[John Whitworth]

This is better but still no poetry. I think our best men will win here which isn't me. But I'll have bash. Mike Hammer I think. Really nasty.
No. 2835: hard-boiled Blyton

You are invited to submit an extract from a classic of children literature of your choice rewritten in the style of hard-boiled crime fiction (150 words maximum). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 5 February.

[Brian Allgar]

(OK, I admit it - I got a head-start by looking at the Spectator website before John posted it here. I think Lucy has lost count - it ought to be Competition No. 2834, since the previous one was 2833, but who am I to quibble?)

I sized up the opposition. We were heavily outnumbered. They were going to be a tough bunch to crack, but we’ve seen worse, and I knew we could do it.

The leader stared at me. I stared back, stroking my whiskers with a menacing air that never fails. In the end he looked away first, just like they always do.

My partner was testing a chisel on the edge of his thumb. “Waddaya tink?” he asked me. “I think these suckers ain’t as tough as they look”, I said. I could see that some of the gang were starting to tremble.

“OK”, muttered the leader. “We’re ready to talk.”

“Talk?” I said. “What about?”

The leader looked confused. “Well, anything you like. Cabbages, kings, whatever.”

“We ain’t here to talk”, I sneered. My partner moved forward with his set of carpenter’s tools. “We’re here to chew down some lunch.”

[John Whitworth]

I don't think this quite fits her bill, but nevertheless. What IS the name of the other girl?

Five Minus Two

I looked at the huddled form. Whatever anybody was selling, Julian had unquestionably bought it.
'George, what will we do now?'
'You've done quite enough already.'
'He was horrid to the dog.'
I looked at the other huddled form. Somebody had certainly been horrid to the dog.
'So I hit him.'
With a five iron. Good. If you were going to rub someone out golf-wise it was undoubtedly a five iron shot.
'Why did he do it, George? It wasn't like him.'
I had to agree. Julian was a Grade A prat. But kind to animals. 'I think we can postulate some mind-altering drug unknown to Science.'
'George, what will we do now?' Her script was lousy.
'Get the hell outa here. There's a tent in the garden. Hustle, baby.'
'Oh George, you're so masterful.'
'You ain't seen nothing yet.'
I gave her bottom a proprietorial pinch.

[basil ransome-davies]

ROFL, John. But tough crime fiction has earned the reputation of being a repository for masculine wish-fulfilment. Is this a peek into your fantasy life?

[John Whitworth]

You mean I'm a lesbian in my fantasy life. Could be, Bazza. Particularly if I can sleep with the young Gwyneth Paltrow dressed as an Elizabethan man.

[Rob Stuart]

‘Hey, bud,’ a voice whispered from above me. I looked up to see this arachnid broad hanging from the rafters by a thread.
‘Hey yourself,’ I said. This little lady was hot stuff all right; legs up to her abdomen. Eight of ’em. Yeah, I counted.
‘The Zuckermans mean to rub you out, huh? That’s too bad.’
I shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Ain’t you scared of being turned into bacon, mister pig?’
‘Me, scared? I ain’t scared of nothing, sister.’
‘Name’s Charlotte.’
I nodded. ‘Wilbur.’
‘So you don’t want rescuing any, Wilbur?’
I snorted. ‘What are you planning on doing, honey? Spinning me a rope so I can crush out of this can through the goddamn window?’
She gestured over at a web with one of her perfectly formed pins. ‘Get a slant on that, wiseguy.’
‘SOME PIG,’ I read. ‘Now where did you pick up a trick like that?’

[Rob Stuart]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

I don't think this quite fits her bill, but nevertheless. What IS the name of the other girl?

Anne, I think.

[John Whitworth]

You're right. I looked it up. That's where I got Dick from which was just too good to miss. I never read a Famous Five novel I am glad to say.

[Roger Slater]

I woke at my desk with an empty bottle of hooch on my lap. My head was throbbing mimsily and outside my window the city was brillig. The wabe was full of gimbling toves, frightening the nearby mome raths. It was one of those days.

The phone rang. My old man. "Son, I owe spinach to the Jabberwock. He’s coming after you. Beware! "

On cue, the doorknob started to rattle. I slid open my drawer and pulled out my roscoe, which is a good thing since I like breathing, a hobby I’d have given up if I hadn't been ready to plug the Jabberwock on its beezer as it broke my door into splinters. Pop, pop, one, two! He was zotzed.

I galumphed from the room and called my dad from a pay phone. "That's frabjous," he chortled upon hearing the news. "You're one beamish hombre, let me tell you!”

[basil ransome-davies]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

You mean I'm a lesbian in my fantasy life. Could be, Bazza. Particularly if I can sleep with the young Gwyneth Paltrow dressed as an Elizabethan man.

I was really thinking of the bottom-pinching fetish.