Every woman, Every Man, Join Dog’s Caravan Of Blood

It could have been me. It could have been Blogger.com. It could even have been a hacker from The Cricketers. But whatever happened – we’ve lost all but 6 or 7 posts. And some right corkers too. Grrrrrrrr. I’ve salvaged some stuff from the google cache and could post it again. But I might save it for our first book “Franks for the memories”.

This whole episode means that all the recurring jokes are a bit redundant. Unless you’re a regular reader, in which case I can recommend a good psychiatrist. It’s probably a good thing as I’m sure you’re all sick of hearing about that bloody Rottweiler. Where shall we begin then? Since the last update there’s been:-

1 x new Junior Stinger. Can we keep it in our pants?
1 x away defeat. McGoogle is currently reviewing the chapter of the Stingers Handbook entitled “What happens when you have your opponent by the balls and let him off (twice)”. It’s a long chapter and involves breaking cues, orifices and pain.
1 x away win. Although only days ago I’ve forgotten all the details. We had to rope in an emergency last minute reserve (due to aforementioned Junior Stinger dropping on a Tuesday). His name was Craig Webster. It might as well have been Rosy Webster. Or a pint of Websters.
2 x hospitalizations. Ooops.
1 x peaceful weekend by the seaside. Details of which (the non-incriminating details) are below:-

There are times when a blogger goes dry. He can think of nothing to put in his update yet feels obliged to type aimlessly to appease his many readers (Hi Mum!). Yet at other times he has so much material that he doesn’t know where to begin. Champion of Champions weekend. Hmmmm. One hour into the journey and Jody has more than provided enough soundbites for a series of articles. If only I had a pen and wasn’t the one driving. If you’re going to go on a bender, what better way to do it than the Stinger way!

You know that insurance advert? “That’s more than lucky”. I think they wrote it about us. Putting a chunk of self inflicted bad luck aside of course! From the very beginning it has been more good fortune than skill. Mark fluking a ball in the qualifier decider was a good start. Jody’s missus NOT dropping the sprog before the finals even better. Fast forward to match one of our mighty campaign and giving two frames away to a decent side is not so lucky. Them failing to kill us off though is a right result and a 7-7 draw courtesy of their last man being unable to pot a dolly kept us alive. Could we push our luck and win the subsequent toss? You bet! Could the other group match possibly end at 7-7 and give us the lowest target to chase with our 6 sober players? Indeedee. Could the unthinkable happen and the previously comatose Jody rise like a phoenix from the flames to meander in mid match and propel us towards our target with two dishes? Errr, he did and I’m not making this up – 1 hour earlier he couldn’t stand up, didn’t know what day it was and could barely speak. Could we somehow win the final frame to avoid a play-off? Even when the bloke had an easy finish? Could Zared punish them? Check Check and Check again. Group winners. And that’s where our adventure ends.

Or It should have… but in true Stinger fashion we decided we’d actually like to win another one. 8-0. Eight fucking Nil. Lets just put that in perspective. We had one player who had done more Vodka than a Russian submarine crew. One player who was sprinting between the Ladies comp and our matches. A couple who were out of form. And we won 8-0. So we made the Sunday.

Beep Beep Beep. “I’ll just put the alarm on snooze and get up in a minute” thinks the Dog. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz. A pretty reliable indicator of how lucky you are would be whether you could do this:-
Wake up at 9.05am when your match starts at 9.00am. Find 4 more players had done the same. Find only TWO in the hall. And still not lose any frames. How? An admin error delayed the start, Dog sprints to the hall. Three players now. We need two to play and two to ref… borrow a ref… take an eternity over every shot… players start arriving. Surely we couldn’t get away with not forfeiting a single frame? Well that’s what happened. Everyone of us got there in time for their frame. But of course, a bunch of drunkards who have just woke up are not going to win a Last 16 game at Yarmouth are they? Are they? ARE THEY? You fucking bet they are!

Now if I really was making all this up then I’d have had us going on to win the thing. But we didn’t. Quarter final losers to the team that won it. A nice plaque for the wall of the RAFA and more than a couple of stories for Merv and the crew.

