Five words...


You should ignore everything that reprobate Crash says (actually, that's a good general rule, but it's particularly true on this occasion) - the fact is that after taking on all-comers (well, a teenager and a couple of drunks), it was I who was crowned the rightful champion of world Swingball. And no amount of cheating is going to change that.

Anyhoo, Crash and Donna's barbecue yesterday evening was a high class affair, much like the Ambassador's reception, but with burgers instead of Ferrero Rocher. I'd been told that our hosts were planning to start cooking at about 5pm, so I arrived promptly at 4:50pm, thus proving two things:

1. It's Lisa who makes me late.

2. I was only really there for the free food.

Unfortunately I was the first to arrive, and having been outnumbered on the "sod 'em - let's cook all the food now" conversation, was forced to wait for my charred meat products. I said I didn't mind, and sadly they believed me.

Next to arrive was a summery looking gentleman by the name of Screwy (I hope I heard that right - I'll probably find it's Hughie and I've just insulted him) who brought along his son, allowing me to spend the rest of the evening thinking what a great name for a business 'Screwy & Son' would be.

Shortly afterwards came Mads with Other Half and Small Person (not their christened names). I felt Mads looked like Lowri Turner, but didn't like to say so in case she took it as an insult. So I've waited until we're a good ten miles apart. As for Other Half, well he shamelessly ruined my evening by trumping my claims on the title of 'Most Ill Person There', by having the nerve to have just come through major surgery. I tried coughing a few times to redirect the sympathy back towards me, but no one noticed. I was tempted to sneeze on the barbecue just to make a point.

The line-up was completed by Rich, who lived up to his name by bringing steak, and we settled down to discuss major world issues like Crash's festering tongue, putting cake in a blender, and whether Close Encounters is better than Star Wars. I knew it was going well when Crash got out his Coronation Street photos, put on some dolphin music (which sounded more like a seagull in distress) and started flicking through a pile of magazines in an old shoe box.

But the highlight of the evening, if not the entire year, was the final settling of our long-running dispute over the title of Swingball Champion. Many have laid claim to the title, but having taken on Donna (who plays like Venus Williams, but with more aggression), over the best of three sets, only one true champion emerged.

And it wasn't Crash. The rules of Swingball clearly state that if you're left-handed, you have to declare it at the start, and not wait until your opponent is expecting the ball to arrive on one side, before sending it round on the other and nearly hitting him in the face.

And besides, I could have hit it back, it's just that I refuse to sink to his level.