Lyrical about lycra
With office drones wandering around in shorts and the appearance of knackered trainers and kit bags about the place, it can only mean one thing - Sports Day.
Hoards of Civil Servants made their way to Chiswick, anxious to get knocked out of their events early so that they could start drinking in earnest rather than pacing themselves or, in the case of those engaged in serious competition, knocking back shandies. The exceptions to the 'no beer till glorious defeat or victory' rule is observed in the darts tent and at the boules tournament.
As always, I was softballing this year. Having shot my athletic bolt sprinting from the train station to the sports ground in order to arrive in time for the first match, it was no surprise when our team crashed out in the first round. This we put down to the other team having practiced and, more important still, being quite good.
Our keen-as-mustard captain found her team drinking away their sorrows in the bar and announced that she had entered us for the tug-of-war. We did quite well against one team, lost narrowly against another but - when faced with the team that eventually won, the tug-of-war became a rout. I think the team we were pulling against must have come from one of the regions where there is nothing to do all day but weight lift and grow thighs the size of tree-trunks. And that was just the 'girls'. We managed to avoid total humiliation by staying on our feet, but only because we had a collective image in our heads that, once on the ground, the other team would pull us along like a cowboy hero being pulled through town on the end of a lasso.
Injured pride aside, there were other diversions. Such as the 'joust', where one stands on a padded stool, much like those ones you sit on in 'photo-me' booths and with a padded stick, attempt to knock the other chap off of his stool. The problem is that one good hit sends you spinning like a dervish and, to be frank, I had plenty of opportunities to practice spectacular flying dismounts onto the inflated mat.
The other diversion was a mechanised surfboard. I did not cover myself in glory. Nor did I cover myself in sick, a major achievement as I was several pints to the god at this point.
There was plenty to amuse. The ladies football tournament was as popular as ever and I'm sure will remain so until it's superseded by actual organised lesbianism. The next best thing in terms of girl-on-girl action was available on the netball courts, where serious looking stocky women were handing out thrashings to willowy types from the office who no doubt thought that now they were grown ups, they would enjoy netball and it wouldn't be at all like it was at school, that is, horrible.
An excellent afternoon and this year I managed to avoid staying to the bitter end and showing myself up at the disco, deciding instead to go home and soak away those athletic injuries. The rope burns from the tug-of-war were the most spectacular and worrisome - the one place I can't afford any kind of injury is my palms - it's like a groin strain for a real athlete!
Hoards of Civil Servants made their way to Chiswick, anxious to get knocked out of their events early so that they could start drinking in earnest rather than pacing themselves or, in the case of those engaged in serious competition, knocking back shandies. The exceptions to the 'no beer till glorious defeat or victory' rule is observed in the darts tent and at the boules tournament.
As always, I was softballing this year. Having shot my athletic bolt sprinting from the train station to the sports ground in order to arrive in time for the first match, it was no surprise when our team crashed out in the first round. This we put down to the other team having practiced and, more important still, being quite good.
Our keen-as-mustard captain found her team drinking away their sorrows in the bar and announced that she had entered us for the tug-of-war. We did quite well against one team, lost narrowly against another but - when faced with the team that eventually won, the tug-of-war became a rout. I think the team we were pulling against must have come from one of the regions where there is nothing to do all day but weight lift and grow thighs the size of tree-trunks. And that was just the 'girls'. We managed to avoid total humiliation by staying on our feet, but only because we had a collective image in our heads that, once on the ground, the other team would pull us along like a cowboy hero being pulled through town on the end of a lasso.
Injured pride aside, there were other diversions. Such as the 'joust', where one stands on a padded stool, much like those ones you sit on in 'photo-me' booths and with a padded stick, attempt to knock the other chap off of his stool. The problem is that one good hit sends you spinning like a dervish and, to be frank, I had plenty of opportunities to practice spectacular flying dismounts onto the inflated mat.
The other diversion was a mechanised surfboard. I did not cover myself in glory. Nor did I cover myself in sick, a major achievement as I was several pints to the god at this point.
There was plenty to amuse. The ladies football tournament was as popular as ever and I'm sure will remain so until it's superseded by actual organised lesbianism. The next best thing in terms of girl-on-girl action was available on the netball courts, where serious looking stocky women were handing out thrashings to willowy types from the office who no doubt thought that now they were grown ups, they would enjoy netball and it wouldn't be at all like it was at school, that is, horrible.
An excellent afternoon and this year I managed to avoid staying to the bitter end and showing myself up at the disco, deciding instead to go home and soak away those athletic injuries. The rope burns from the tug-of-war were the most spectacular and worrisome - the one place I can't afford any kind of injury is my palms - it's like a groin strain for a real athlete!
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