That’s more than lucky!

This episode of Stinger Street was brought to you by the letter “V” (for Vodka) and the number “8” (as in Last 8).

Trick or Treat?

T’was the scariest night of the year. Halloween. Nahhhhhhhh, let’s start again. Who the fuck has declared Halloween to be scary? The media – that’s who. Well what do they know? Have the ever been in a car with Jody? No. Have they ever eaten a buffet made by Dog? No. Have the ever put Mark on in a deciding frame? No. Last night also saw that other popular tradition in these parts – Helloween – the night we bash up the Hustlers and make them run home to their mummies. Trouble is, we may be overplaying it a bit as its more than once a year.

The Shack regulars seemed to be wholly underwhelmed by the occasion. Merv ambled in after all the chores were done and scrounged re-tipping advice from the assembled poolheads. Apparently techniques have moved on since he was Welsh Billiards Champion in 1952. For fucks sake Jody, don’t mentioned layered tips. Oh he did. We’re also Frankless, Rangerless and more worryingly ZaredandMarkless. The Zared situation was resolved before the witching hour, but it was touch and go whether Marks regular plane spotting jaunt would overtake him or whether a couple of pints down T’Rafa might appeal more. We’ll leave you in suspense on that one. All of which means its time for a match report. Calm down son, it’s only a pumpkin…

Dog misjudges a safety mid-frame and nearly pays the price. A proper safety later gets two and its 1-0 Stingers. Horace misjudges Jody’s ability to clear a tough finish and its 2-0. Andy has a frame turning foul err, turn the frame against him. 2-1. Jamies clearance is hampered by ‘that pocket’. Aye, we have a pocket which is a more stubborn hole than the rest. So stubborn on occasions you wonder whether its mother has sent it out with a chastity belt on. Anyways, following the hole’s ‘No thanks, I’ve got a headache, you’re not sticking THAT in there” moment, the frame is lost. 2-2. By this time, The Hustlers seem to be growing. There’s like 50 of them sitting in the corner. At least. Deano looks like one of them Radio 1 DJ’s with his posse all gathered round. Chris Moyles springs to mind, but only because he sticks Comedy Dave on next. Zared’s never found him funny though and finds him even less so when his covered the bag shot leaves a tiny gap for Dave to slither his last ball through. 2-3. Jamie’s having none of the losing business anymore. Been there, done that once, much prefer winning thankyou. 3-3. Dog sets a little challenge with a DF and they pass the test. 3-4. Mark decides he’s had enough of Airbus A321’s and Boeing 737’s and puts in an appearance. The little Fokker (See what I did there). A planeload of missed positions and crap shots culminate in Horace jawing a doubled black and the boy blunder finishing with the customary heart-stopping moment. 4-4. Jody’s never gone for comedy. Peter Kay could come in and do his Garlic Bread routine and Jody’s face wouldn’t change much. Unless mushrooms were involved. So when Comedy Dave is back on for them Schmustlers, Jody is not amused. Please bear in mind the availability, cheapness and sheer quaffableness of the John Smiths and you’ll appreciate the lack of detail about these games. Basically, Dave either misses or doesn’t cover a pocket – probably the latter knowing him – and Jody takes out his last, lands perfectly behind the black and deposits it with a dead-pan expression. Apparently he finds mutilation funny. 5-4. And so it was that Mark mutilates frame 10. Makes it his, gets two and hey presto 6-4. I have another sarnie and Andy plays the last. Perhaps we should have swapped roles. 6-5.

The undisputed guv’ners are back. Not that we’ve ever been away, but two league defeats on the trot for the first time this millennium (seriously) would have derailed the season somewhat. Talking of derailment (that got Jody smiling) its Champion of Champions this weekend. We shall allow ourselves some losses there as the quantity of different substances entering our bodies will probably preclude any of that winning shit. Not as messy as Minehead, but likely to spawn some blog moments.

Can I mention Rottweilers yet?