by Tara Basi
“Only if we win, no prizes for foreign kids, and I want sports kit back afterwards,” Mr Singh quickly added.
“Very fair Mr Singh, very fair indeed,” Bobby concluded.
“Well Terry, I think we’ve got the prizes sorted out. What we need now is a trainer, an experienced world-class athlete who can tell us what drugs to take and how to fix the opposition.”
Mr McStrumpy lived alone in an old cottage at the stormy end of the island. Ours wasn’t a big island, but I’d never heard of him. We took the bus as far as we could and then trudged over the glen till we spotted the smoke from his chimney and then the cottage. I’d seen more luxurious bicycle-sheds.
“Mr McStrumpy,” Bobby shouted through the letterbox, “we need a world class trainer to lead our school to victory on the next sports day and we hoped you would be that man.”
“Bugger off before I cut them off.”
“Ha ha, very funny, so you’re definitely interested then?” Bobby nervously suggested.
“Where’s my damn razor?”
“Of course, we’ll pay,” Bobby added.
The door suddenly flew open and there stood McStrumpy, a huge hairy man in a ragged kilt with a cutthroat razor in one hand and a half empty bottle of cold tea in the other.
“How much?”
“Ten pounds and free frozen Singh dinners for a year,” Bobby squealed at the horrible shock of seeing the menacing McStrumpy glaring down at him.
“What do you take me for? I’m the best, ten pounds is an insult!”
“Eleven pounds?”
“You drive a hard bargain boy, I like that. Now get your bums inside and hand over the money,” McStrumpy bellowed as he picked us up by our coat collars and carried us inside. The smoky room was dark, filthy and smelly. It was lovely, just like my bedroom at home before mum spoiled everything by cleaning it.
“One pound now and the other ten when we win, OK Mr McStrumpy?” Bobby tried to sound firm, but his teeth were chattering.
“What did you say little mouse? Are you trying to cheat old Strump?”
“Absolutely not. No, not at all, never. We know you like a challenge, a really big challenge and well, ah, we don’t actually get the money if we don’t win,” Bobby nervously explained.
“How much you boys got on you now?”
Bobby and I looked at each other, turned our backs on McStrumpy and counted out our coins.
“We have £3.50p, less of course £1.50p for our bus fare back, so we could give you £2 right now,” Bobby enthusiastically offered.
“I’ll do it, give me the £3.50p and then another £10 when we win, plus a bottle of whisky on training days, forget the frozen dinners,” Mr McStrumpy happily decided. He blessed us with a huge laugh which showed off his multi-coloured teeth and bathed us in interesting fumes.
“What about the bus fare?” Bobby spluttered while trying not to breathe more than was absolutely necessary.
“Training just started!” McStrumpy giggled maniacally and then threw us out of his hovel.
It took us four hours to get home. If we hadn’t taken the shortcut over the mountain we’d have been home a couple of hours earlier. I didn’t think I was going to like training.
Training was every other day after school starting with the trials on Monday to pick the members of our team: two for each event and a couple of reserves; twelve in all.
“Three bottles whisky a week! You mad!” Mr Singh shouted at us.
“Think of the glory when we win, you’ll be a hero. It wouldn’t surprise me if your statue was built right next to the giant bronze cod,” Bobby suggested, trying to calm Mr Singh down.
“Statue? OK, maybe. You take special Cambodian whisky, only comes in gallon cans, one a week, no more or he dead,” was Mr Singh’s final offer.
Bobby decided we would need to handle McStrumpy and his whisky diet if we were to get the best out of our volatile trainer.
“Lads, great stuff, tastes just like home made, but why the funny bottle,” McStrumpy queried as he took another long slurp from the plastic lemonade bottle.
“Nuns,” Bobby whispered. McStrumpy winked, touched his finger to his nose, smiled broadly and took another long slurp.
Everybody wanted to be in the sports team. Bobby had promised £2 for a trial winner, £1 for the runner up and 50p for a reserve. On the big day a winner would get another £5. Now it was time to announce the big team prize for winning the whole event.
