Saturday 28 July 2012

11 new Olympic games...

1.   Pinball
2.   Crazy Golf
3.   Shuffleboard
4.   Subbuteo
5.   Arm Wrestling
6.   Twister
7.   Bar Billiards
8.   Connect 4
9.   Swingball
10. Dominoes
11. Cribbage

Good news everybody! The Reticent Party has successfully petitioned the IOC to get the above sports added to all future* Olympic Games. The International Olympic Committee was in unanimous agreement that these were indeed Sports of the People and wholeheartedly backed our proposal to bring them into the Games in place of the universally despised toff events like rowing, sailing, equestrian, fox hunting and tax avoidance.

*We attempted to get them added, retrospectively, to all past Olympic Games as well but this was deemed to be impractical.

As far as medals go, Team GB will have a great chance in both the bar billiards and the crib and an outside chance in the shuffleboard (if anyone can remember how to play it). The nimble Japanese will more than likely run away with the twister though and the tough, angry Russians will be hard to stop in the arm wrestling.

Pinball, as a sport, is currently in the middle of a huge power shift, with the previously unbeatable Americans suddenly finding themselves second best to the Chinese (who, as well as inventing a new way of pressing the buttons, have recently mastered the previously unpredictable and highly risky strategy of 'tilting'). The only thing in Team USA's favour is the choice of machine: Star Trek - The Next Generation. There is a feeling amongst the camp that the Chinese simply don't 'get' Star Trek and will be, therefore, unable to get to grips with all the subtle nuances of the machine.
"You try getting a multiball going on that machine without, at least, a basic knowledge of Klingon," said USA captain, Mitch Brookfield.

Crazy golf, of course, is the ultimate test of nerve and skill, but having been snubbed by all of the professional golfers (because the whole idea is 'stupid' and 'ridiculous', according to them; most believe it is actually because they are terrified of embarrassing themselves on the capricious, par 5 windmill hole), the tournament is wide open and could be won by just about anyone. Anyone who is mentally tough, that is. We all know that crazy golf is played as much in the mind as it is on the greens and the eventual champion will surely be the man who keeps his cool the best when his ball repeatedly rolls all the way back down the helter skelter and the temptation to smash everything to bits and chuck the club in the water becomes so great.

All of the talk in Connect 4 recently has been about the clash of styles between 28 times World Champion, Rick 'Brickwall' Brunswick (an ultra defensive Canadian grinder who consistently plays for stalemates and famously invented the impossible to counter 'don't let your opponent Connect 3' strategy), and exciting young Australian prodigy, Johnny 'Waterfall' Williams (an 18-year-old kid who cascades tiles down the grid at lightning fast speeds, often dropping before the previous tile has even touched down, and is so attacking that he doesn't even look at his opponent's pieces). Though Williams' suspect temperament is often called into question (he regularly upsets the grid and throws tiles at his opponent when things aren't going his way), many feel that the new 10-minute move clock plays into his hands. Brunswick doesn't like to be rushed (he once famously took 1 hr 45 mins to make, what looked like, a relatively simple opening move) and with just 10 minutes a move he will be forced to speed up dramatically. Will this quick rhythm upset his normally crystal clear thinking? Or will the fiery Waterfall self-destruct again?

Dominoes, obviously, belong to the Caribbean and it would be a major shock if they didn't bring home all 36 medals available in the men's singles, women's singles, men's doubles, women's doubles, mixed doubles and team events (indoor dominoes; outdoor dominoes; beach dominoes; water dominoes; horseback dominoes and synchronised dominoes). Incidentally, they're also pretty good at swingball... but no country seems to want to own up to being the best at that at the moment.

That just leaves the subbuteo and, as always, it's very hard to look past the Spanish with their patient, skillful and unbearably boring tiki-taka-flika passing game. Oh, and Team GB, in case you were wondering, are just as useless at penalties in table football as they are in ground football.

Oh, well. It's not the winning that counts, is it?

It's the losing.

Let the games begin...

