Speccie That's Life by 13th March
 

Now why do I think of Tristram Shandy?

No. 2789: That’s life

Let’s have the facts of life explained by a well-known figure from history or the character from a well-known novel (150 words maximum). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 13 March.

Hmmm ... almost exactly the same as a recent competition in the Staggers. Do I hear the loud hum of recycling?

Dammit. I never entered that one.

It was 4254: another of my heroic failures.

Well, try it again, Carolyn. Did I tell you about the sonnet I put in for three competitions, succeeding at the last in snaring the elusive £25. I did? Ah well, then I tell you again.

Inaugural
 

Inaugural

"A serpentine desire has charmed me, Adam,
Perhaps our Master erred in my construction:
For now temptation's wiles would see me Madam
My womanhood to lust. By sly seduction -
Oh yes, that's what it was, and yet desirous
Enthralment steers my course - I see that biting
Our Feeding Hand is right. How might Osiris
Behold our progeny unless inviting
Entanglements are formed? Let's eat The Apple,
And consequence be damned. My information
Exhaustively details our coming grapple
With Him who'd test our grit through Fruit's negation.
A leap of faith from us will see enacted
The proper way for man to live, attracted."

The NS competition called for facts-of-life explanations from patently inappropriate public figures. Winning entries ran to celebrity chefs, TV presenters, etc. Due to a lamentable judging mishap, my own brilliant Russell Brand entry proved even less successful than that gentleman's romance with Katy Perry.

A lot of folks who would have been good bets for that comp won't work for one that wants fictional and historical characters. Although some measure of inappropriateness may well be a key to success.

The question is, how historical is "historical"? Is "dead" sufficient?

I think it has to be famous as well. Your sainted aunt won't do.

Mr. HCE speaks (Here Comes Everybody) from Finnegan's Wake

Well here's the he and the she of it,laddie: The mommy mons has a merry male-in for dad (not to mention Tom and Ted, schwein-schwimming tit-mice) Your job is to take your lance to her oily-boiler, the Viscous sur Moan. The humpty dumpty hill of it is moilsome and briny, up so many collines and crags and down so many slipperies and groans. You'll pass between the Killer au Diller and see the Sigh-Sod and meet the wee people of scrotum land, woozy with Oil of Who's Lazy? You'll hear a squeal like the squawl of the Cacophonous Angels on Massa Days. That's called the Mary's Gone,you're mom being merrier than a swarm of goony birds in a dodo's head. Try not to pale up like Shame-us your country cousin, who rang up the medico's because he'd thought herself had passed an I'm only kidding stone.