Last Saturday Eric Bristo entered me. Not in the biblical sense you understand, that would have hurt, and he didn’t actually get inside me like one of those serial killers who wears their victims skins over their own faces. Anyway, in either sense he would have split me in two, my bulls eye will never be ready for the Bristo.
Back to the matter in hand…. Daleks were not built to walk up stairs, Gary Glitter wasn’t designed to be a children’s worker and Keith Chegwin wasn’t engineered to be a barman. My own dysfunction is an inability to play any sport. I occasionally go running where I can guarantee to win every time as I only ever go out on my own.
I am worse at sports than Eddie the Eagle on crutches or Tim Henman after a multi limb amputation. The runt of the sporting litter if you will, the last little piggy in lycra to suckle on the sports milk of genetics.
But last weekend something mysterious happened, a magical moment, my moment, not a goal at Wembley or an ace on Centre Court, but I won a pub darts competition against my mates. I can only put this down to the butterfly effect, or that I slipped into another dimension for a few minutes in time.
More probable though was that after my eighth pint of lager, iron bru cocktails (amaretto dropped into lager) and other such glamorous drinks is that I had forgotten who I was and therefore had gained some sporting confidence.
Thank you Eric, but you can get out now, and please can the hangover go away.