Saturday 14 July 2012

You don't have to cry...

Nobody likes to see a grown man cry and when angry, homegrown hero Andy Murray lost in the final of a local tennis comp last week, defeated by some dashingly smug, Mr Darcy-type with nice hair and a slappable face, the whole nation turned away in disgust.
"What a big fucking girl!" we said, in embarrassed unison.
Naysayers then went on to say that the man simply 'doesn't have what it takes' and has 'about as much chance of bringing home an Olympic gold at the end of the month as Stephen Hawking has of winning the triple jump'.

But naysayers always say things like that. They are, by nature, very negative people. I, however, am a yaysayer and I think Murray can triumph at the Olympics much like I did all those years ago in Atlanta.

Now, I know what it is like to ride the emotional rollercoaster that is competitive sport at the highest level better than anyone and I know how it feels to carry the hopes and expectations of an entire nation on your shoulders. It is a well known and often cited fact that during my twenty odd years at the top of the cut-throat, dog-eat-dog world of professional air hockey, I cried on no fewer than forty occasions. I cried after matches, before matches, even during matches when things weren't going my way, and I too had to listen to people calling me a 'big fucking girl' and a 'dickhead'.

The time that sticks in my mind the most was before my first World Air Hockey Championship Final when my opponent, Brad 'The Lionheart' Donovan (a man who I have the utmost respect for but also consider to be a total bastard) intimidated me with an unnecessarily firm handshake. On that occasion I wept solidly for a good twenty minutes - caught in a perfect storm of pressure, exhaustion, inexperience and terror - and the start of the final had to be delayed until I'd calmed down a bit. Unsurprisingly, I never really recovered from that and, though I was merely whimpering by the time we pucked off, the final was a terribly one sided affair (the most one sided since 336 BC, in fact) and I could do nothing to prevent Donovan from cruising to his 38th straight world title.
Looking back now, I can't help but feel that all that crying and screaming did me no favours. I must have looked like a beaten man before we'd even begun and it's hardly surprising that Donovan, a man of such legendary killer instinct, sensed blood. Indeed, he admitted as much afterwards in a rather big headed and, at times, nasty post-match interview, when he implied, and then simply stated, that I was 'there for the taking'.

The whole thing was very hard for me, at the tender age of 19, to take. I had been a warm favourite going into that match - 9 of my 10 opponents en route to the final had been forced to withdraw with various wrist, shoulder and eyelash injuries (that didn't bother me. As I always say, it's the winning that counts, not the taking part) and that had led me to believe I was invincible. I even remember arrogantly proclaiming before the match that all I had to do was turn up and I would win. So, to be swatted aside so comprehensively with the whole world watching was a bitter pill to swallow and it's hardly surprising, bearing all that in mind, that I started crying again during the trophy presentation. Nor is it surprising that I refused to officially acknowledge my opponent's victory for a full two years and spent many months trying to prove that what had happened to me during that match wasn't fair.

Of course, all this weeping and sour grapes led to suggestions from the press and my fellow pros that I was mentally weak - a bottler; a man who fell to pieces under pressure and was easily derailed by even the slightest setback; a man, they said, who had 'about as much chance of bringing home an Olympic gold at the upcoming Games as Ironside has of winning the triple jump'.
As you can imagine, this really wound me up and (after a quick cry) I made it my spiteful mission to prove them all wrong. Together with my coach, the great Willie Thorne, I set to work on a rigorous mind and body enhancement programme. I would do running, swimming and weightlifting in the mornings and crosswords, word searches and fiendishly difficult riddles (composed by none other than Willie himself) in the afternoons. In the evenings I would alternate between meditation and masturbation.
After three months of this I felt just about ready for anything and my detractors were already starting to eat humble pie. Before I had been the Big Baby (a nickname I never liked), now I was the Ice Man, Mr Unflappable, The Grinder, The Rock, The Robot, The Force, The Immovable Object. All of my nicknames now hinted at strength (and boredom).

