CDS (Competitive Dad Syndrome)….
Saturday was a bit of a bummer. "Why so?" I hear you ask, especially as it was such a nice day. This Summer, ‘nice day’ means checking the toms, counting the visiting Butterfly quotient, watering the hanging baskets, trying to finish off my pond – and just pottering about a bit. Generally chilling out in the garden is the order of the day……
But silly me. I’d forgotten that next door’s garden was the venue for this year’s Competitive Dad Olympics.
About 8 Dads took part, along with their rubbishy non-sporting kids, making around 26 competitors in all. The kids took to the arena as ‘Team Crap’ – the Dads as ‘Team Testosterone’.
It was a gala of sport and competitive mayhem. All the old favourites were there, Chipping a golf ball into a basket, first to the apple tree race. garden cricket, the crying kid competition, keepy-uppy using a beach ball, 12 aside footy – generously spread over a 12 x 6 yard playing area…… and my very favourite, the Victor Ludorum of the day, who can scream the loudest while bouncing on the garden trampoline.
As the day wore on, the Dads began to wilt. More wilting meant more trips to the bar for refreshments. More refreshment meant more ‘accidents’ as little kids got crushed under beer bellies, received green stick fractures and became broken victims of professional foulery from an unscrupulous foe.
Arguments broke out – was that leg before?, was the ball over the line?…. Every argument meant a time out to cool down and visit the bar…… When will this row ever end? I thought.
Fortunately, the guy on the other side of their garden was thinking the same thing. Fortunately, he decided to do something about it.
In order to get rid of an annoying group of fully pissed adults and 18 hyper active, whinging, moaning, spoilt brats you will need the following:
A 6 foot high bonfire.
A box of matches.
Some green stuff to chuck on when it is well alight.
Wind going in the right direction.
He lit it, and chucked on a load of grass cuttings. Smoke everywhere. The pissed adults massed at the border to remonstrate with the manic fireman. He didn’t take any notice – he was too busy trying to hold back his 2 fully grown German Shepherds…..
The games were abandoned, the competitive Dads staggered back into the house to get a drink. Me? I sat on the step, revelling in the silence with tears rolling down my cheeks. Smoke is no respecter of borders.