Alan Millard: Rudyard Kipling applies to be a zoo keeper Dear Sir, with pleasure I apply To be a keeper at your zoo, Of creatures none knows more than I Nor so deserves an interview.
I know the chimp is not a chump, And why a trogon never trots And how the camel got its hump And why the leopard grew its spots.
I know how rhinos got their skin, Why kangaroos such long tails grow, And all about the origin Of what made animals ‘just so’.
There’s not a beast I don’t adore Nor any creature that I hate, Oh please employ me I implore, You’ll find no finer candidate.
Brian Murdoch: The Beowulf-poet applies to be CEO of Tesco Hwaet! I, who before put Beowulf in book, Here privily pursue the princely post, Tesco’s command, that company’s kingship. Much craft is mine in management of men. Strict shall be my strategic structuring — When I axe men I mean no metaphor; No pension-pots are paid posthumously, And cruel cuts carve away costs. Reclaim we must our might in the marketplace, Full well I know how to nurse this need. We shall wage war with warrior bands, For those who love us loyalty have sworn, Ravage and raze all rival stores, Cast them to earth, but keep their customers, The ranks reward with riches two-for-one, Thus shall we gain gold and great glory.
W.J. Webster: George Bernard Shaw applies to be a Professor of English Literature Let me state at the outset that I have no hope of being appointed to the post. This is not mock-modesty on my part: I know my qualifications are outstanding. The application, which I shall have printed and circulated, is simply an opportunity to draw attention to the absurdity of your notion of a professor of English literature. I dont apologize for recurring to my well-known views on those who can and those who cant. Whilst I concede that until there is universal self-education teachers have to be tolerated, what is your Professor of English Literature to teach? Professors of physics, say, are physicists. They are practised in their science to a high degree. But your Professor will have contributed nothing to his art. He will merely have animadverted on the artistic achievements of others. My own tremendous work in the theatre would count for nothing in your consideration of my application. Well, …
Adrian Fry: Cormac McCarthy applies for a job in telesales Sir, You require a Telesales Agent. I may suit that purpose. My words are few though heavy freighted, for I have lived, if any man has, a life. I am come out of the West, behind me the bones of my forebears and the child I was, whom even the waters of the clearest creek care no longer to reflect. Wonders and terrors various have I known in my sundry traversals of the wide plain; I have witnessed the queer hysteria of horses in hailstorms, hearkened to the existential hollerings of the miscarrying she-wolf, known loneliness so intense the chatter of my own teeth struck convivial. Of Telesales, I know nothing. But I have known the rough chafe of company, broken bread with men and shot them, too. I have my own gun and a mind sufficient cold to master the arcane philosophies of your payment protection insurance.
George Simmers: Tennyson applies for a job in the chippie It little profits that a laureate Grown old in shaping verses for a queen Whose grumpiness is famed through all her realm Should sit and idly rhyme, or waste long days Being lionised by those who mostly say They on the whole preferred the earlier work. My soul is restless for a fitter task, And one connected to the boundless seas. Therefore let me, at your fish servery, Bend all my efforts to the bubbling vat. Make me your partner when th’alchemic art Transforms base batter to a golden case For cod or plaice (or haddock if preferred) I promise this: undauntedly to face On Friday night that ever-burgeoning queue, To fry, to serve, and not to stint on chips.
Barry Baldwin: Samuel Johnson applies for the post of agony aunt I beg to propose myself for the position of what the Grub Street vulgarians are pleased to dub ‘Agony Aunt’. Although a man cannot fairly adjudge his own merits, he may be permitted to advertise his achievements. Having surveyed the globe from China to Peru, my mind comprehends the whole mass of humanity, whilst, transported from Lichfield (Salve, Magne Parens!) to the metropolis, I have shifted in society from His Majesty The King to the drabs of the Strand. In my own house there reside a troupe of women whose resentments I am daily called upon to arbitrate. Such quotidian tribulations, I avow, would stand me in good stead to lead those oppressed by their lot to a steadier mode of life, gaining strength from our Christian faith and immune to the temptations insinuated by Papists and Whigs, as can testify a young Scotch Man who records my every counsel.
The next challenge is a tribute to Richard Brautigan, who fulfilled his ambition to write a book that ends on the word ‘mayonnaise’ with his novel Trout Fishing in America. You are invited to write a short story, the final word of which is a condiment of your choice. Please mail entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 27 May.
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