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This was a mean assignment, given that Wodehouse imitators are doomed to failure. Faulks himself acknowledges that he has his work cut out — and by and large you agreed. Honourable mentions go to Francis Macleod, Mike Morrison and Pauline Love. The winners take £30 each. D.A. Prince bags £35.
The Wooster brow crumpled like a punctured balloon. ‘I don’t like it, Jeeves. This fellow — Forks, is it? — unsettling the Drones.’
‘Yes, sir. But we may be able to circumvent his preparatory manoeuvres.’
‘Something a bit military, eh, Jeeves? Digging a trench, or so?’
‘No, sir. I was considering assistance.’
‘Steady on, Jeeves. Is that — er — wise?’
Jeeves exuded all the warmth of an Arctic front in February. ‘I believe so, sir. I was thinking of approaching Mr Fink-Nottle.’
‘Gussie? Is this Cutlery chap a fan of the newt?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir. But I believe he wishes to engage in conversation with your contemporaries, and Mr Fink-Nottle is a …a …’ Jeeves, paused, as though struggling with an unfamiliar language ‘…fine example. I fancy that if I intimate to Mr Fink-Nottle that Mr Faulks shares his amphibian interests we may be untroubled for some considerable time.’
D.A. Prince
‘Your Aunt Charlotte has called to see you, sir. I have shown her into the library.’
I groaned. ‘Righty-ho, Jeeves, though I must say it’s confoundedly early… But hang on a minute — I haven’t got an Aunt Charlotte!’
‘That was Mr Faulks’s doing, sir. He felt that a new Aunt would rejuvenate the saga.’
‘Good Lord! Bit of a bally nerve, what? I mean, inflicting supernumerary Aunts on chaps who are already infested with the blighters.’
‘Authors can be somewhat dictatorial in these matters, sir.’
‘And where’s old Bingo Little? Haven’t seen him for ages.’
‘I regret to inform you, sir, that Mr Little is no more.’
‘What! You don’t mean —?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Faulks has written him out of the story.’
‘Well, that’s a bit thick! Give these writer johnnies an inch, and they’ll take a what’s-its-name.’
‘ “Ell”, sir.’
I was astounded. I had never before heard Jeeves swear.
Brian Allgar
‘Look, Jeeves, this fellow Faulks sounds rather the thing for sprucing up my scrapes into a work of Literature. According to the papers, his novels are jolly well received.’
‘Indeed, sir. To be well received, in literary circles, is a greater achievement than to be well read.’
‘Quite. Old Plum’s scribblings were splendid, but I’ve always rather hankered after a psychological hinterland. There’s a time in a chap’s life when a policeman’s helmet signifies more than a policeman’s helmet, what?’
‘Sir?’
‘Dash it, Jeeves you’ve read Spinoza, I remember the odd gobbet of Shakespeare! A spot of stylistic garnish from Faulks and I’ll be coming over all Storm, not to mention Drang.’
‘Sir wishes to acquire an additional dimension to his character?’
‘Absolutely not, Jeeves, the tartan cummerbund might never fit. What I want is a winning bet on the Booker Prize.’
‘Alas, Mr Faulks’ form is not encouraging, sir.’
Adrian Fry
We Woosters are a placable tribe, but can be forthright when rudely awakened.
‘What’s that bally racket, Jeeves?’
‘The noise sir? Birdsong.’
‘Not that noise. I mean the one that sounded like a nine-inch shell exploding at close range.’
‘A perceptive simile, sir. It was indeed such a shell, and uncomfortably near. Our new proprietor has placed us on the Western Front.’
‘Why on earth should he do that?’
‘He likes to inform his readers that war is both unpleasant and futile.’
‘Don’t they know that already?’
‘He is not, sir, a man who fears stating the obvious.’
‘Grim news, Jeeves. We’ll come through, won’t we?’
Jeeves hesitated: ‘He is, I fear, considerably fonder of pathos than the previous incumbent.’
At which a captain popped a cheerful head round the dugout door. ‘What ho! My name’s Sassoon. Has it ever occurred to you that the stars are God’s Very lights?’
George Simmers
‘Who is this deuced fellow Faulks, Jeeves?’
‘An ink-stained wretch of irregular habits, sir.’
‘Irregular? Trouble with his insides, you mean?’
‘No, sir, His literary activities. Only recently, he resurrected a dubious character named Bond. Some kind of mercenary, I believe.’
‘Then why his interest in us?’
‘The intellectuals call it nostalgia, sir.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Sounds like one of PSmith’s jawbreakers.
‘Hankering after the past. As your Aunt Agatha, when she reflects upon hanging, drawing, and quartering.’
‘Couldn’t they get somebody else?’
‘Miss Florence Craye, perhaps, sir?’
‘What, Lady Caligula? Crikey, No! Haven’t forgotten that blasted Ethics tome she tried to ram down my throat. Listen, Jeeves, how can we stop this blasted Faulks?’
‘Perhaps our friend Spode might arrange an accident. For a consideration, naturally.’
‘What if the Aunts got wind of it?’
‘It was, in fact, their idea, sir.’
Barry Baldwin
You are invited to think of the worst possible title for a poem and then write that poem (16 lines max.). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 May.
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