One of the quintessential aspects of being British is our unerring knack of creating games popular enough to permeate the international community, which then beats the ever loving shit out of us at forever more. Not that that's particularly different from all the sports we didn't invent, obviously. In fact, the more accurate appraisal is surely that we suck across the board. Nevertheless, though, there is something defining about spending one's time expertly crafting contests of skill and character, only to watch some interloper swoop in and take all the shiny trophies.
It is thus with true British stiff-upper-lipped resolve that I announce my trouncing in the first official OCD Olympics, held in Durham Maths Stadium (AKA CM221) and based on my previous post on the subject at the start of the year.
This time, the weapons of choice were entirely biscuit based. My own preference was for bourbon biscuits, because I am a man of taste and culture; my opponent insisted on custard creams, because she is young and doesn't know any better, and also because she thinks a price of nine pence for an entire packet of biscuits represents "a bargain" rather than "an obvious warning". Following several failed attempts at mediation regarding the superior option, the decision was eventually made that each competitor would receive a home advantage in one event, to be followed by a third event which was to be considered neutral.
Event 1: Custard Creams
Rules: These are simple. Each competitor must remove and consume the upper biscuit layer (there is no official penalty for getting crumbs everywhere, but as a general rule it's frowned upon to snort them out of your nose, no matter how hard you're laughing, and directing the resulting stream of biscuit-flecked snot at your opponent is right out), and then scrape away the "delicious" layer of pseudo-cream. The first participant to achieve this feat wins. If all competitors break their bottom layer, the round is declared a draw. The full events requires two rounds, with a third "sudden death" biscuit-off in the case of a tie.
Result: A disaster for Team Squid. My opponent's vastly superior experience with custard creams (henceforth to be known as The Devil's Cookie) perhaps made her overconfident - she broke her first biscuit in two whilst I was still trying to overcome my nausea and revulsion - but following that first draw her second attempt saw her remove the nada-cream at a rate scarely credible. Had I not seen this feat with my own eyes, I would have branded such a feat impossible. Clearly, I had made the mistake of facing off against some sort of witch.
Event 2: Bourbon Biscuits
Rules: As above, but with an entirely more delicious biscuit.
Result: Well, I still lost, but on the upside the actual process was a lot more pleasant. I felt more at home with the longer, more aerodynamic bourbon shape, and was able to use my years of training to employ some fairly impressive tongue skills (shut up!). Despite this, however, my young opponent managed to squeak out a narrow win in one round, and a draw in the other, putting her two-nil ahead.
Event 3: Pocky
Rules: This one is probably best described as a suck-off (shut up!): the first participant to entirely remove the chocolate from a pocky stick wins.
Result: Tragically, our pocky reserves were almost dry (I caught my opponent offering them to other doctors earlier that day, and believe me there's going to be a conversation about that at some point), and only one of the two remaining had the chocolate-free "handle" still attached. This led to the horribly ignoble shame of being offered the more easily manipulable pocky on the grounds that I'd "already been humiliated enough", and the far greater shame of actually agreeing in the desperate hope of gaining a win. Ah, SpaceSquid. Is chivalry truly dead?
The way to win this one, I think, is to begin by sucking, and then switch to a feisty licking action (yes, I know, SHUT UP!). Certainly, that was the approach I took, and it seemed to work pretty well, allowing me to - at last! - avoid defeat, instead merely drawing. Well, that's what we decided, anyway, lacking the necessary resources to construct some kind of oral-fixated hawkeye that could determine the exact moment our frenzied activity allowed us to swallow the last of the... actually, forget it; this is making me a little queasy.
In conclusion, then, Team Squid returns home from its first OCD Olympics surrounded by the stink of defeat, and covered in the crumbs of various biscuits. None too impressive, I grant you, but I have learned a great deal. I now know the face of my enemy.
This day shall be avenged...