Violence at the welly-wanging event
GREAT news! The annual It’s A Knockout tournament between this district’s neighbouring parishes – our own hamlet, Little Scarring, Big Scarring and Nipples worth – is to be revived.
It was scrapped five years ago following violence at the welly-wanging competition, a punch-up that made headlines in our local newspaper.
And what an extremely unfortunate typographical error that was...
Now, relations have thawed sufficiently to again stage the event. Money raised will help repair the roof at our parish church, St Rooney’s, and provide a new stained glass window.
This, in my opinion, is an undeserving cause.
The medieval building is crammed with ancient silverware. During my family’s darkest financial hour, I asked the vicar to show some Christian charity and give me a plate to flog. He would have none of it. Therefore, I’m less than enthusiastic about fund-raising for slates.
The congregation has, presumably, asked God for his assistance. If he’s not willing, why should I muck in?
This week, at our inaugural It’s A Knockout committee meeting, Old Tom, quite literally a poacher turned gamekeeper, proudly unveiled his plans.
“They release the bulls,” he said excitedly, “and the beasts stampede through the main streets, chasing the panic stricken locals who have to avoid being gored.”
Fellow committee members looked incredulously at the rustic. “They love it on the continent,” he pointed out. “It’s bigger than darts.”
The Major tapped the stem of his Parker on the polished walnut table and blew out his cheeks.
“It’s an interesting concept,” he sighed.
“And you’d like the elderly to take part as well?” “Definitely,” said Old Tom. “Even Widow Trickett?” “She can really move – don’t let the Zimmer frame fool you,” Old Tom told stunned colleagues.
At least Old Tom came up with an idea, if somewhat too “left field” for our tastes. A plea in the parish maga- zine for suggestions about the event garnered only four responses. Three of those asked if a suggestion box could be erected.
The fourth, written in crayon, said: “If you don’t get this note, snails have eaten it.”
They hadn’t. It said: “Sell beefburgers.”
I now know that the proposed church window, paid for by our endeavours, will depict the one and only miracle attributed to St Rooney, the patron saint of footballers with metacarpal injuries.
A weary traveller begged for sustenance and St Rooney killed a pheasant for him.
As far as miracles go, it’s pretty small beer, but it’s something we can all relate to.
My mate bagged 22 miracles during a shoot last week, but he’s not getting a stained glass window. Such are the eccentricities of the church.
“We’d have to look at the health and safety implications,” the Major told Old Tom. “What happens if someone gets gored or trampled on?”
“They’ve lost,” said Old Tom matterof-factly.
“We’ll come back to you,” said The Major, his face wreathed in an irritated smile.
“I suppose you don’t like the badger wrestling, either,” huffed the gamekeeper.
“Do you think we’d get TV?” interrupted a committee member.
“I doubt it,” said The Major, “but local radio may be interested.”
“You misheard me,” corrected the elderly woman. “I said ‘Do you think we’ll get TB?’ You know what they say about badgers.”
Ideas that have so far passed muster include welly-wanging: thanks to the local paper’s appalling “typo” that attracted 36 entries from teenage lads.
Plans to burn an effigy of North Korean despot Kim Jong-un have been ditched on the grounds that the event is non-political.
You can’t prevent Young Conservatives from having a cake stall, yet allow entry to a straw mannequin of the dictator.
Anyway, we can’t afford to be nuked. We’ve just won a potato contract from McCoys.
Hopefully, the bee man, who brings his insects under glass to every fete in our area, will be in attendance if a fungal infection that wiped out half his hives, and made the big toe on his right foot go blue, has cleared.
Our committee wants the event to be a “bonding exercise”.
How you can bond while thumping someone in a Sumo suit is beyond me. But what do I know? I’ve organised only one community event – a sponsored pie fight.
Four people were hospitalised with severe allergic reactions after being struck by pies with nuts in them.
“What we need,” stressed the Major, “is a really big name to open proceedings. Have we heard back from Bob Carolgees?”
“Bob’s checked his fridge,” said the secretary, “and unfortunately there’s a clash. The sell-by date on a tub of fruits of the forest youghurt is the same as our event.
“If he doesn’t eat it then, he’ll have to throw it away.”