Carping

‘Wanna come Carping this weekend?’

Visions of torrential rain hammering holes in the surface of a murky green lake surrounded by huddled men in green macs avoiding their wives and children filled Graham’s head. He shook his head firmly, hoping the office geek, Ned, would leave him alone.

‘I’ve never been into fishing; I’ll pass.’

Ned laughed, that annoying bray which set Graham’s teeth on edge.

‘No man, it’s like Larping, but real niche,’

‘And you think I know what Larping is because…?’

Ned was about to reply when Shirley, blonde, buxom Shirley from Accounts, who was currently between boyfriends and fair game, cut in with an excited squeal.

‘You are going Carping? Oh my gawd, you have to let me come!’

Graham jumped in, feigning the same level of enthusiasm.

“You can be my plus one, Shirl.’

He winked, she giggled, Ned frowned in vague annoyance, but buried it quickly in his reply.

‘Yeah, why not? Meet me at the Red Rooster on Acre Street, 6am Saturday.’

Graham’s splutter at the ridiculous hour was drowned by Shirley giving Ned a huge hug and squealing yet again, assuring the discomforted geek that she couldn’t wait. He tried to ask both of them what the heck Carping was, but Shirley tip-tapped on her stilettos back to Accounting at speed and Ned just winked and told him to enjoy the surprise.

Saturday dawned grey and windy, but at least it was dry. Graham swung his bike into the parking lot and noted Shirley decanting from her nifty little sports number. Despite the strange, medieval wench get-up, those magnificent mammaries beckoned above a froth of lace. She grinned at Ned, hugging him as Graham crossed to join them.

‘Can I get one of those?’

Graham flung open his arms but his dramatics were roundly ignored, Ned and Shirley heading towards the Red Rooster and disappearing inside. He had a sinking feeling his hunt for Shirley was going to fall flatter than a pancake stuck to the ceiling.

He was surprised by the interior of the pub. Outside it looked like ye olde worlde British inn. Inside the place was chock-a-block with screens. A row of plasmas seemed to be continuously streaming table-top gaming from around the world, complete with time-checks. Tiered tables in semi-circles filled the floor space and contained groups of cheering and groaning nerds all attired in ballooning shirt sleeves, tabards and green or red tights. Graham had never felt so out of the loop in his life.

Shirley simply threw herself into the mix, joining a similarly attired set of women by a long wooden bar. Ned put his arm around Graham’s shoulders and drew him toward one of the semi-circles.

‘Wanna make some bets?’

‘Bets?’

‘Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re new. We bet on the races we hold, all over the world. There’s a whole underground of these race clubs. Don’t worry, you don’t have to shell out too much.’

Ned seemed to find this comment incredibly hilarious, most of the group chuckling along. Several cries of ‘Good one’ and ‘Ned gets off a goodun’ followed. Ned indicated the screen.

‘Let the man see what he’s about to crack open his wallet for.’

Graham spent the next five minutes failing to close his gaping mouth and only remembering to blink when his moisture deprived eyes forced themselves shut.  A triptych of screens showed a race from the air, from the side and from some kind of head camera. His eyes swerved from one screen to the next, around and around as men in the same tights and tabard get-up as Ned and crew sat proudly astride their chosen chicken. 

It took Graham’s brain a few tries before it managed to stammer out the word. His vision saw chickens; bloody great chickens being ridden by grown men… in tights. His brain kept trying to tell him all was well, he was simply having bit of a nervous breakdown, what with end of year accounts and whatnot, but his eyes screamed ‘CHICKENS!’

Ned swept a chair under Graham with a practised flourish, catching the sinking man neatly.

‘Eggsactly what happened to the last three guys I introduced to Carping. Chicken Action Role Playing, in case you hadn’t got that yet. Cool huh?’

Graham continued to suck in the screen images, muttering a constant chant of ‘Chickens… bloody great chickens.’ Ned yelled to the wenches at the bar.

‘Ladies, something strong for our friend?’

Shirley bustled over, stuck a large whiskey in Graham’s barely responsive hand and clutched him to her bosom in her eggcuberance; which at least got his attention.

‘Awesome huh? I’ve been trying to  get an invite for years. Who knew our little Ned was gonna be my hero huh?’

She gave Ned another flirtatious wink and sashayed back to the bar. Reeling from all kinds of sensory overload, Graham really wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

A hush fell over the room, the plasmas were muted and all remaining screens began to show a large open field. A trumpet blared off screen and two groups of riders lined up at opposite ends of the field. Graham tugged on Ned’s sleeve.

‘What now?’

‘Best part of the day. The Battle of King HENry versus King Arthur. When Arthur draws Eggscalibur the battle will commence.’

Graham watched a rider with a slightly wonky crown and dragon-emblazoned armour stab a gold-painted, fake jewel encrusted sword at the sky. There was a thunder of talons, a chorus of squawks and then a cloud of feathers.

Graham slumped in his chair, downed the whiskey and gave in. If you can’t beat ‘em, he thought, as he scrambled for the door and the sanity of tax returns in April.