[John Whitworth]

Go Bazza. And Nicholas Holbrook, though I have forgotten who he is. Sylvia - divine!

In Competition 2832 you were invited to compose an address to an item of food.
The assignment was inspired by Burns’s ‘Address to a Haggis’, but you were not obliged to write in his style. Albert Black went for a Kipling-Burns mash-up and other competitors drew on Shelley and Shakespeare. The winners take £25 each and Basil Ransome-Davies pockets £30.

Eggs Benedict, you pop my cork!
I’m immune to the charms of a black-buttered skate
Or a Frenchified way with roast pork.
A confit de canard is not my soul-mate —
A touch would embarrass my fork —
While lapin au cidre I candidly hate,
But I put out for you on our very first date
In that old luncheonette in New York.

In your lemony Hollandaise dress
That clung to your contours like satin or moire
You were succulence yoked with finesse,
Divine, thaumaturgic, a luminous star
Draped on bacon and toast. I confess
That my heart madly throbbed like a rhythm guitar
And to stay on my stool I grabbed hold of the bar
As I breathed an incredulous Yes!
Basil Ransome-Davies

Some Scottish blood I claim — the snag is
This night when Scotsmen fly the flag is
Inexorably linked with HAGGIS,
And that to me
Simply a stomach-turning bag is,
A dish to flee.

And even if that wasn’t satis
Factory
They add revolting NEEPS and TATTIES
(Plus booze which to indulgent fatties
Is genius loci).
Let me invoke my option — that is,
The humble smokie:

This little treasure from Arbroath
Fulfils my Scottish leanings, loth
To damn the pride of Caledonia
(Granted my choice is somewhat bonier…)
Mary Holtby

Shall I compare thee to a sausage roll?
Nay, thou art tastier and more refined;
Thine outer substance is the very soul
Of pastry: art and nourishment combined.
Thy golden crust that crumbles in the fingers
Before ’tis swallowed by the eager throat;
Thy richly-buttered redolence that lingers
Upon the palate like a velvet coat.
And in thy tender heart, what creamy sauces
Embracing shrimps or sweetbreads may be found!
What need have I of other meats or courses
With these piled up before me in a mound?
I’d gladly gorge on thee throughout the day —
O vol-au-vent! Thou art the nonpareil!
Nicholas Holbrook

Sweet cupcake, tell me, whereof art thou made—
What eggy, floury, butt’ry blend does duty
Beneath thy swirling icing’s cavalcade
Of sweetmeats, silver balls and morsels fruity?

Oh temptress fair, thy flesh’s not yet debased,
Thy ruby cherry is as yet unpluck’d,
And yet my fingers creep, thou art uncased,
One tiptongue taste — alack, the diet’s fluck’d.

But nay, my organ shrinks behind my teeth,
Sweet softness palls, thou canst no longer tempt.
To greedier arrant knaves I thee bequeath,
Henceforth from tawdry froth am I exempt.
Thou’rt insubstantial, naught but gaudy flummery,
Fly hence my cupcake, get thee to a bunnery.
Trish Davis

As we raise a glass to Rabbie, you’re the one I celebrate
you’re delicious, you’re seductive, as you gleam upon the plate
and I’ll put up no resistance, you’re the one I must ingest;
I salute you, veggie burger, you’re delectably the best!

For you’re packed with soya protein, fighting fit and full of beans,
with emulsifying substances, assorted carotenes
and a flavoursome enhancer (an extracted form of yeast),
plus a host of added vitamins — and nothing that’s deceased.

So there won’t be any gristle or unmentionable parts
in a masterpiece that demonstrates the culinary arts,
and I’m confident there’ll not be any badger bits, or horse,
for the Soil Association will have verified the source.

With a tantalising texture, more provocative than meat
and a ravishing aroma, you’ll become the festive treat;
you’ll be served up in a bun that’s non-GM and gluten-free,
and revered by all who worship at the shrine of TVP.
Sylvia Fairley

Dear quiv’ring, shiv’ring, blushing guest,
How very sweet of you to come!
All yielding like a mother’s breast
And wobbly as a cherub’s bum.
Though you come late, you’re never least.
Welcome, sweet pudding, to our feast.

You’re in great shape. Your colour’s fine.
— No matter that you’ve lost your waist! —
My!, how you glow by candleshine!
The world can see you have good taste.
‘Spirit of Beauty’, to quote Shelley,
You’re welcome at our table, jelly!
Ralph Rochester

[Brian Allgar]

Congratulations to all.

John, I am Nicholas Holbrook - or rather, I'm not, but he very decently lends me his name.

[John Whitworth]

Yes, I sort of thought you were, Brian. Well done AGAIN!

[basil ransome-davies]

I seems that when I get the bonus fiver it's still only £30 en somme, but obviously I don't like to talk about that.

[Brian Allgar]

I don't think it's anything personal, Bazza. It looks as if the Spectator, like the New Statesman, runs on a fixed budget - in the Speccie's case, £150 plus the bonus fiver. So if Lucy decides to award only five prizes, everyone gets £30, but in weeks like this one when there are six winners, it's reduced to £25 pounds a head. No one would blame you for saying 'Chiz!'

[basil ransome-davies]

That's what the lizards want me to think.

[John Whitworth]

Nil Carborundum, Bazza.

[basil ransome-davies]

As they used to say at MGM, ars gratia artis but pecunia non olet.