Every Loser Wins

There are certain occasions in life when one has to make the odd sacrifice.

You know? Like when the other half comes home with complimentary tickets for the opening night of her best friend’s niece’s experimental contemporary dance group production and you simply ‘have to go to show support’?

Think incomprehensible floor writhing, starkly lit stage, a wooden tea chest as the sole prop and a soundtrack that will either make your ears bleed or induce a deep sleep followed by loud snoring until other half digs you in ribs. Two tortuous acts of modern movement each 1 hour long with an intermission just brief enough to have a pee or a warm can of lager – but never both.

And then there is SCHOOL SPORTS DAY.

The annual gathering that brings young and old together for a few hours of what’s-the-pointism.

Of course, you ‘have to go to show support’.

This years ‘event’ was to be my last ever Junior School sports day, bar any surprise family additions or becoming a teacher.

Still it was sunny, I wouldn’t be at work and I’d be getting tanned.

So, the usual last minute decision re appropriate attire had to be made.

Despite blisteringly hot conditions, shorts and trainers were a no-no. Turning up looking like you are actually hoping there is a parent’s race is a sports day social faux pas. Then again, wearing jeans and sensible shoes would leave this, slightly competitive, dad at a distinct sporting disadvantage should there actually be a race.

Decision made – jeans and trainers. A look that said ‘I really do NOT want to be picked for the parents’ race but, if I am, bring it!’

Mind you, I imagine the whole Sports Day fashion choice must be sooooo much worse for mums.

Apart from potentially looking like Mrs Way Too Keen if you turn up in your running gear, Ms Glam Boobs aka Jimmy’s Mum is bound to be there to cheer him on all fake-tanned in ripped jeans, crop top, high heels and designer shades isn’t she?

Don’t fret Ladies. The situation is lose-lose. Just, for pity’s sake, wear a sports bra if there is even the remotest possibility of you ending up in the sack race.

‘Lose-lose’?

That’s totally unlike sports day where ‘Every One’s A Winner Baby, that’s the truth (that’s the truth)’.

The formula for this particular school was simple.

It was a non-competitive, competitive, team event decided by individual performance where there are no winners or losers just those who get points for their team and those who don’t.

Really? I know there’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ but there is in ‘Win’?

As usual the 1:30pm start was delayed which meant trying to find shade, a drink and avoiding having conversation with other parents for half an hour while the kids are sorted into their teams.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

As mentioned, just to make sure there’s absolutely no danger of competition rearing its non-pc head, each competitor, err I mean participant, was sorted into a team that was clearly identifiable by shirt colour. I say ‘clearly’ as the Green Team comprised of shirts that were green, dark green, light green, bluey green, greeny blue and yellow. Yellow? ‘Molly, you’re supposed to be with the Orangey Team under the other tree!’ Anyway, 20 minutes later and all teams were sorted and looking suitably disinterested.  

A whistle from the headmaster and the groups were each led to their respective ‘event station’. Well 5 of the groups were. For, yea verily, it was written that the 6th team shall rest and drinketh cups of water as part of a rotation system that not even the headmaster could fathom.

The head blew his whistle again and the fun began.

‘Fun’? Really?

First event.

3 Bean Bags. 3 Hoops. One hoop very close, one not so close, one impossibly far away.

Objective? Throw bean bags in hoops.

Points? 1pt per bean bag in hoop. 

(Make that rewinding tape noise in your head here. Hell! Make it out loud if you want.). 

WTF?! Yep, any bean bag in any hoop was a point. Didn’t matter if it was – near, far, wherever you are………..this event was so not about risk and reward.

The kids were bored, the parents were bored.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

Next up, pointless side to side jumping that deserves no further description.

Blow the whistle headmaster, please blow the whistle.

Welly throwing next. This had promise after Jimmy, son of Glam Boobs, threw it over the first marker, over the second marker and narrowly over someone’s Granny. Unfortunately this lead to the teacher explaining that you got a point for throwing the boot anywhere between the two markers. Distance wasn’t actually the factor.

Perlease! In my day that would have been the signal for targeting any adult you could then quickly declaring ‘Oops! It slipped out of my hand Miss!’ (A phrase I’ve used many times myself over the years).

Two buckets. One with water, one without, 5 metres apart. Objective? Move water from bucket A to bucket B using a sponge which also acted as team baton.

Hot sunny day, kids, water. Surely this was a cue for a soaking? Nope, one by one the Green team members dutifully loaded the sponge and carefully transported water to its destination. Until it was Jimmy’s turn. If it was on purpose it was genius. Little Jimmy arrived back at the changeover with more water than he left with and the sponge receiver got soaked. The Greens immediately changed tactics which involved dipping sponge in bucket A, soaking team mate, re-dipping sponge running to bucket B and back before handing over sponge in a style guaranteed to dampen. This is what the crowd wanted but the whistle blew too soon and it was off to the final event of the rotation.

