The competition is over!

So, with great relief, I can stop reading the many hundreds of angry, sexual entries sent to me for this year's first and only Dog in the Water Pipe annual writing competition. With so many splendid entries, I find myself forced to award separate prizes in the fields of fiction and poetry.

1st place in the DogintheWaterPipe's Paul Blanchard isn't quite dead yet memorial poetry writing competition goes to : Lauren Salkin!

Max. Max. Max.
What are going to do about Max?
He's a flack and a hack and looks for trouble at the oops I lost it, drop of a hat.
So, WTF are you going to do about that?
Max. Max. Max.
He thinks he's cool, but he's just a tool.
He likes to spy, likes to hide and suddenly he's in your face like a scary ride.
Max, go home. Be alone.
From now on we just do business over the phone.
 
Thanks to Lauren for that poetic entry, reminding us all that the best thing to do is really to just avoid Max. Lauren, I'm working on drawing some sort of crude prize as we speak, so that should be with you soon! Everyone else, if you haven't already, should visit Lauren over at Think Spin!
 
1st place in the DogintheWaterpipe's annual fiction award open to anyone and it would be racist to suggest Ben won it just because he's from a several racial minorities  goes to: Ben Tyson! Ben wowed us with a sporting outing featuring a visit from our favourite fool:
 
Having foolishly agreed to look after Max while Paul was experimenting with Microsoft Paint, I decided to treat him by taking him to Wimbledon. Whilst there, Max was struck on the head by a flying bowl of strawberries and cream (don’t ask. It was a typically ridiculous occurrence, however, I can assure you). When he regained consciousness several minutes later he came to the conclusion that he was at wimbledon so, therefore, must be a tennis racquet. He then insisted that two very scared and confused twelve year-olds use him instead of their traditional metal and string jobs. Unfortunately, their nearby parents saw only a strange man asking their children if he could hit their balls. This, as you can perhaps imagine, did not go down well. I imagine the situation could have been rescued were it not for Max’s decision to wear assless chaps to ‘upset the traditional order of Wimbledon’. As it was I could only look on as the fathers grabbed him by his dog collar (again, I have no idea why he was wearing one) and proceeded to beat him up till they got bored and went home. Nearing dusk Max finally awoke from his second trip into unconsciousness. Before we left I popped to the toilet. Upon my return I could see a large hairy thing on the grass some way in the distance, but no sign of Max. Becoming worried that I would have to explain to poor Paul that his fictional creation had been eaten by a bear in South London, I decided to look closer at the hairy thing. It was Max. Picking up rubbish. In a womble suit. Growing tired of his antics I forced him into the car and went home. I felt womble was significantly better than tennis racquet so I didn’t bother taking him to hospital, but dropped him off at Paul’s house glad to be rid of the strange man. I never did get to see any of the tennis…

Ben's work can be viewed here. Ben, since I'm lazy and live with you, you're not getting a prize.

So thanks to everyone for entering, and please continue to do so. Even though the competition is closed, if you send anything in, I'll strip Ben of his prize and award it to you.