditions not far from Lakehurst, New Jersey – exactly where the Hindenburg was to come to grief in May 1937. In fact the Akron was a greater calamity in human terms – there were only three survivors, including Executive Officer Herbert V. Wiley, who (incredibly) went on to survive the crash of another airship, the Macon, that he was captaining, in 1935. All the passengers drowned at sea when the Akron crashed. You can see a newsreel (silent) about the Akron here and also an interview that features Wiley and the only other two survivors (both sailors) here (scroll down).

R101R101 wreckage

 

AkronThe theme of the competition is whether man has gone too far in the struggle to overcome the elements. (Man certainly had with airships.) The poem is allowed to have any form, but – and here’s an early mention – prosepooems are forbidden (because ‘they have no form’). The prizes are three guineas, one guinea and half a guinea. The winners are Prudence, T.E. Casson and Damon – with Noel Archer, Mariamne and Hilary all commended.

It has to be said that they do not read like poems from 1933: too grandiloquent. And I’d have thought Damon’s poem shaded it, even by the antiquated standard being adhered to.

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Competitions 34A and 34B – results (the first clerihew comp)

34A, set by Gerald Bullet, is a minor fiend: a poem that has the title ‘London River’, has no adjectives of quality, no adverbs ending -ly, and either octosyllabic or decasyllabic lines (between twelve and twenty of them).

The winner is D.C.R. Francombe – probably Donald Courtney Ridsdale Francombe, then about 24 – who beats off a better poem because the better poem doesn’t obey the rules. The runner up is ‘Damon‘.

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34B is the first of what will be countless clerihew competitions over the next eighty years. A clerihew is, if we believe the tale passed down by its creator, Edmund Clerihew Bentley, something he came up with as a schoolboy when 16 in 1891: specifically, this one: Sir Humphrey Davy/ Abominated gravy./He lived in the odium /Of having discovered sodium. He published his first collection of them in 1905. These potted biographies are addictive. The Sunday Times once set a competition in the 1980s, and I would guess they received thousands (okay I sent in over eighty, but at least one of them won some champagne …). I have even had a clerihew banned by lawyers – although Private Eye bravely faced the prospect of being sued, and reproduced it (‘Elizabeth Taylor/ Might appeal to a whaler:/ To a landlubber/ She’s just so much blubber.’) It had been scheduled to appear in Gavin Ewart’s collection Other People’s Clerihews (1987), a book with a fair claim to having the dullest title ever published.

Bentley (1875-1956) was equally well known for his detective novels (I must have read Trent’s Last Case [1913] ten times), but his middle name (presumably of family origin) has survived longer than his other two.

Edmund Clerihew Bentley, 1934

In Bullet’s competition, the first name out of the hat is the prolific writer Maurice Baring (1874-1945), Bentley’s contemporary, who moved in a similar social circle. As a journalist, poet and novelist, he had been strikingly successful (at this point of his life, he had just started to show the symptoms of Parkinson’s). Bullet organises the printed entries into orders of commendation. Baring is in the first (lowest) order with

                               Sir John Simon
                               Is unlike Timon:
                               Timon hated mankind.
                               Simon doesn’t mind.

[Simon is a forgotten figure today, but served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, Foreign Secretary, Home Secretary and Lord Chancellor between 1931 and 1945. He was the ringleader of the anti-Lloyd George faction in the Liberals, and effectively joined the Conservatives. He was notoriously difficult to warm to.]

Sharing the just-missed-out spot is George van Raalte, a Dutch classicist, and active member of the Fabian society. Bullet prints two of his clerihews:

                            Petronius
                            Was very acrimonious.
                            He often said to his wife
                            ‘What a life.’

and
                            John Milton
                            Went out with a kilt on
                            Which made Charles the First
                            Laught fit to burst.

Now we move into the lower ranks …

One of the first names to jump out is N. Llewelyn Davies. This may well be Nick, the youngest of the ‘Lost Boys’ befriended by J.M.Barrie, who would have been 27, and relatively recently married:

                         Huntley and Palmer
                        Grew calmer and calmer:
                         If either felt restive,
                         He made a Digestive.

And there is also Baldwin S(ydney) Harvey, a 57-year-old banker from Kensington, who appears as the secretary of the Gordon Memorial College, supervising its report into tropical diseases, before World War One, and effectively then acting as Kitchener’s civil servant:

                     Machiavelli
                     Trembled like a jelly
                     Whenever somebody said ‘Was there ever a naughtier
                     Courtier?’

Here are some more:

                 Francois Villon
                 Lived mostly on bouillon;
                 He used to think meat
                 A tremendous treat.       (W.R.Y.)

                Dante Gabriel Rossetti
                Didn’t care for confetti:
                He said he would rather loiter
                With ladies who had the goitre.   (D.M.B.)

                Mr J.H.Thomas
                Thought he knew a bit about Commerce.
                He said so, bellicosely,
                To Sir Oswald Mosley.            (R. Weatherhead)

[Jimmy Thomas was the leader of the National Union of Railwaymen, and a member of both of the first two Labour cabinets in in 1923 and 1929. When the National Government was formed in 1931, he was one of the only two Labour politicians to stay with Ramsay Macdonald. You can see film of him here and read more about him here.]

             Mr. Edgar Wallace
             Always found it rather a solace
             After writing a play
             To write novels for the rest of the day.     (R.W.)

            The philosophy of Berkeley
            Is seen through a glass darkly,
            But it is not such a poser
            As the philosophy of Spinoza.     (Claudius Appius)

           The Inquisitor Torquemada
           Kept a joint of pork in his larder,
           And kept offering it to the Jews,
           Hoping they’d refuse.                              (Jay)

           Themistocles
           Always wanted to please.
           One of his favourite diversions
           Was giving hints to the Persians.           (L.V.Upward)

           Miss Christina Rossetti
           Got involved with spaghetti:
           For the rest of her life
           She ate with a knife.                       (M. Peacock)

          Mrs. Beeton
          Tells us what may be eaten;
          She does not weary us
          With what may be deleterious.                (Joan)

          Casabianca
          Was a frightful swanker.
          Offensive pup!
          Pa blew him up.                                (Prudence)

         Sir Francis Bacon
         Was sometimes mistaken.
         To the day of his death
         He thought he had written ‘Macbeth’.            (Little Billee)

Bullet has had to wade through over five hundred clerihews. There is a long further list of commendations, and a welcome to an entry from Hamburg from a Dr. Max Hueffner. And finally, the palme d’or is awarded to John Cornysshe for either of two he has submitted:

               Jonathan Swift
               Never went up in a lift,
               Nor did the author of ‘Robinson Crusoe’
               Do so.

                                     or

               When Augustus John
               Puts it on,
               His price is within about 4d
               Of Orpen’s.

[William Orpen (1878-1931) was a well-known Irish war and portrait painter]

Second price goes to Tanais with

             Geoffrey Chaucer
             Always drank out of a saucer,
             Because he felt such an ass
             When he drank out of a glass.

That’s all folks!

[Well … the letters pages the following week contain two more, one from Patrick Fletcher Campbell, who offers ‘The Emperor Nero/ Never dined at The Trocadero;/ Though they say he once sang a Te Deum/ In the Coliseum’ and E St. C. D (Ernest St. Clair Duncan?) who adds ‘Hannen Swaffer/ Refused a good offer./ Success, he said/ Might turn my head.’ Swaffer was the father of the gossip column, and at the time, drama critic of the Express. More about him here. I still don’t get the clerihew.]