Team Green’s final event was kicking the ball into the goal. Something that could be highly recommended for those who play at Clarence Park stadium on a Sat afternoon.

This was the only event where the team were told what the target score was. 15 the score to beat. A purpose! Suddenly they came to life. Things didn’t start that well when first greenie (my youngest daughter) stepped up and kicked the ball over the crossbar, the fence, tree and halfway down the field! Fret not, Greens had a secret weapon. Yep, little Jimmy couldn’t miss. The boy had an eye for goal, 10, 11, the crowd and kids actually got excited, 12, 13, 14, hit the bar, 15 then just before the whistle went, Jimmy hit the winner! Big cheers from all concerned.

There were some relay races (which Jimmy’s team won) and some egg and spoon races (Jimmy won his). The sack race didn’t take place (much to my daughter’s disgust) there were no parent races (much to my disgust).We didn’t find out which team won and, at time of blogging, still don’t know! (Much to everyone’s disgust).

Still, it was sunny, I wasn’t at work, but I got sunburnt!

Things You Think On Sports Day

Mum & Dad        –              Do I have to go?

Mum & Dad        –              Why does it never start on time?

Mum & Dad        –              How long is this going on for?

Mum & Dad        –              Why don’t they use real eggs anymore?

Mum & Dad        –              That ginger kid is burning.

Mum                     –              What does she think she looks like?

Dad                       –              I really should congratulate Jimmy’s mum on his performance.

Mum                     –              Do you really have to congratulate Jimmy’s mum after every event?

Politics : Handle With Care

The wait is finally over and, after the big build-up, it’s here at long last: the general erection is upon us.
The five-yearly competition to see which political party can collect the most semen and run the country is under way.  Across our great nation, men have been like coiled springs in recent months in anticipation of the event.

From 7am – 10pm, men file into booths to discretely make their donation. Size is not important; it is all about taking part and making your pathetic, whimpering voice heard. Try as he might, no man can win this competition single-handedly; it’s all about uniting and pulling as one.

Over recent months, potential participants in this erection have been urged to get their fingers out and register to donate. Some have opted to take part by post. Although legal, this course of action is not much liked by the Royal Mail and is particularly out of favour with postal workers who have to sort the mail by hand.

The great leaders of our country have been busy with rallying cries for mass participation and imploring the whole nation to come together.  The coalition government has finished its five-year sperm and it is time to restock supplies. Despite being considered by most as a bunch of w*nkers, the politicians have literally run out of spunk.

This erection has been a long time coming and it is down to every man over 18 to lend a hand for the great cause.  Without restocking supplies through the erection collection programme, the country will be on its knees and staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon.

Politicians want us to come forth; to stand up and be counted. It is time to shake up or ship out. We have been instructed not to dither willy nilly, but to get involved and lend a hand where it matters most.

Some of you may wish to sport colours to support you favourite erection candidate. Many men find an appropriately coloured handkerchief in their pocket will come in handy when they make their donation. Should you wish to take a friend with you to help you donate, that is perfectly acceptable, but they must be over 18 and promise not to reveal what went on in the booth.

Party donations are allowed, but you must fill in a form so that your donation is transparent and can be viewed by all who wish to scrutinise it. (This is to ensure that there’s no repeat of previous underhand tactics when illegal donations from horses and livestock were used in a bid to bump up the nation’s semen reserves.)

Party members have for many months been trying to tie the erectorate down; trying to find out where they will aim their donation. Some say that these activists have been premature and that all that matters is what happens in the final spurt of the campaign.

AL3 WTF believes in democracy. AL3 WTF urges you to put your hands together and be a V.O.T.E.R. (Volatile Oscillation To Ejaculate Repeatedly). While you are busy supporting your local handidate, you can be assured that there will be a Cabinet shuffle (and even reshuffle) at the same time. A word of caution: if you are a floating voter, please do not cast your vote at Westminster Lodge.

Now a few words of reassurance for first-timers: donating to a political party, or ‘voting’ as it is euphemistically called, is not dirty. It is quite natural and you should not be ashamed at having gone into a cubicle and ‘voted’. You will not go blind as a result, although too much politics can make your opinions somewhat blinkered.

If you’ve read this far, I’m sure it’s ok to mention that, irrespective of the result of this month’s erection, it is sure to cause much public discussion; a mass debate will ensue, many believe.

It would be wrong to reach the climax of this piece without mentioning women. I know that as men across the nation cast their votes, women will be uppermost in their thoughts. Women fought long and hard to secure the right to enter those cubicles. What they do in there is a mystery, though. There are few things in life that men have the upper hand on.  See men, women have handcuffed themselves to all sorts of things in order to secure the vote. Should you spot a woman with handcuffs loitering by the booths as you enter, then be sure to give her a hand.

As prospective Prime Ministers have oft said in the past ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man’. Men of the United Kingdom, your time is now. Do what comes naturally.