August 16
My soul-cleansing school sports day admissions have brought similar tales of woe tumbling onto the electrical doormat that is the spaceage intraweb, delivered by the electrical postman that is the . . . oh, you get the idea.
Several troubled souls have come clean and admitted to struggling home in last place in the dad's race, some have revealed that the trauma has dogged them for many years and one has claimed he is still owed a parboiled egg which he lent his school in 1974 to complete the traditional pairing with a spoon.
But the majority of folk have been far happier 'shopping' other n'er do wells and gainsayers who have tainted the whole sports day experience for everyone through some villainous act of selfishness.
Without doubt the stand-alone winner in this category
comes from a teacher currently stationed overseas in an oil-rich arabian state where the ex-pat parents are wealthy and any lasting shred of self-awareness apparently headed over the horizon a long time ago.
Our educator reports that one testosterone-rich father made a specific appointment with the school's head of recreation (non-contact) the morning after sports day to, and I quote, 'run through a couple of issues arising from the Year Three obstacle race final.'
The teacher in question happily agreed to the hastily-convened summit, only to find himself confronted by a tight-lipped dad erecting a portable film screen and video camera on tripod.
The indignant father then proceeded to run a heavily edited two-minute show, complete with slow-motion sequences and action replays, which he exclaimed in tub-thumping fury proved beyond doubt that darling Julius had come first in the event, not second as adjudged.
Not only that, the father wanted all certificates recalled and a repeat ceremony carried out during which darling Julius was placed atop the medal plinth to deafening acclaim.
If this did not happen, the budding Hollywood mogul hinted that darling Julius may never recover from the ordeal and might even have to be removed from the school to prevent long-term scarring.
The weary teacher reminded him that term had finished for the summer and could he please go home.
The father stormed out, but not before promising that people 'certainly hadn't heard the last of this outrage.'
Happy hols to all.
No issues of placings, false starts or whingeing from My Little Monster's sports day. There usually are, but this year in an act of sheer inspiration the school put an American in charge of the Pimm's tent. Bless him (literally), for it was only when he very quickly ran out of the stuff and with long queues forming for seconds or thirds that a kind soul informed him that you are supposed to mix the stuff with lemonade! I have pictures of parents nodding off, while others looked as though they had just stumbled out of Annabel's. All drove home quite gloriously pissed!