Boules-up

The fiendish look of concentration, the pursed lips, the hurtling chunk of metal, it can only be the Boule d'Or. Once again we gathered in Cleaver Sq, to chuck over-sized goons at a small wooden pig/ball. Once again we were horribly trounced by practically everyone. I'm not sure what it is about our boule skills. We seem perfectly adept, yet still we find ourselves suckling the proverbial hind tit. I would like to lay blame at the sandaled feet of Au Savage and the Bernmiester, but sadly I am equally at fault. We just literally and metaphorically, drop the boule, but nowhere near that tedious little pig. Still, it was a very pleasant day, the Oranjeboom flowed free and we were united in our despondency. In the coming year, we should really entertain the thought of actually practicing a bit, rather than waiting for the next d'Or to come around before raising our wrists. Crazy talk I know, but we want to win that cake and those marzipan boules, God I could almost taste them!

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