[John Whitworth]

I didn't expect any of us to win this week. The Competition was to provide an extract from the Spectator a hundred years from now. But the great Bill Greenwell won money. Of course he did. And I was IN his winning entry, or at least my direct descendant. There's glory for you!

This week's offering looks much more promising. I shall definitely try to enter it.

No. 2615: Tips of the slung
You are invited to provide a lesson in the facts of life courtesy of either Mrs Malaprop or the Revd William A. Spooner. Entries to Competition 2615 by midday on 23 September or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.

[Roger Slater]

MIST OPPORTUNITY

When Romeo
and Juliet
met secretly
to capulet,

and Romeo
said "I love you,
and that is why
I montegu,"

a pendency
might have ensued
to end their parents'
bitter food.

[John Whitworth]

Very nice indeed

[Roger Slater]

Thanks, John, but I'm not sure it fulfills the assignment. Another try:
 

THE FACTS OF LIFE

As Dad puts his promise
inside Mom's angina
his squirm are dejected
and race off to find a

suitable oval
with which to defuse
inside the thick ruckus
of opium tubes.

After defusing,
the oval and squirm
begin their revision
inside of the worm.

At first they're Byronic
and then they are fecal,
but after nine months
they're suborned as real people.

[John Whitworth]

There are really TWO competitions, aren't there? Here's my Spoonerism.

Spoonerisms

Searching every crook and nanny,
Every nosy little crook,
Will I ever grind my fanny,
Clock the stops and close the book?

When our boys get back to Blighty
We will have the hags flung out.
Press a titty in a nightie,
Gritty pearl without a doubt,

Hattie is a bumly cutie,
She will truly hill your fart.
Hiss your catty, do your duty,
She will likewise hug your tart.

Sweet, I lead to be your plover.
Baby you can fight my lyre
Dick to Seth, I may recover.
Heal me or my date is fire.

[John Whitworth]

See above. I should have put it on a separate post.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Lacts of Fife

Inside Tum's mummy's
Bere you wegin;
Dad pays his plart
And ginks his drin.

Moor Pum can't smoke,
Can't lay up state;
She sows up throme
And wuts on peight.

Door Pad, door Pad,
He can't moo duch,
Just rits asound--
VT and such,

While Wum's the mun
Who lears the boad
And eels as fif
She'll ploon exsode.

[John Whitworth]

I think you've taken the right road, Sam. It reads like Serbo-Croat. I don't know anything about Serbo-Croat. Or perhaps one of those Native American languages that used to be so fashionable.

Question. Do you think we should put the spoonerism bits in italics to make it easier for the mentally challenged? Many readers of the Spectator fall into that category.

I'm sure I've said this before but when my mother was pregnant with me she was instructed by her doctor to drink a bottle of stout every night. Which she did. Which she did. She didn't like it but she did it.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Yes, I have heard of Fetal Stout Syndrome.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Archie Campbell was the master of this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJv_YXIXBsE