Bad Writing Prize (I.P.)

With more brass neck than the Sheffield Colliery Band, Lady Butterworth sat in her ivory towers spreading repugnant rumours like Dairylea triangles left in the bottom of last year’s picnic hamper and yet, even with her new set of elephant tusk dentures, she sensed she’d bitten off more than she could chew by emailing Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to say she’d found an image of Mohamed on her horse’s arse.