In Comp 3369 you were invited to write about the recent underwear storm of Chongqing, or some other freak event, as if it had happened centuries ago and become legend. The entries were wonderfully imaginative, though they dangled some grim visions of the future. It pains me not to squeeze in David Silverman’s poem, so here is his second verse:
Sing of that legendary dawn:
Of Chongqing’s briefs and panties, borne
Aloft o’er realms of Genghis Khan;
Of knickers measureless to man,
Of boxer, Y-front, bra and thong,
Dry clean and machine washable.
Recall the words of Mao Zedong:
That miracles are possible!
The winners below receive £25.
In days long since, an ancient man came to Chongqing. He knocked on the first house, saying: ‘I am old, hungry and thirsty. Spare me some bread and water.’ He was chased away. It was the same at the next house and the one after. In time he had called at every house with the same result. He hobbled away to a nearby hill and sat on a rock. With a wave of his hand the man transformed himself back into Sun Wukong, the Monkey King. He looked down at Chongqing, saying: ‘You would not support an old man in his need, so you shall have no support where you need it most.’ He waved his hand again and a great whirlwind sprang up. It raced through the town ripping undergarments from lines and sucking them into the sky. Wails rose up from the folk of Chongqing. Sun Wukong laughed.
Joseph Houlihan
Time back, beyond the recall even of granite, China’s Emperor Xi determined all: his eyes were in every room, his Thought in every mind. All went smoothly and to his monomaniacal purpose until, one day, amongst the drying underthings of his unfortunate underlings, a freakish tornado suddenly blew up. Bras entwined themselves about the Emperor’s surveillant eyes, flying underpants diverted into helpless hilarity minds hitherto preoccupied adhering to his edicts, suddenly animate nighties enjoyed freedoms of movement unknown to their owners. The Emperor, chillingly furious, ordered the underthings apprehended, the wind extinguished, the underlings into permanent forgetting. But some of the underthings could not be found, having flown into the ocean. The wind could not be identified from census or intelligence file, having never been named or registered. And though the underlings said they had forgotten, every household in China, famished another joyous ascent, hung its washing high.
Adrian Fry
Many aeons ago, the people of Chongqing worshipped the Laundry Gods. They hung their most intimate, freshly washed clothing on balcony altars as tributes, hoping to be honoured on the Great Day of Drying. The high priests of Laundry even sent messages into the clouds, begging the gods to accept their sacrifice. At last, the gods sent a windstorm that blew the underwear skywards on a spin cycle of epic proportions, into the great Tumble Drier of the Heavens. However, the Laundry Gods preferred natural fibres, and rejected certain tired nylons, saggy elastic, torn lace, snapped underwires and faded polyester-cotton blend. And so the people were showered with inferior bras, knickers, slips and jockey shorts. All unworthy lingerie, whether cheap, loose or saggy, was collected at the Temple of Brief Adoration, as a hallowed reminder of what was sacred to the laundry gods, and what was holey.
Janine Beacham
Many centuries ago, an election in Chongqing was won by the Integrity and Decency Party. But when its smartly dressed and moralistic leader came out to address the jubilant crowd, a rude heckler interrupted him, asking why he and his friends had accepted bribes of beautiful gowns from a dubious grandee. The leader beamed gently at him through expensive spectacles, and explained patiently: ‘We are a mighty province, and our leaders must look elegant when representing us to the world. And fine robes do not fall from the skies, you know.’ At which point a large pair of ladies’ bloomers descended from above, covering his head entirely with gusseted pink cotton. Other items of intimate wear fell upon his colleagues. The crowd, previously so admiring, became loud in their mockery, and the next election was won as usual by the Chumocracy and Sleaze Party. You knew where you were with them.
George Simmers
Long ago in a land far to the east it is said that there was once a great underwear storm. End user and storage devices known at that time as bras and pants, now made redundant by advanced cybernetics, were plucked into the air by mighty winds. Some of these devices fell to earth in relentless downpours and Greta, the self-styled climate maven of that time, a humanoid with the tendency of those life forms to exhibit irrational emotional responses, predicted prolonged and catastrophic pants precipitation. The phenomenon was short-lived but legend has it that one item of underwear was swept up into the Xosphere, named for a guru of that age, and travelled beyond into space where it remains to this day, lending its title to what we now know as star base Venus Blue Origin but which is still referred to by its old designation, the Evening Bra.
Sue Pickard
In the second Thrumpian dynasty, under Vancisco, the suzerain of Hiyo, it happened that all the dogs and cats of Springsteen, in that territory, were put to the sword by marauders who sacked the city. Hard men wept and harder women wailed. But the outlaws, who were from Voodoo, did not stop with the execution of the many family pets. Their culture demanded maximum indignity, and, setting a fire in the central piazza, they grilled, broiled, roasted and ate the corpses before the horrified eyes of their owners. The process took weeks. And when the Voodoo barbecues ran out of animal, the invaders seized all local children who had just been born, who were a day old only, and made fresh feasts. At this point Vancisco, known as Hillbilly, enlisted the Down Bad Cat Ladies from the Taylors Wiff-T international army, and she ruled over them all a thousand years.
Bill Greenwell
No. 3372: super duper
It’s Jilly Cooper season. You are invited to submit a mash-up of her writing style with another famous novelist’s (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 16 October.
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