At the Olympics I fought my way bravely to the final where I again came up against that cunt Donovan... only this time I was ready for him. This, I reminded myself, was what all the training was for, all those lung-busting, early morning runs and brain-busting, late afternoon riddles, it was inevitable that it would all lead to this: the moment when I would defeat my arch nemesis, Brad Donovan, on the biggest stage of them all.

Of course, you all know what happened next! That legendary final is burned into the memories of billions and I won't recount it all here. Indeed, most of that match is little more than a blur to me now anyway but one thing I know I will never forget is the way I felt at the end. The sheer elation of knowing that I had done it, I had achieved the thing I was put on this Earth to achieve, it had driven me close to madness and almost killed me on a number of occasions but I had done it! I had reached the very pinnacle of my sport - Olympic silver.

It felt like a dream. I remember shaking Donovan's hand warmly, saying 'better luck next time, pal' as he looked at me oddly and then just wandering off in some strange kind of trance. After this I remember very little but it is a fact that I wasn't seen again for over three weeks.

Breaking down, briefly, during the Olympic Final
after Donovan scored a lucky goal that went in
off the back of my puck.












My coach, the great Willie Thorne, spent the night of the
final dancing with this local prostitute.



















Saturday 30 June 2012

The amazing Dartman returns...

Phew, what a night!! After two years of more or less constant waiting, the new Dartman & Cueball book has finally arrived and copies have been literally* flying off the shelves.

*not literally.

Just take a look at this queue outside Waterstone's in Piccadilly...


Apparently it stretched all the way to the Isle of Wight, with many queuers having to tread water for 13 hours just to prevent themselves from drowning.

"It was worth it," said this determined young fan (who also took the opportunity to buy a Harry Potter book). "I almost died five times in the queue, from dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, boredom and suffocation respectively, but I wasn't about to give up!"


I have since been told that this queue was the first in human history to be visible from space. Holy mackerel!









This man, at least, had the good sense to arrive early...




He'd been camping outside his local Waterstone's for the last six months.

"Most people just assumed I was a tramp," he smiled, clutching his new copy of Dartman & Cueball (which he'd sensibly hidden behind a Harry Potter book), "but I knew what I was doing."













You would think all this waiting around in the blazing sun and/or freezing cold and/or pissing rain with nothing to eat and nothing to drink might make people miserable but Dartman & Cueball launches are nothing if not fun and, as ever, some of you crazy cunts decided to dress up for the occasion.

Here are one or two of my favourites:

Excellent Commissioner Wilson costume. Ardent fans will, no doubt, approve of the addition of the small child. This being a knowing nod to the Commissioner's less than wholesome reputation around kids. That's what you call attention to detail.




This young chap decided to come as Chief of Police, Frankie Corleone. Pretty good effort. Not sure about the pink hat, and what's happened to Frankie's pipe?! But, on the whole, not bad. Not bad at all.



From left to right: Commissioner Wilson, Charlie Stanley and Dartman. Superb!
Ok, hope I've got this right! From left to right: Frankie Corleone, Officer Maybe, Cueball, Commissioner Wilson, Dartman and King Alan. I love the way you've captured Dartman's never-say-die attitude; and check out that brooding Commissioner Wilson in the background! Magnificent!


Do you know that if you took every copy of The Pointless Adventures of Dartman & Cueball - Forbidden Loot sold last night and piled them up, one on top of the other, they would reach the outer rings of Saturn! And yet, incredibly, there are still copies available:

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

All you have to do is click on that little link and someone will actually deliver a copy right to your door - no queues, no camping and no cunts in stupid costumes. What an age we live in!

And if you haven't read the first one yet (and, believe me, there's always one), all you need to do is click on this link:

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

And a similar thing will happen, only with the first book (The Pointless Adventures of Dartman & Cueball - Furiouser and Furiouser) turning up instead of the new one.

Brilliant, eh?

Oh, by the way, the final part of the Dartman & Cueball saga will be released in Summer 2014. Let the waiting begin...