Curling. The sport of champions. The pastime of legends. The Game of Thrones. Quite literally the activity of sliding large weights down an icy lane.
This weekend we took a crash course in curling and it was everything we had ever hoped for: beer, ice, sweeping, screaming, painful tumbles and an excruciating last-gasp defeat at the hands of Team Female. A semi-amateur bowler myself (read: played ten-pin instead of attending VI Form Media Studies), I had high expectations of my performance. I didn't disappoint myself.
First, though, we had to get to grips with the appropriate specialist equipment. Which is to say we covered the souls of our left shoes with tape and got our order in at the bar. Our intrepid mentor pointed the way to the broom cupboard and mirthfully observed our practice shots. We got chatting, her and I, after fettled the stone thing and hoyed it down the lane with the consummate ease of a seasoned professional. "Where are you from?" she inquired, my handsome accent piquing her interest. "Scotland? Ireland?" As I corrected her, I was put in mind of Duncan's casual racism in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves:
Neverthehence, our game began in earnest and the rest, as they say, is
history. Of course, the history books will state that the girls beat the
boys by the slenderest of margins; but such an upset was only made
possible after the boys had magnanimously offered assistance in the form
of cat-calls ranging from "You should be used to sweeping" to "If the
aim of the game was to overshoot the target, you'd be class at this".
The actual result is neither here nor there, because the real winner that night was curling.
Club professionals milling about
Taking stock; visualising victory
Pride precedes a fall...
...wait for it...
...BOOM!
The Wind-Up...
...the Glide...
...and the Release. Sheer P.I.M. (poetry in motion)