“That’s right, an all expenses paid trip to Rome to see the Pussycat Dolls at the Coliseum, if we win the day and smash the Protestants,” Bobby shouted to loud cheers and whoops.
“Any instructions Mr McStrumpy, before we start the trials?” Bobby asked.
“What? No, no, you go ahead. I have my eye on you little buggers,” Mr McStrumpy announced between hics and slurps.
It was a disaster. Nobody actually managed to finish the 800m. Madge got the furthest before collapsing in a breathless heap about 200m from the finish line. Little Tim was about 100m behind Madge lying face down in the mud, not moving. The rest of the crawling pack spluttered to a halt after about 200m. We decided to call it a day, the trials would have to continue on Wednesday. Little Tim was carried away on a stretcher.
“Well, what did you think Mr McStrumpy?” I expectantly asked.
“What? Yes, nice, but where’s the sheep?” was his unexpected response.
“Sheep?” Bobby and I replied in unison.
“Well, you hired me because I was world champion seven years in a row from 1972. Right? So where‘s the sheep?” McStrumpy insisted.
“Sheep?” Bobby and I said again, hoping this conversation would soon make sense.
“For god’s sake boys, are you thick! I’m a world sheep throwing champion, ready to teach you all the tricks of the trade. We’re definitely going to need some sheep, right?”
It took a while but we eventually explained to McStrumpy there was no actual sheep throwing involved in our sports day, just simple running and jumping. But if it helped, we suggested he could imagine our little team carrying sheep as they ran and jumped.
“That’s a shame boys, was looking forward to getting my hands on a nice plump competition grade sheep again and throwing the little fellow a good 200m or so. Not done that since my life ban. Bastards claimed I cheated at the 1979 world finals. It’s hard when you’re getting older and the competition’s getting younger. It was the brace event. I only gave those two little beauties a short blast of helium up the arse, stuck in the plug and was ready to go. Total cock-up,” McStrumpy sadly explained in-between slurps.
“What happened?”
“Too much helium, one didn’t come down, just floated off. The other exploded right over the judges, covered them in hot offal. Simple mistake, but they were having none of it. I was kicked out,” McStrumpy mournfully recounted, then he turned his back on us, pulled out a heavily stained napkin-sized hanky and started blowing.
“Exactly what we need, you’re a world class athlete with all the right credentials, bans, innovative cheating and lots of gold medals. You’ve just got to teach us to do the same, without the sheep,” I happily explained to a sad looking McStrumpy.
“You’re right, sport is sport, but it’s going to be tough. You lot are worse than second hand arse wipes. We’ll need more training days. Kick off same time tomorrow, finish the trials quick and then let’s get on with it,” McStrumpy decided, having cheered up quite a bit.
“Ah one tiny teensy little point Mr McStrumpy. We’re on a strict whisky limit, three bottles a week,” Bobby gently explained.
“That’s no problems boys, this is serious business. No drinking while we’re training; that includes the whole team, you two boozers as well. I’ve seen you knocking back the ‘pop’. I’ll just take the bottles home at the end of the week, if that’s OK with you,” McStrumpy said and then climbed into his battered pickup and drove off.
The next day we assembled for our second day of training. Mr McStrum
py took a very different approach to team selection. Everyone was lined up in bare feet, including Bobby and me, and he then wandered down the line, examining our teeth, checking the soles of our feet and occasionally jabbing a kid in the stomach to ‘hear the breathing’. When he’d finished we had our squad, including Bobby in the 800m as number two to Madge. I was an unlikely number one in the high jump.
“Right, the rest of you bugger off. Bobby, pay the team and let’s get training,” McStrumpy ordered.
Bobby carefully handed out the last of Mr Singh’s prize money to everyone who’d made the team. There was nothing left, not a penny. We were skint. I just hoped Bobby’s big brain was working overtime on our potentially life-threatening cash flow problems in the unlikely event someone won something.
McStrumpy had brought along an old sofa with two long poles nailed to the bottom that stuck out either side. Mr McStrumpy lay down on the sofa and the twelve of us carried him around the sports field. Round and round while he shouted words of encouragement.
“Drop me and you die, stop and you die, cry and you die!”
No one died.
