The Saints’ Tale – Week ??

by

“Scoop” Squire - Sports’ Scientist^©®™

 

“The Game that really never was”

 

The 9^th of March 2011, a date which will live in infamy (with apologies to President Roosevelt), the Saints Skittles team was met with a devastating setback from which it may never recover.

Let me set the scene: a Wednesday night where we were to meet our opponents at The Kings Arms, Pilning, on an alley where we had come to grief some weeks earlier (thin pins, long alley). Our intrepid team duly assembled at 20:20 (not too keen – there’s a fine for that). Me, my wife, The Copperheaded Barsteward, Andy Weare, Supremo John Tuckett, Big ‘Ed Railings, Phil “of the herd” Bailey, Puffer John Gallager and ex-lino Pete Phelps all made the effort to attend that night of lamentable embarrassment. On ARW’s embarrassometer this must be a reading of 8.8 or greater.

It all started off innocently enough. While we all buying our assorted beverages, it was notable that there seemed to be a large number of punters for a Wednesday night.

The pub landlord seemed to be having difficulty raising the 6 players for their team, and in the meantime a number of ladies appeared who we thought were going to be our opposition. Surely the pub side was away and our opponents had just arrived? No,no,no,no,no. The Kings Arms were playing the ladies and we were in limbo. Whaaaaaat? Hurried perusal of the all the assembled handbooks (the skittlers’ bible) revealed some “last minute” changes (at the beginning of the season) by our real opponents from The King William IV, Hallen. We could swiftly down our drinks and be down there in 10 minutes, couldn’t we? I hurriedly supped my ice cold lager which gave me that nauseating cold spot on my forehead in anticipation of a swift exit. Wait a minute, on closer inspection we were supposed to have met them a day earlier. Swift phone calls to make sure and, yes, it struck home – we had no game.

 

We sat down shell-shocked. Surely the copper-headed barsteward was in for a hefty fine “of biblical proportions” for such a monumental cock-up? No, he squirmed, as the game wasn’t on, fines were not levied – a point of law that only a classically educated person (or a mind of devious criminal bent) could conjure up. The shock was almost too much for most of us – we gazed at the large screen in the bar as Spurs played a thrilling no score game. Hardly a word was said. With the football over, we made our way home.

At the time of going to press, El Presidenté, Robert Irving is home once again. He’s in fine fettle as he’s moaning about how much of his whisky I drank on Saturday to anyone within earshot. Pop in and see how long he moans about me, before I go around again to have a second go at his hoard.