| �There was once this game � a video game. If you played it� then one week from that day� you�d die!� To say that laughter didn�t follow this ridiculous statement was like saying sitting on a hedgehog wouldn�t hurt. �Okay laugh�, said Ginge. They did, nor very quietly. �But it�s true!� This only served like a pan of petrol over a bonfire. �A game � chuckle chuckle chuckle (I know one doesn�t generally laugh using such words but how else is one supposed to portray laughter?) � that � snigger chortle snigger � kills you? This person whose name was Gary but, for some unknown reason, even to his companion�s who had christened him, was referred to as Bingo. His fit of giggles seem to curb before he added, �Two fat Lady�s eighty-eight,� as if explaining what he had for tea last night. The fine rain gave way to hail which pattered the window as if a babble of people were stood outside, eating grapes and spitting the pips at the glass. �I played a computer game once,� stated Silent G in his pungent Welsh accent, which was so Welsh that the others always expected him to burst forth to the strapping beats of, �All thing�s bright and beautiful�� whenever he rarely spoke. The rest looked at one another as if they�d just seen Tim Henman win a tournament that wasn�t the Albanian Open. �And was it this game,� pressed Bingo�surely they couldn�t get more out of Silent G; for, that would surely be it for another three weeks. �The one where you die within a week of playing it?� � Ah, no boyo! Wasn�t that one�at least I don�t think it was� �When did you play it? asked Ginge, sitting forward with the eagerness of one who�s already five of their six numbers come out and was awaiting the final possibly-life-changing sixth to drop down� ��Twas two years ago, or there, or thereabouts, so I�m not sure, see?� The hail now took on the appearance of an army of peach-stone-spitters and threatened to breach persecuted windowpane. Horse, so called because, not only did he look strikingly like one but owned the entire collection of Mr. Ed, snorted and pawed the ground with his hoof- sorry, his foot, in restless anticipation. Rab Roy suddenly sprang to his feet and screamed till he was red in the face. Whoever had been nodding off was nodding off no more! Rab Roy wore a sweat band around his head that resembled the colour of a smoker�s fingernails and he had a face like the interior of a baby�s nappy. He sat back down muttering incoherently under his breath things like �Kill? Kill dem all! Dat�s what we do! Dat�s what we do!� His accent, as one might expect, wasn�t a Scottish one but rather, believe it or not, an Irish one. �Where is �ee anyway?� whinged Ginge, referring to their boss. �Usually �ere at this time�it�s not like �im�not like �im at all.� The others mumbled, a sound which not only suggested mild agreement but one which couldn�t disguise the twinge of hope that he�d be absent for the first time in seventeen years resulting in them not having to go out in such foul conditions that even had the ducks saying: �Quack quack! Quack! Quack!� which otherwise translates into: Well bless my feathers! Isn�t this just the crappiest of days!� and shaking their sodden wings towards the clouds in irritation. �So this game,� he said to Ginge. Have you played it?� �Well course I ain�t played it he scoffed (one of those rather callous scoffs which makes a person out to have just claimed they�ve been to the edge of the world). �Or I�d be dead by now, wun�I?� Bingo�s brow furrowed. Not if you played it, say, yesterday you wouldn�t� well not yet anyway�� The room went silent, only the furious cracks of the hailstones could be heard as Ginge�s face went whiter than a sunbather�s posterior whilst holidaying in Bognor Regis. �What�s up my man?� Tiny Tim asked Ginge (obviously, being referred to as Tiny didn�t mean he could jump up and down on the front seat of a Mini and still not bang his head; we are of course experiencing the use of irony here). A few unsolicited swear words issued from his mouth quite without his knowing (these spasms of the rude and downright offensive couldn�t be helped you must understand). �I � I was playing Fifa Two Thousand and Four where I�m Arsenal (the rest of the room gasped but Ginge carried on obviously) and three points off winning the league (a louder, more violent gasp sounded that would bring round a tranquillised gorilla), anyway, what if this is the game (exaggerating the �the�)? I might only �ave six days left.� But before anyone could come to the aid of his plight (not like many would after admitting to inevitably steering Arsenal to the Championship) and just as the weather really started to take the Micky (the wind had now joined the fray), the Changing-room door swung open. In the doorway stood a wild, elderly, frail looking gent with the air of someone who prefers whisky to milk in their tea. �Rrrite noo! Dan�ee think ya wee (the word he use next is totally un-type-ableand so I�ll change it to Scallywags just for your benefit) Scallywags are gettin� off just coz the weather is lousier than Andy Gray�s opinions!� His graying hair had gone the same colour as the clouds and drips dropped from the end of his nose like a tap that hadn�t been properly tightened. He dropped his bag with a soggy thud, bent extremely slowly down to it (arthritis in the back is a git, you know?) and extracted his trusty clipboard, that had been around for so long its once deep blood-red exterior had transformed into the colour of a guinea pig�s vomit (if you haven�t seen guinea pig�s vomit then I�ll just say it�s a faint magenta�usually�if they�ve been eating carrots, that is). �Rrregister Tim!� he announced, which all recognised to mean a register was about to be taken. �Howard, Tim?� called Sir Alex. �Yo bro!� answered Tiny Tim (thankfully Sir Al expected the pool of usual swear words and so, didn�t bat an eyelid when they arrived). �Neville, Gary?� �Here,� replied Bingo and then, �Kelly�s eye, number one!� Again Sir Al was quite accustomed to this other bizarre practice as well. �Scholes Paul?� I must say as well, there was nothing wrong with Sir Al�s eyesight even though everything else about him was up-the-spout but he just liked calling the names even though each and every member of his team were mere metres away from him; he always wanted to be a teacher, you know. �Yep,� whispered Ginge croakily; he couldn�t shake off the suffocating feeling of �What if?� But before he could say, �Keane, Roy� the burly Irishman (like a tree, all bark and no bite) jumped back to his studs and roared this time until he was blue in the face. The room watched the spectacle like viewing an epileptic tiger during a fit, beileiving they could do more harm than good (especially to themselves) if they got involved. �Giggs, Ryan?� Sir Al enquired when the shrieks had subsided to illogical rambling. Silent G nodded with a glue-sniffer�s-glaze in his eyes and said, �Ratatouille (which for those of you who don�t know is pronounced rat-tat-too-ee and was his usual short sound of confirmation).� �Van Nist�whateveryournameis?� Horse had to be nudged before he too confessed his attendance. When the register had been taken ( I couldn�t be bothered naming the remaining shall we say, less important nutcases) the players� straightjackets were removed and their pupils were checked�just to make doubly sure, you must understand, before being let out. By: Christopher G. Threlkeld. |
| The Game |
| The Woks of C.G Threlkeld - 1 |