[John Whitworth]

Adrian Fry, George Simmers (nice one, George), Brian Allgar and, I think, Max Ross are all batting sweetly for the Sphere.

Lucy Vickery 9 February 2013
In Competition No. 2783 you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘Death of a Ladies’ Man’. The title — shared by an unadmired, Phil Spector-produced album by Leonard Cohen and an as-yet-unproduced screenplay by the literary and erudite rocker Nick Cave — connects two of pop music’s masters of melancholy.

Rock music didn’t feature in the entry but ladies lavatories loomed large. You also drew inspiration from history — Henry VIII, Lord Byron — and from the natural world.

Sid Field, Lynn Haken, Juliet Walker, Alan Millard and John MacRitchie earn honourable mentions. The prizewinners, printed below, take £25 each except Frank McDonald, who has £30.

He was born to be infatuated by the opposite sex. Though he made all the right moves, as he saw it, they never let him have his heart’s desire. In fact he had never even come close. He was no slouch, often working round the clock and earning a reputation as a fine craftsman, a builder par excellence. He would signal when ladies passed by but nothing ever came of it …till that day.

She was gorgeous and obviously interested. Work could wait. He got down and followed her. As usual he said all the right things. Before long he was in the situation of his dreams and he would not disappoint, even though it was his first time. God, she knew how to drive him to a frenzy of pleasure. He lay back exhausted. Then, true to her nature, she ate him.
Frank McDonald

Dan, although always a loner, had campaigned vigorously for equal rights, and it was ironic that in his own profession he had long been prevented by the rankest gender discrimination from realising his full management potential. He fought at council level and beyond, but only after the appeal to the European Court of Human Rights did he achieve his goal, full control of the most significant location in the entire Arndale Centre. For years he had been the attendant of the dingier right-hand half, but now he was no longer in charge just of the Gents, but also of the other side.

All pioneers are vulnerable. His body was found in a cubicle. He had been forced to drink disinfectant. The police never revealed to the press where the brush had been inserted, though they did say that one of the militant feminist organisations had rung to claim responsibility.
Brian Murdoch

Only when we knew about each other did we really know about him; how tried and tested were his spontaneous tokens of love, how contingent his affections for dogs, horses, cocktails, even, upon those of that evening’s conquest, how profligately shared ‘our song’. Shame at our credulity and anger at his deceit made revengers of us all. We became a coven, commingling hurt and hate as if in a cauldron, hurling curses and spinning enchantments until — well, until they found him dead in his favourite hideaway hotel. The coroner could not explain the pink champagne that overflowed his lungs, less still the barbed bouquet of red roses bursting from his bloody throat. We were not there, of course, seeing our handiwork only in newspapers which, being more discreet than he, we never bought. Is revenge sweet? Yes, but cold also. Today, we visited his grave, each alone and bearing flowers
Adrian Fry

Janine: dead. Annabelle: deranged. Claudia: dangerous. Sebastian thumbed through his little black book in something like desperation. Sharon, who had fled to a nunnery; Melody, who had reported him to the police; Cynthia, who had sold her story to the newspapers. And Fiona, whose name was crossed out with violent black lines for reasons he preferred not to remember. He turned the pages with increasing horror. There were women he’d corrupted; there were women he had betrayed; there were women he had married. Among them all, not one he could plausibly phone with an invitation to spend a jolly evening together. So depressed was he by this definitive catalogue of romantic catastrophe that he almost began to blame himself for it, when, across the clubroom, he caught the eye of Julian, who had been such fun in the dorm at Haileybury. Smiling the old smile. So who needs ladies?
George Simmers

Harry owned a hairdressing shop, and always decided to ‘do’ the prettiest girls himself. Afterwards, he would offer to ‘do’ them free of charge next time in the comfort of their own homes. Naturally, many girls accepted, although they soon discovered that Harry’s offer had nothing to do with hairdressing.

Most of them lived on an estate of upmarket bungalows, so in an emergency, Harry could rapidly escape by grabbing his clothes, jumping out of the bedroom window, and disappearing into the surrounding woodland.

His latest conquest was a ravishing girl who had a garden flat in a nearby mansion block. On his final visit, they heard a key turn in the lock. ‘Oh God! It’s my husband!’ Harry instantly seized his clothes and leapt out of the window. But the poor fellow had quite forgotten that the ‘garden’ was a roof-garden, and the flat was on the tenth floor.
Brian Allgar

I walked in beauty like the Knight of the Fair Countenance. All over Europe ladies pursued me, leaving their sweethearts and spouses to win the favour of the mad and bad Lord Byron. Win it they did, again and again and again. From such episodes rose my Don Juan, carefree traveller and a true ladies’ man. I see myself at sixty, still ennobled in looks as well as in name, welcoming feminine admirers and perhaps the occasional handsome youth. Life is for the living, so why the hell not live? My doctors will soon dispel this mild fever that has seized my limbs like an ardent mistress. They have ordered me to shed a few drops of my aristocratic blood and all will be well. I shall wake up tomorrow cleansed of my malady but still possessed of my unique passion. I feel immortal.
Max Ross