New Statesman -- detectives change places -- February 7 deadline
 

No 4263
By J Seery
We want extracts from a tale of a fictional detective who has swapped his domestic setting for that of another fictional detective. Rebus looked after by Mrs Hudson?
Max 150 words by 7 February comp@newstatesman.co.uk

Funny how the Spectator competitions run into pages, but the NS ones remain empty - presumably because they rarely invite verse, and it's much easier to be amusing in 16 lines of verse than in a Scrooge-like 150 words of prose. Still, here's my 'shot'.

It had been a tough day in Kingsmarkham, but he had finally cracked the case. His assistant was full of admiration. “It beats me how you do it, Chief. How on earth did you spot that the poor old one-legged beggar was actually Professor Moriarty in disguise?” Ignoring the “No Smoking” signs everywhere, Holmes puffed contentedly at his meerschaum pipe as he replied: “It was elementary, my dear Burden. My suspicions were aroused when I saw a blind cripple getting into a Mercedes, and I simply asked to see his driving licence.”

Now, home at last, he picked up his violin and played a few notes, but it didn’t have its usual soothing effect. He needed something stronger, and was just preparing it when his wife Dora appeared. “Sher!” she expostulated, “I’ve asked you time and again not to shoot up when the children are in the house!”

"Si'l vous plait, zee shakeur, not zee stir," Bond said. He eyed the bartender through his monocle. Pussy Galore double-checked the psylloxine syringe. As she slid onto the stool she purred: "James, alone again? It is not good for man to live alone." Amused, he tweaked his pointy moustache. "Ma cherie," he whispered, sipping his martini, "I am not Adam and you"--he turned and took the full measure of her body---"non, non, non--you are not God." In one motion she jabbed the needle into his thigh and his plump, elegant figure collapsed like a fat flopping fish onto the bar room floor. As she stood above him, hands on hips, she said: "God? Of course, I'm God. You bloody English fool." With that she gouged out his rib--and disappeared.

I wonder why they eschew verse. My theory is that left wing politics are fatal to poetry. Shelley is the best lefty poet we've got. Shelley! Milton doesn't count. Why doesn't he? Because I say so.

Bill Greenwell's research into the history of the NS competition seems to indicate that poetry comps were fairly common once upon a time. It will be interesting to see when prose comps begin to dominate.

(I think you're right about Milton, John. When Charles I squares off against Cromwell, there's no lefty in the ring. It's kind of like a Shah vs. Ayatollah bout -- just competing brands of excessively nasty right-wingery.)

I think few people would look for a 'lefty' in mid-17th-century preindustrial England (though the Diggers & Levellers are still celebrated) but Parliament (albeit not as we know it) v. Divine Right? No contest for me. The one entails a potential for openness, the other is absolute.

But then even a token, constitutional monarchy pisses me off.

But isn't there a certain pleasure in being pissed off, Bazza? I almost look forward to a Labour Government. There was something delightfully simple about watching Gordo fuck things up day after day and I am sure the new lot will not disappoint in that respect.

quel aperçu, mon brave
 

In this you are not wrong, John.

But John, do you get the same pleasure from watching Cameregg fuck things up day after day? Presumably not, since although the upfucking is on a comparable scale, there would be a slight political problem in attributing it to 'lefties'.

Then again, all these present-day wannabes are mere dilettantes compared to the Empress of Upfucking.

[Duffy (Julian Barnes) chez Lord Peter Wimsey (Dorothy Sayers)]

Duffy woke up with a pounding headache. Nothing unusual there; after an unsuccessful night out on the prowl, his head often felt like a prize vegetable marrow that had been squeezed into a dwarf-sized metal condom, if such a thing existed - and Duffy hoped to God that it didn’t.

What was unusual was that instead of finding himself crashed out in his own dingy flat, he was lying in a four-poster bed in the guest room of a stately home.

The door opened, and an unmistakeably valet-like person appeared.

“Good morning, Sir. I am Bunter. Lord Peter instructed me to enquire after your welfare.”

Duffy tried to speak, but his vocal chords weren’t yet up to the task. Nevertheless, in the deep recesses of his battered cortex, he felt certain stirrings. He peered blearily at the trim, impeccably-dressed figure before him. Yes, there was definitely something fanciable about this valet.

For those who don't know, it may be of interest that the distinguished novelist Julian Barnes, who also wrote four "Duffy" detective stories many years ago under the name Dan Kavanagh, was Competition Editor at the New Statesman back in the 70's.