[John Whitworth]

Adrian Fry wins the fiver with Martin Parker but a nose behind.

Lucy Vickery 26 January 2013
In Competition No. 2781 you were invited to devise a riposte to a nauseating Christmas round-robin letter that would deter the author from ever sending another. My favourite of Lynne Truss’s half-dozen responses to persistent round-robiners, broadcast on Radio 4, was take six: ‘I’ve decided, finally, to try a more direct approach. Here it comes. PLEASE STOP SENDING ME THESE NEWSLETTERS.’

But perhaps the whole exercise is ill judged. After all, these compendiums of boasts, bad jokes, inappropriate intimacies and inconsequential information contribute enormously to festive cheer, providing much merriment at their authors’ expense. We may mock, but how we would miss them. This week’s extra fiver goes to Adrian Fry. The rest take £25 apiece.

Dear Duff-Scriveners,
Many thanks for your festive round robin, which reminded me of so many ominously idyllic opening scenes in bygone disaster movies. I’ll be wondering all year whether Grandpa Bob (89 years young!) suffers sudden coronary or slow decline into dementia, whether Chloe’s PhD in PPE portends a career in government or a life in therapy (and which is worse) and whether you can all beat jihadist meltdown to the streets of your latest Third World holiday destination. The visits to A&E the kiddies trampoline is certain to engender will be the more piquant for your account of its rapturous reception ‘chez our house’ and Roddy’s decision to launch his internet consultancy business should furnish us with an excellent barometer when recession triple dips. Just don’t drop that oleaginous Panglossian style — spotting a fracturing marriage from allusions to ‘separate holidays’ and ‘making more me time’ is half the fun.
Adrian Fry

Daphne dearest: thanksissima for your meticulously itemised annual bulletin; so pleased that Roger’s latest rehab sessions are going well. I always say dedication is the first step to conquering addiction; even his strange variety. How are the violin lessons — still playing second fiddle? (just my little joke, dear). We’re upping sticks in April: Nigel has a thing about Hampshire. Nothing OTT, only five bedrooms, two acres and, of course, paddocks — Jilly’s into gymkhanas these days, did I mention it? Thelma’s won a place at RCM — c’est à dire the Royal College of Music; but perhaps you knew that. She’s a marvel, her talent seemingly boundless. Wouldn’t be surprised if major orchestras started showing an interest … my Pilates instructor is most impressed with my progress, she reckons I’m a natural; well, mens sana, as the Romans used to claim. Must fly now, Harvey Nicks’ sale beckons! Best, Lucinda.
Mike Morrison

Your 2012 Christmas round-robin was much enjoyed when it was among the many read out at our recent hilarious charity fundraiser. It is now on exhibition, anonymously, at The Crown. But, following your summer visit, all the locals were immediately able to identify you from your oft-repeated tales of how your niece had almost met the Queen and how your snapshot of an amusingly shaped carrot had appeared in the Wolverhampton Echo. Sadly, though, young Sharon’s Grade D in Media Studies was not enough to get her on to our High Achievers List and your gerbil’s attempt at a witty PS gained it a place as only Seventeenth Cleverest Pet. The event will be repeated next year. We are arranging national press coverage. Hopefully a wider audience awaits your family’s triumphs. The whole village is agog at the prospect.
Martin Parker

Dear Gill
How exciting that your Christmas letter was forwarded to me, here in hospital. You might guess that my year has not been as kind as yours, no Palace receptions or globetrotting for me. And hasn’t Mike done well! I might not be able to get about but I have ‘Google-Earthed’ your new house and it looks great. You can see the paddocks and the pool — and so remote! And, unbelievably, only 7.6 miles from here.

And what clever children! You must remember I was a nanny to the Johnsons when we met in Antigua seven years ago. Of course, they got it wrong at the trial. As if I’d deliberately hurt anyone! Must dash! They’re unlocking the door. More chemical cocktails on offer! Still, it won’t be for long. The thing about the Johnsons was, Gill, they weren’t like you. They just wouldn’t share. Elspeth.
Dinah Reed

Dear All At Number 17,
Thank you so much for your Christmas letter, which sadly separated itself from the card, so that I am only moderately sure who it is from. Nevertheless, full marks to All At Number 17 for your cosmopolitan outlook. When you say young Tamsin is ‘spending her gap year in Latin America’ I assume that she, like so many of her coevals, will be working as a stripper, or possibly on the game, in Buenos Aires in the attempt to raise the nine thousand quid universities now charge per year for rubbish courses! I was flattered by the reference to ‘the new friends Alan and Deirdre made on their foreign holidays’, of which I think I am one! Alan was indeed a doughty drinking companion that week in Torremolinos, and Deirdre was, if I may say, an absolutely terrific lay. So a very happy New Year to All.
Brian Murdoch

Dear Steve,
How wonderful at the year’s end to have good news from old friends living abroad. Your round robin cheered us all up. Your latest promotion, Tina’s Mother of the Year award, Gerry’s doctorate, Susie’s novel: you are indeed a very fortunate family. Not that I’m putting all your successes down to luck — well, the fabulous lottery win, obviously, but otherwise I know that you deserved the prosperity which you have striven for. I only wish striving always got results. I’d love to lift your spirits as you have lifted ours, but regrettably the year has brought us little fulfilment, or even security. Redundancy, cancer, imprisonment, repossession … not one of us has been spared. But we are resolved to set things right. And to that end I know you won’t mind me asking a favour in the name of friendship. 20k would help kick-start our fightback. Ron
G.M. Davis