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Anthony Boydell
United Kingdom
Unspecified
Unspecified
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Mother,
Our regular games evenings have resumed after a temporary hiatus from myself; your warehouse-level consignment of fois-gras and fortified wine, recently-received, must have been tainted in some way as I've been defecating like a chocolate fountain for a week! Or, perhaps, I shouldn't have consumed the lot on a single, weekend bender...but he didn't seem to mind much.
As usual, this terrible conflict is taking its toll: our mighty weapons have been banging away all night - which leaves us all exhausted come sunrise - and Smudge has been complaining that Boffo is prone to much tossing. It turns out that Boffo and Smudge are now betrothed! As unusual as it is to see someone like Boffo both engaged and vacant at the same time, I cannot fail to be joyful for them.
The happy couple popped by the dugout this last evening with a couple of pals they met over at the Theatre Society (a dreadful, amateur collective obsessed with Greek Tragedy, Ibsen as black comedy and constant attempts to stage 'As You Like It' in the nude).
The first: an enormous, fruity Oriental by the name of 'Big Ding' who, apparently, helped Smudge 'get a little something off her Pillars' and contributed nothing to the proceedings apart from a stream of sous entendu. He works in the canteen where he specializes in Spotted Dick, serving up his 'gourmet' big sausage, and fried eggs which he only cooks in pairs. Let us not speak of him again.
The second was an Officer on a fact-finding mission from HQ: Captain 'Billikins' O'Neill. Smudge was terribly excited to have a commissioned serviceman in the bunker and kept asking if she could see the Officers' Mess.
Conspicuous by his absence, Jobbers failed to turn up - he sent a somewhat-cryptic telegram, however:
TIED UP AT FLANDERS..STOP..PUNISHING SCHEDULE AHEAD..STOP..HOPING TO MOUNT A DARING REAR-GUARD ACTION..STOP..MAY HAVE TO PULL IT OFF ALONE..STOP..JOBBERS..ON SECOND THOUGHTS DON'T..STOP
A quick TransAmerica opened proceedings, though I only arrived mid-game having been caught short - my linen undercrackers straining under the pressure of goose liver and Madeira Wine. The others called the game early, as Billikins and Smudge were about to hit the buffers while Boffo had still to come out of the Engine Shed.
Polite banter about a recent Concert Party performance of 'No Expo Please, We're British' quickly gave way to the traditional Agricolean delights. Boffo and Smudge seemed particularly on-form this evening and took the 1-2 with 36 and 32 points respectively - I think their deft handling of seed (and Smudge's impressive pumpkins) contributed to a comfortable victory. For myself, I failed to remember that attempting to eat a pig without flame will lead to troubles and was forced to beg for a couple of mouthfuls (Jobbers would have been so proud!) and left me in an extremely awkard position (ditto).
Sensing a resurgence of a Port/Pate rectal tsunami, I suggested we close the meeting early with some lighter (roughage-filled) fare.
First up was Gargon, a colourful and tricky filler from Rudiger Dorn - a bit of a favourite with the group, even though the author's name has a suggestion of the Hun about it. Players lead and follow the play of 1, 2 or 3 coloured cards and then compare the values upon them - the winning card(s) in a colour goes into a score pile, the others discarded. High value cards are worth little or no points at game end, while the trickier low value cards can reap big rewards if sneaked out un-contested! End game bonuses are also awarded to the player(s) who have won the most cards in each of the six colours - my winning THREE of these contributed to a crushing 76 point victory, 20 points over my nearest rival!
Secondly, a loud and heckling round of Coloretto - admittedly it was myself that was loud and heckling - a fine win for me (again) predicated on trash-talk, connivance and sleight-of-hand: I may prove absent-minded and sub-par in the proper games, but give me the light fillers and I'm unassailable!
The final course was Braggart and all of us men-folk were shown up to be the pathetic, dribbling fabricators that we are - it goes to further demonstrate that if you want to be EXPERT at lying, deception and manipulation there's no substitute for being a woman*.
Billikins refused to depart until we had all become fully-upstanding for a few verses of God Save The King, during which we also needed to get to our feet.
Your loving son,
Antonius
*(waits)
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