February 2025
The Brig’s face was stern. It was also on its side. “Turn your phone to portrait Johnny”. “What’s that? Oh, right, I see. Good. Thought you men were all having a lie down. Anyway, look, awfully sorry I’ve had to pull out of tonight’s match but I’ve been called to London by the powers that be and”
By the time the Johnnyless Dads met at the Basonbridge Inn that night, no further word had been received, and theories proliferated as alarmingly as the opposition team. “There must be thirty of them”, muttered deputy skipper JP, as yet another brawny posse shouldered in through the door.
It transpired that the Basonbridge is the only pub in the county with a dual carriageway skittles alley capable of hosting two simultaneous matches in parallel, or two parallel matches simultaneously. Either way, with two matches proceeding at different speeds, and with increasingly confusing and bibulous comings-and-goings between alley and bar, it was perhaps inevitable that the Dads should return for their final round to discover that their opponents had seemingly joined forces with at least one other team to establish a beer-hand lead of 678…
The phone burst into life on the lonesome levels, illuminating the funereal interior and mood of the returning team bus. “Ah there you all are chaps” beamed the Brig, this time upside down. “Sorry I got cut off earlier. Gosh how clever of you all to be sitting on your heads – a good result I take it?”