Paintball

A mate of mine will be married soon, which means that on Saturday he was having a stag night, preceeded by some paintball shooting in the woods.

Paintballing is great fun. I recommend it to one and all. The rules were that a fatal shot was anything below the neck, including fingers and toes. Head-shots were not counted you see, to discourage dangerous shots to the head. Also, ‘Violence of any kind will not be tolerated’. Er.. right, ok, whatever.

The head rule had a problem though in that it meant you took advantage of it by hiding behind things and leaving your head sticking out to search for the enemy safe in the knowledge that you wouldn’t be dead if you were shot in the face. I got shot in the back, leg, both shoulders, the hand, and about 30 times in the head. Paint tastes horrible.

The rules also meant that I was taken out quite quickly in the first game by a fatal would to my achiles finger. After that though, I was a fucking killing machine dude, a killing machine I tell you. Being a stag do though meant that our illustrious red-team leader who took us to eventual victory did so in a tasteful pink neglige acquired from Ann Summers. Not only were the cowardly blue team destroyed repeatedly in unrelenting strategic onslaughts, but they were being beaten by a bloke in a dress.

The enemy’s humiliation could not have been more complete.

Night-time though was spent in a variety of pubs getting pleasantly drunk. Eventually though the decision about what club to go to arose and the camp was divided between two venues. It was either to be the Truffle Club or the Garage.

Seriously, that was the choice. Either a tasteful venue themed on the celebration of the female form and its beautiful rythmic agility, or a huge, dark smoke-filled hole with a mile-long queue of sixteen-year-olds outside and a sticky dancefloor.

The choice was made, they went to the Garage. I was amazed and went to the taxi rank.

Add comment March 22nd, 2004