In Competition No. 3331 you were invited to write a resentful note of departure on behalf of a well-known figure from the field of fact or fiction.

This challenge, set some time ago owing to seasonal production deadlines, was prompted by Suella Braverman’s splenetic broadside, but I decided to widen the brief beyond the political sphere. You duly cast your net far and wide, choosing subjects who ranged from Trollope’s unctuous, scheming curate Obadiah Slope to Nellie the Elephant.

Alan Millard’s Revd William Spooner
earns a commendation: ‘Where is the hind kelp when needed by poor souls like me? Sadly it has been limply sacking from those who should cow more share for their staff. I therefore design as of row with little regret…’. As does Basil Ransome-Davies’s Kissinger and Russell Chamberlain’s John Lennon.

The prizewinning entries printed below net their authors £30 each.

Disappointed to have stay cut short – dashed inconvenience – exemplary house guest – Stately Home – magnificent tidying-up skills – emptied fridge, Bollinger – wine cellar, Bordeaux – expensive affair, that – wrong bed, 2 a.m. – enraged duke – plastic doll, punctured – national scandal – monarchy threatened – should Jingle be blamed? Slid down banister – natural high spirits – dog, landed on – Truffles, Crufts winner – tail askew – most injurious – happy disposition and no tail to show it with – boa constrictor in parlour – bravely decapitated, egg scissors – snapped fangs like twigs – family pet – how could Jingle know? – toilet clogged – curries, lots – priceless Ming vase – large umbrella – crash – knock – vase in smithereens – glue in my portmanteau – repairs effected – given best bedroom – dark, spooky – candle left burning – towering inferno – excellent insurance company – ordered off property – farewell song offered, musical, Julie Andrews – auf wiedersehen – wrenching display – floods of tears, pleadings to remain – affecting, very.

Janine Beacham/Alfred Jingle

Shall I compare me to a winter’s day
When chilly winds compel me to depart?
Contempt is now poured on my every play
That in the past was once considered art.
I go, I go, for strident fools invite me
To shed the crown I wore for centuries,
Damned like Macbeth by those who wish to fight me
For using words that shock minorities.
But who would stay in this once pleasant land
That sanctions Caesar just for saying ‘fat’,
Where words that ring with common sense are banned
And criticism wears a jester’s hat?
By empty vessels wisdom once contemned
Out, out I’m thrust, my literature condemned.

Frank McDonald/Shakespeare

Dear Sir.

I write in great dissatisfaction.
Full many a year I’ve laboured in thy service;
A scrivener recording mumbled words,
Correcting spelling errors, faults of grammar,
Completing and improving half-formed thoughts.

Some instances: ‘To be, or the reverse’,
‘The quality of Mercy is not squeezed’,
‘Is this a paper-knife I see before me?’,
‘’Tis itchy for the head to wear a crown’,
‘If music be the food of love, eat on’ …

All these, and other infelicities,
I did improve on thy behalf, unthanked
And unacknowledged. So I’ll serve no more
As thine amanuensis and thy scribe.
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To serve a thankless bard! Thus, I resign.

I am, Sir, yours sincerely,
Francis Bacon

Brian Allgar

Dear Jesus,

It is with regret for what we might otherwise have achieved that I am vacating my discipleship with immediate effect. When first I followed you, I was promised the virtually unconditional love of our Lord and for this, initially, I was happy to settle, particularly given your insistence on the inestimable value of my soul. Some of this love, I concede, has been vouchsafed me along with much verbal instruction from yourself during which it has become apparent that this love is readily available to literally anyone asking for it. Throughout my time as an apostle, you have failed to attend to my pecuniary needs, compelling me to enter into arrangements with the Sanhedrin in order to assure my material wellbeing. Though lacking access to your supernatural insights, I do not think your ministry will endure long if you continue to underestimate your team.

Judas Iscariot

Adrian Fry

I know when I’m not wanted and, frankly, it’s their loss. Clearly my face didn’t fit among the privileged élite. They insisted I should fit the mould. Don’t seem to realise you need a diversity of roles and skill-sets in a team. Evidently I used a tad too much initiative for their liking. I wouldn’t conform to their woke agenda. But ‘obdurate pride and steadfast hate’ on my Myers-Briggs appraisal was harsh. Okay, I can be a bit of a rebel, some might say passive-aggressive, but to be ‘hurled headlong, flaming, from the ethereal sky’? Please! I’ll show them. Well, here I am and all I can say is it’s pandemonium down here but at least I’m appreciated by the locals. Finally found my tribe! Better to reign here than serve there. Together we’ll build a bright future. First, a spot of gardening I think. I’m self-identifying as a serpent. 

David Silverman

No. 3334: conspiratorial

You are invited to provide a poem about conspiracy theories. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 24 January./>