COMPETITION
ISLE OF
IIIRA
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S1,411 MALT SCOTCH %NMI
Futuristic play
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 1966 you were invited to supply a newspaper report of a `sporting event' in 2097.
There are 32 players on the field, the Britannulists need a second innings score of 1,500 to win, Stumps is bowling from the British catapult, one batsman looks 'like a diver with his diving armour all on', anoth- er is using a 'Neverbend spring-bat' which he has invented himself . . . It might be H.G. Wells (whose father was a profession- al cricketer) in one of his futuristic fan- tasies, but the scenario is, surprisingly, from Trollope's novel, The Fixed Period, written in 1880 and set 100 years ahead. Read it — it is extremely entertaining.
'If ever a match showed the move to pro- fessional spectatorism justified . . "Even critics who carp at the banning of physical contact from international boxing would have thrilled at . . — Martha Ault and Adrian Fry set the scene well for two very odd contests. Watson Weeks, Peter Norman and Tim Hopkins also scored laughter points. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Guido Waldman.
It may at least be reported that the 2097 Games have recovered a measure of the gravity so con-
spicuously lost ten years ago when they were hosted by the Moon. The high jump feat of 42.5 metres has long been struck from the record books, and there has been no repeat of the sad fatality to the Kikuyu javelin-thrower who watched his shaft disappear over the horizon only to skewer him in the back of the neck on completing its first orbit. It was regrettable that the winner of the egg and spoon race was disqualified when his egg was found to be genetically engineered into a perfect square. One event, however, is assured a place in the annals: the elite team of Spanish equestriennes on their thoroughbred mares was roundly defeated in the flat race by Britain's innovative stud-farming success — male cen- taurs bred at Newmarket took the first three
places. (Guido Waldman) It was bound to happen, I suppose. After all the build-up, yesterday's tussle between Megahunks and Assisted Lobes ended in the tamest of ambi- zero draws. Predictably, each side blamed the other. It's all very well to knock,' said Mega- hunks manager Liz Glitter, 'but which team has the multi-satellite pitch scan input? Our lads have to judge angles and distances the old way. The onus was on Lobes.' AL's Grocko was equally forthright: 'Sporting hunks are getting bigger by the year. With genetic boffins through the 180-kilo barrier now, we had to pack the defence. There's no skill any more. Their chest hair just cushions the ball.'
There were boos and catcalls from spectators M the Gazza Memorial stand, only briefly silenced, at half-time, by a synchronised rutting display from rainbow moose supplied by Winni- peg University. Worse still, Instant Calvados now seem certain to switch their sponsorship to luminous cyberbowls. (Chris Tingley) Nicodemus Faldo, in a round lasting a mere 9 hours 13 minutes, has won a victory which would have made his great-great-great-grandfather justly proud. The first Brit to win the Open three years in succession, his score of 41 included five eagles, three albatrosses and a king-penguin. There were only two birdie-pluses on his card. 'I guess the old champ'd have been thundered,' he said, 'but you must remember that a century ago they were playing with non-computerised club heads and the courses didn't have wind protec- tion or all-weather fairways. Still, they had less than four miles to walk, compared with ten now,' he added, climbing back on his hovercart for a personal tour inside the razor wire of the distant stands, his winning score flashing green above his windscreen. Faldo is upholding his reputa- tion as one of today's best-dressed players, with purple catskin minus-fours and a Bobby Jones cap. (Giles Ewing) Sadly this country, despite additional taxation levied by the Lib-Lab Government, has fallen behind other nations in technology. No gold medals for the 25th successive time: why cannot we compete with the Japanese, whose silicon- chipped, spring-heeled footwear enabled their high jumper to clear 9 feet? Or Australia, whose knowhow brought victory to their hop, skip and jumper over our Olympic hope thanks to a kan- garoo implant? A cunningly designed bra enabled Olga Stupendski to breast the tape frac- tionally earlier than would have been anatomi- cally possible and so defeat the new American Madonna. The craze for anorexic slimness clear- ly disadvantaged our sprinters. The laser- controlled, rocket-implanted pole of the winning vaulter, Wing Ping, illustrates the deficiency of our research programme, savagely cut by a lack of Euro-currency. Final humiliation: our silver medallist objected to the marathon winner on the grounds that his legs were power-driven and not, in fact, his own. Objection overruled.
(Eric Dehn) A triumphant blend of earthy appeal with space- age perspective resulted from the bold decision to stage this year's Excellency World Darts Championship on McDonald's Moon. While travelling fans relaxed in the unique atmosphere of the Coca-Coladome, millions at home wit- nessed a sport finally liberated from the cramped 'public bar' of distant history. Lunar gravity allows a 19-metre throw, any slowing- down of the action being amply compensated by increased suspense during the trajectory of gracefully looping 'arrows' towards the specially enlarged board, where all scores are multiplied by 10,000 (the `Moon-factor'). Contestants here carry their traditional bulk more lightly even than their legendary earthbound predecessors. The amply endowed Jock McClintock's soaring, jubilant leap when his 1,000,000 out shot clinched victory in today's final was both a great sporting moment and a massive elucidation of the timeless puzzle of kilt-wearing, on and off
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