This Sporting Life

In which The Author is on the run

Quite by accident, I seem to have invented a new sport. Unlike William Webb Ellis's famous departure from the rulebook at Rugby School, though, I can't see this one catching on any time soon.

I call it DODGEBORE.

I've actually been playing the game at strictly amateur level for about thirty years, but I started taking it seriously back in 2009. I reported on some of the matches during my university days in my other blog, starting with 'Freaks, Geeks and Space Invaders'. Over the past eighteen months or so, however, I've thrown myself into it with a passion and a devotion which I've found quite astonishing.

It's surprisingly easy to play, requiring absolutely no specialist equipment or regular training. All you need to do is identify people who are likely to bend your ear for hours about devolution/rugby/immigration/'the council'/trips down Memory Lane/the NHS/reality TV/public transport/Euro 2016/stamp collecting/the European Union/the Second World War/whatever, and then make up a perfectly believable excuse for running very quickly in the opposite direction. The winner is the person who manages to make it through a whole week without being captured by one (or more) ill-informed fuckwits.

For a comparatively small town, Aberdare has several first-rate Dodgebore pitches, including the Prince of Wales, Thereisnospoon, the Lighthouse, the Market Tavern … In fact, every pub offers the novice player ample opportunity to hone his/her skills against a huge number of vastly experienced, full-time, professional Bores.

For those of you who don't fancy a pint, fear not. The library has a large crowd of regular Bores (every morning between 10.30 and midday) who will give you plenty of scope to develop your Dodgebore abilities.

When the weather is fine, outdoor Dodgebore is a great way to spend half an hour. Simply park your arse on one of the benches in town and Bores will gather as if by magic. After a few moments a Dodgebore match will kick off around you, leaving you to work out an exit strategy without appearing rude or resorting to foul language.

Experienced players of the game have a number of 'gambits' (short strategic sequences) which can be employed whenever a Bore hoves into view. My personal favourites include 'I can't stop – I've got to catch a train' and 'I can't stop – I've got a doctor's/dentist's/hospital appointment.'

A word of caution: being busy with work doesn't deter the professional Bore. The prevailing belief in the Valleys holds that you aren't actually working unless you're down a coal mine, serving in the armed forces, standing on the production line in a factory, sitting in an office, or punching the till in a shop – and even that last option isn't a safeguard against being invited to play the game. Working on a manuscript in public is as good an invitation to play Dodgebore as anything else I've encountered so far in my sporting career.

Furthermore, Bores can find you anywhere, at any time of the day or night. Just this morning I had to play the 'train' gambit against a notorious Bore before I'd even arrived in Aberdare. There were gasps from the crowd as my quick thinking and nifty footwork enabled me to give her the slip with remarkable ease. (Admittedly, it completely fucked any chance of my going for breakfast in Thereisnospoon – but there's no such thing as a perfect strategy.)

In fact, I'm becoming so good at the game that I'm seriously thinking about turning professional. There won't be any money in it, of course, but I might be able to secure some corporate sponsorship to tide me over. When I become too old to play for real, maybe I can coach youngsters in the subtle art of telling certain people to go fuck themselves without actually using those very words. It's more of an art than a science, after all.