It's the games I'd like to focus on. Under normal conditions my family are a nice enough bunch. They are kind to strangers and animals, and, with the exception of my Grandmother, generally limit themselves to white collar crime. But if they so much as hear the tinkle of die-cast Monopoly pieces brushing against each other they turn into rabid, Gordon-Gecko-esque, win-at-all-costs, bastards.
I don't know where this ubercompetitiveness comes from but it is consistent and predictable. Personally, I just don't get this need to win. I don't have a competitive bone in my body. To trace the origins of that I'd like to go back to school sports day.
Like most schools of the 1980's, our sports day was dominated by the gambling of parents and teachers. Large sums of money could change hands based solely on the toss of a beanbag. For many years I thought the twitching eyes and nose pulls of my form tutor were induced by hay fever, but I later learned that he was signalling the odds to the far end of the track. One year the schools book budget was wiped out after the chaplain won an accumulator on the boys 50m, 100m, 200m and 400m and emigrated to Morocco having backed the 'prettiest' boy in each class.
One year, amid rumours of ringers being introduced, the school sports champion, Gary Miles, was disqualified from all the events after it was discovered that he was adopted. There were even stories about pushy parents employing private tutors to force disinformation into their children in an attempt to get them held back a year.
Against this background, I found myself representing my house in the 80m sack race. My family did not enjoy the privileged background of many of my contemporaries and we had not been able to buy me my own sack for practicing, but I had put in the hours with my shoelaces tied together. The going was good-to-firm and the wind conditions were favourable to my slight frame. Whilst being mindful of the over confidence that has blighted the careers of so many of the great sackers of my generation, I knew I was the favourite and if I paced myself correctly the race could be mine.
As I limbered up on the start line and exchanged nervous glances with the other competitors I was approached by Mrs Underhill, the school librarian. She crouched down beside me and, in a whisper, asked if I wanted to know a secret about Father Christmas. In my naivety I replied yes, I did want to know very much. The horrible truth that she then uttered into my ear sent me balling from the field of battle.
It wasn't until many years later that I learnt that Mrs Underhill had been recruited by, and was acting under the orders of, an Arabic betting consortium but by then the damage had been done. I never entered another sack race and my competitive spirit died.
Happy Christmas.
J.
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Location:Ampthill, Bedfordshire
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