KP: Fencing

July 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Day 1

Feeling nausea mixed with bouts of paranoia and insomnia. It’s been a bad month. Robin Gibbs’ death ruined my plans to announce my T20 retirement. And then public favour swung towards Nick Knight after my tweet about him. Is there any justice in this world?

Day 2

Rethinking strategy. Perhaps I quit too early.

Day 3

Trotty calls.

“Hey bru howzit? Listen bru me and the lids we’re off on a bonding exercise eh. Why don’t you come along. It’s no fun being in that room all day by yourself.”

“Look Trotty if I needed company and I was desperate like you I might go to a team bonding exercise. But why don’t you ever get it into your thick round skull that I’m KP. I don’t need friends!”

“C’mon bru, don’t be like that. We’re off fincing. It’ll be good for you. You know with swords and shit.”

“Look Trotty I know what fincing is. I’m a fucking pro. I mean who. I mean…Fucking hell I. AM. KP. D’you want me to spell it out for you?”

“Ok great I’ll tixt you the details. See you just now bru!”

I hang up and search for fincing on the Google. Unfortunately nothing comes up. Fincing….what the hell could it be? Then I realise that he must be talking about swordfighting. I order a DVD off Amazon to check it out.

Day 4

I’m walking down the road singing aloud. I’ve grown myself a pointy mustache and chin beard and I managed to buy Antonio Banderas’s Zorro costume from Amazon and a pair of jackboots from a vintage Nazi memorabilia shop.

As I swagger down to the studio I spot this fit chick rummaging in her car outside from behind. When I get closer I get a shock when it turns out to be Alistair Cook.

“Hey KP.”

“Cooky.”

“Er why are you dressed up like that?”

“What are you talking about? Why are you wearing that?”

“What?”

“That tight t-shirt. Those jeans!”

“But it’s just a t-shirt and jeans.”

“Yeah you freak!”

Cooky turns bright red. I ignore him and walk in. Swanny’s there with Strauss.

“KPPPPP what the hell mate? Very niiice.”

Straussy’s looking at me up and down, checking me out, like a ferret.

“So you ready for a few bouts today Kev? En garde.”

“What?”

“En garde, en garde! C’mon man what’s wrong with you.”

“I’m not on anything. I’m K..”

Suddenly I see Nas coming over from the other side of the room. He looks threatening holding a massive sword in his hand. I try not to stare at his hair.

“Lads. Straussy. How’s it going fellas, ready for some action? I know I’m pumped.”

He suddenly turns to me and stares really hard. I feel uncomfortable and look down at the ground.

“Nice one Nas,” says Swanny. “Heard you’re a bit of a lad at sword poking. Oi, Oi, eh?”

“Yeah better than being an uphill gardener,” retorts Nas and immediately turns and stares right at me again.

I’m feeling a little sick when the teacher walks in. He’s French, his names Ludo. He starts giving us a few instructions in a fancy French accent. He keeps looking at me in my zorro outfit. I wonder if he is attracted to me. We are given swords.

I take my cape off and prepare to face this French guy. He starts telling me how to fence. The nerve. Telling me where I’m going wrong. I’m getting pissed off. We start fighting and I charge towards him to stab him but he moves out of the way and I go crashing into Belly who’s standing behind, pissing around and putting me off!

I get Belly instead and stab him over and over in the back until he screams like a pig.

Eventually the teacher says we better swap partners. So I pair off with Belly. Again I give him the fucking hiding off his life. Teach him to put me off while I’m trying to fence.

Later

The Frenchman’s arranged a tournament. If you win the first round you get to the semis. I tell Belly to forfeit his match and so I’m through. This should be easy. I’ll wipe the floor with Cooky or Trotty. If only everything in life were this smooth.

I’m polishing my jackboots, ready for the semi when I see someone approaching. It’s Nas. O God.

“Kevin. ”

“Er Nas….”

“Looks like it’s me and you in the semi. Good luck.”

He walks off with an evil leer on his face. I get to my mark. I’m shitting chunks man. The referee blows the whistle and Nas charges at me screaming, holding his sword aloft over his head. I try and get out of the way but accidentally manage to poke him in the face. The point is mine. Victory to me.

O God what have I done? I want to scream, shout, complain, basically just blow my brains out. But Straussy and the rest of the lads are looking at me so I can’t.

Suddenly there is a handclap. I turn around– it’s Belly. The clapping turns into a ripple of applause, gets louder, more people join in. It’s growing, getting thunderous, the whole room has now exploded, shouts of “Bravo” and “Victoire.” I tell them all to shut up. No, no, please you’re just making things worse, stop, please. But it’s now a cacophony.

Over on the other side, Nas is standing there with a grim smile playing on his lips. His eyes are fixed on me. Just on me. Twitching.

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