“Enjoyed that did we? Looking forward to tomorrow? Good, but just in case, miss a training session and you’re sacked. Eat chips, sweets or drink anything but milk or water, and you’re sacked. Tell anyone about my secret training methods and you’re sacked. Now sacking may not sound that bad so let me explain how a McStrumpy sacking works. The first time you’re sacked I’ll kidnap you from your bed in the middle of the night, stick a smelly black sack over your head and dump you miles from home to find your own way back. Next time the sack won’t be untied and you’ll be up a tree. Third time, well let’s just say you won’t be alone in the sack. Now get the sofa in the back of the pickup.”
“That was very motivational Mr McStrumpy, you’re kidding about the sacking though? Right?” Bobby nervously asked.
That week there were only two level-one sackings, Little Tim and gorger Greg.
“Protecting my investment, had to tell your mad man the boys bought chips,” Mr Singh explained.
“Why did you sell them the chips in the first place?” I demanded.
“Customer king. Obvious. Anyway, this is second gallon of Agent Orange Three Week Old Special Cambodian whisky you having, big investment, very big. You boys better nearly lose so lots of excitement and sales,” Mr Singh explained as he handed over the huge can of whisky.
It was glorious Monday afternoon when the team assembled on the beach.
“Good news, no more sofa training,” McStrumpy joyously announced to a loud cheer from the eleven of us who had survived the first week. Jon had twisted his ankle on the last day of sofa carrying and had retired from the sporting life. I’d never seen anyone look so happy.
“Now lads, see these sacks,” at which point Mr McStrumpy must have noticed us all flinch, especially Tim and Greg. “They’re not those kind of sacks,” McStrumpy explained.
He made us fill them up with wet sand, run a 100m down the beach, empty out the sand, fill them up again and run back, every day for a week. How we missed the sofa.
The following Monday Mr McStrumpy announced, “Now lads, this is our last week, the big event is on Saturday so we’re going to concentrate on your individual events. Won’t that be fun?”
It certainly couldn’t be less fun than carrying sacks of wet sand up and down the beach. Or so we thought.
“This is Knacker, he’s one of my dogs. Don’t worry, he’s had his shots, if you get a wee nip. See this chain, it’s exactly 100 metres long. Now I’ll give you a bit of a head start and then I’ll let Knacker go. You make it over that line and you’re safe. Ready?” Mr McStrumpy had pinned rabbit tails to the back of all the runners’ shorts. Before we met Knacker, and later Killer and Rabid, we thought the tails were for luck. Each dog specialised in different running distances and had just the right length chains. I was just glad I was doing the high jump, until McStrumpy explained his training methods.
“Jumping over a stick is no challenge at all, is it lads? So that’s why we have the electrified fence,” Mr McStrumpy explained as he pulled on a big rubber glove and ran a twig along the wire. The little stick burst into flames.
I still think I was better off than Tiny Tim and Bill. Mr McStrumpy told Tim bear traps were buried in the long jump sand pit, just behind the mark he’d made in the sand.
As our last training session drew to a close on Friday I began to get seriously worried for the first time.
“Bobby, I know this sounds stupid but I think there’s a very remote chance we might actually win some stuff tomorrow. I mean, have you seen how fast you lot is racing down the track and today I’m jumping higher than ever, and Tim doesn’t need the helium boost any more.”
“I know Terry, won’t it be fantastic, my dad’s going to be so proud.”
“Are you mad, what about the prizes you promised? We’ve got no money. The Rome trip’s an obvious scam. Bobby, tell me the plan, how do we get out of this one? I know, you’re going to sink the Protestant’s ferry so the whole thing’s called off. That’s it, right?”
“I want us to win Terry and that’s what the whole team needs to focus on, nothing else. Please Terry, for my dad.”
The great day arrived, finally releasing us from the agony of training. I was very conflicted. I knew we couldn’t possibly win anything, which was good because McStrumpy would have no excuse to triple sack us or have our tender bits chomped off by his wolf pack when he found out we couldn’t pay. McStrumpy’s vengeance would probably feel soothing compared to the terrors an unpaid gold-medal Madge might inflict on me. Then there was Bobby and his dad. It was no use, I’d have to try and win and just hope the Protestants had caught leprosy and were a bit off their top form.
