The name of the game
Alex James
I’ve realised I don’t have a game, a sport. A man needs a game. It’s important. Says a lot about him; more than his car or his clothes. I asked the builders if they wanted to start a football team. ‘We’d have enough for six-a-side,’ I said. ‘Come on, it’ll be great! ... Wednesday?’ But I could tell they lacked commitment. There wasn’t so much as a ‘Bagsy not in goal’ from any of them. They’ve all got their own stuff going on, I suppose. Blackham and Doe, the groundworks guys, are anglers. They’re always showing me pictures of barbels and roaches on their phones and telling me where and how. It’s involuntary, like mothers showing pictures of their children; and the rod squad’s missionary enthusiasm doesn’t come close to the physical and spiritual delight that Neil the chippy discovers while skydiving. He can’t talk about it without beaming and misting over. Even Lee, the lad who does the pig, is some kind of PlayStation sage. Fred the shepherd lives and breathes to show his sheep in sheep competitions. That’s what gets him up in the morning and carries him all over the place. I know these people best by their chosen amusement, and I’m supposed to be the leader, but I have nothing to show them or challenge them to. I’m just this vague kind of astronomy cheese farmer with a ukelele. I need a game.
I found an old map of the farm that showed a cricket pitch in the front field. I go and look for it occasionally, actually quite often, more or less whenever I can. It’s become a source of fascination. I made some low passes in an aeroplane, with a camera, but still not a sniff of a square and even the kids are bored of looking for it now. I called the Ordnance Survey people and they confirmed that it was still there in 1973. There was a pavilion as well, they said, which rejuvenated my enthusiasm, and Fred the sheep had a lead. He said old wotsit used to play up there when he were a lad and he’d ask him about it, but we’re still no closer. I’d really like to find it, but when I do, that’ll be the end of it. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, anyway. I’m rubbish at cricket. It’s dangerous as well, hard on the fingers, boring for ladies and too long and serious.
Besides, I don’t think I know anyone who plays cricket. A lot of my friends play golf, but I’ve completely missed the boat there. If I started now I’d never be a native golfer. If I was going to start something from scratch that required that much commitment, I’d be more tempted to take an Open University course in ballistics or pastries and confectionery. It’s not that I never play games; I do, I love them. I just haven’t found the one that is me, my game. I’ve only realised I need a competitive sport because I spend hours playing patience on my phone. Patience is addictive, utterly compulsive, but there is no camaraderie there. Nothing to share, not even any equipment to get excited about.
I do go shooting, once a year, but once is enough. I like playing tennis, but only against my wife, which makes me think it’s not the tennis I’m interested in, it’s the skirts. After all the years spent in recording studios, I excel at table football. I had an excellent game of that last weekend, and trounced my opponent, but I don’t think I’m ready for my own table. Pool and snooker are much better played away, as well.
I used to play bridge a fair bit, but my life has changed so much since then. I look forward to reacquainting myself with it in my dotage, but bridge is unthinkable with three small children. It makes a second career in golf look like a tiddlywinks campaign.
Actually, the more I think about tiddlywinks, the more I start to think it might be my game. I’ve always played it. It has the essence of all the noble sports, the keen edge of competitiveness, but it’s so clearly a completely useless thing to be good at that there is absolutely no snobbery involved whatsoever. It requires no commitment, training or silly trousers to get involved. It’s a simple case of sitting down and kicking the other party’s ass. It doesn’t matter if you’re rubbish at it. It’s the game that’s good, not the players. It’s the perfect combination of flair, chaos and not taking oneself too seriously, yet still wanting to win. A good game of winks is guaranteed to lift the spirits, which is what it’s all about. Any age, any time. I’ll take you all on. I’m the tiddlywinks guy.
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