February 2025
The owl watched curiously. It was two in the morning, and yet the Allertons teemed. Dark figures were floundering up the lanes and fields towards the old mill-house, burdened with laptops, phones and battery packs, with many no sooner reaching their destination than sprinting back down the hill for another run. At the top of the milltower, a window pulsed green.
They had stumbled on the hidden online cache some days previously. Ostensibly an innocuous website describing the history and traditions of English country pub nine-pins, various puzzling indications had suddenly led JP to realise that they were in the presence of the long-lost internet resting place of the Holy Groll, a medieval treatise containing the secret to perfect skittling. The encryption was mighty – but a supercomputer cobbled together from the Dads’ combined tech might just break through.
“That’s it!” yelled JP, as The Bishop gaffered the last two Nintendo Gameboys together and coupled them into the jenga tower of devices wobbling in the middle of the room. “We’re in!” The Dads huddled close. The pixels on the monitor seemed to be re-arranging themselves. Then everything went black. The straining chipboard fans of the supercomputer fell instantly, impossibly silent. And then in the dark, quiet room, in the middle of the screen, in a quaint script, the words appeared.
Mark well ye proven recype
To winne ye vixtor’s cuppe
Hold beer in leffte
Hold balle in righte
And do not get mixte uppe