Our sports field was a small miracle, the only piece of flat land on the entire island. Every other bit of pasture, field or swamp ran away from the mountains and headed towards the sea, eventually falling off one of our many sheer cliffs. And, our ground had been cleared of boulders, pointy rocks and flint shards. On certain religious festivals the nuns allowed the people of the island to roll around on the grass as a special treat. It was the only place such a thing was possible without risking laceration, dislocation or concussion. The sports field was just outside the village overlooking Bumps and Bruises Bay, so called because the cliff was not particularly high at that point, making it ideal for suicide practice. There were no toilets or changing-rooms, just clumps of thin trees hanging around the edge of the field, which doubled as both. Spectators, the madly cheering protestant entourage and the hopelessly embarrassed nuns and parents on our side, hung out on the side-lines on opposite sides of the field. The Protestants were awash with cameras and camcorders, our lot usually brought paper bags to put over their heads when it got really embarrassing. But not this time. Mr Singh had been spreading the word. This year would be very different, there would be ambivalent souvenirs suitable for all religious denominations; cups and medals for losers or winners to purchase; replica sports togs and super tasty snacks. Mr Singh, being quite new to the island, had no idea we’d never ever won anything, ever. His enthusiasm for sales seemed to rub off on the whole population and some of them, like Mum and Bobby’s dad, had even left the paper bags at home and dug out the instamatic.
“Now lads, this is it,” Mr McStrumpy started to say.
“I keep telling you I’m a girl, idiot,” Madge hollered, looking very fetching in her Mr Singh’s Curry and Chips tee-shirt and Mr Singh’s Finger Licking Kebab shorts.
“That’s the fighting spirit we want! As I was saying lads, this is where it all comes together. When the starting gun goes just think of Knacker, Killer and Rabid nipping at your heels. And you jumpers remember that smell of burning flesh and the snap of traps. Finally, I want you all to have a spoonful of this. My old granddad nearly won the marathon in the 1904 Olympics using this stuff.”
“What happened to your granddad, Mr McStrumpy?” I hesitantly a
sked after swallowing a tablespoon of the vile liquid.
“Oh, he was fine, eyesight came back the next day. Would have won too if only he’d been able to see.”
Me and Ed, my teammate, were up first, in the high jump. The 800m was also about to kick off with Madge and Bobby. McStrumpy’s tonic was bubbling away in my tummy making me feel very hyper, edgy and kinda bouncy.
“You two losers go first and get lost so we can have a proper competition,” the tall lanky Protestant ordered. Neither were in a wheel chair, and both were tall, really tall, and looking very sporty in their natty blue gear. I set the high jump bar to our very best height just as Mr McStrumpy had told us. Ed went first. I stood behind him making a sizzling noise, trying to sound like an electric fence burning through flesh. Ed closed his eyes and imagined electrified razor wire, ran, leapt and soared over the bar. We raised the bar a bit higher and then Ed did the same for me and I soared too.
“Your go,” I said to the Protestants, then Ed and I turned away to watch the 800m race.
Most of the field were about halfway down the track; Madge was just behind Bobby, barking all the time. They were a long way in front; the Protestants must have lapped them.
“Go Bobby go,” Bobby’s dad shouted from the sidelines.
But the 800m is less than a lap! Wow, they were winning. Unbelievable. Ed and I started jumping up and down, shouting them on along with the rest of the island’s population.
Bobby crossed the line just ahead of Madge, who’d woofed all the way. She didn’t look tired at all, though Bobby had collapsed in a sweaty heap. Bobby had won! We’d won an event, first and second. Amazing.
I turned to have a good gloat but the Protestant jumpers had disappeared and the bar hadn’t moved. Maybe they’d gone to the loo? Suddenly screaming erupted all around us and then the next thing I knew my mum and the Mother Superior were carrying me and Ed on their shoulders.
The Protestants were crushed in every event, humiliated, ground into dust and then some. The home crowd and the nuns went crazy. At the end of sports days the nuns started singing something very loud in Latin that really wound up the Protestant priests.
