Highlights:
- Fancy dress Dodgeball grudge match against our friends and opposition, Balls Deep
- A Mariachi Band
- Tequila and wrestling chaos
The email had come through a few weeks ago announcing that fancy dress week would fall on the night of our match against friends and nemeses, Balls Deep. The ultimate grudge match with both pride and a night of drinks resting on it after a tipsy bet between Jolly Tony and Balls Santi. After last week's games, we'd decided on a Mexican theme but kept it secret even as we tricked other teams into revealing their plans. Let them squirm with suspense 'til Wednesday.
It was a week of furious emailing. We all couldn't boast quick enough about what Mexican fashion delights we'd discovered. Greg's costume from the internet arrived, Ben sent us a teasing sultry shot of his outfit and Chris announced he could probably get his hand on a pack of nachos. I was optimistic he was fashioning the tortilla chip equivalent of the lady gaga meat dress between emails. We struck gold when Chaotic Clare told us her new boyfriend had 20 Mexican wrestler masks under his bed. Kinky anonymous orgies or bank robber disguise? Now was not the time to question it. The plan was coming together. I'm no hippie but I somehow managed to pull three ponchos from my wardrobe. Yeah, you heard. Three. They were the onesie of the 2010s, weren't they? Even better was when Ellie announced she'd nicked an armful of sombrero from the school fancy dress cupboards. When the kids celebrate Mexican Day next week and she's forgotten to return them, I think there are going to be a lot of crying ninos in the classroom. You know we mean business when we risk the tears of the innocent.
A certain member of the team used all the musicians and production equipment at his disposal (and a little extra nabbed from a certain national broadcasting company) and called in 27 years worth of favours to put together the finest Mariachi this side of the Atlantic had ever seen. Previous dodgeballers Bateson and Rainbow were joining the fray with bass and standard ukeleles. Ellie's husband Phil volunteered to play some sort of cajon box drum, and Ellie agreed to split her time between dodging and playing Mexican fiddle. But a trumpeter who was free late notice and could play Mexican tunes remained unsurprisingly illusive.
Feeling the anticipation of a male praying mantis on the way to his first and last sexual conquest (one for the naturalists), we awoke on a grey morning with fire and fear in our bellies. Would we beat Balls Deep? Would Matt's toeshoes make an appearance? Would we get a sodding trumpet player?!
Tony arrived early to set up a mini studio and soon after the Mexicans descended on North Clapham Leisure Centre. We had wrestlers, we had farmers, we had a cool chilli, we had more moustaches than the 1970s and we had the best attempt at a cactus that two pairs of tights, a weeks' worth of Evening Standards and five minutes could produce. Balls Deep arrived, nicely accessorising their signature orange headbands with some orange jumpsuits:
And with La Bamba playing in the background we danced our way to our starting points. With an UN, DOS, TRES! we were off.
It took all of our concentration and will power to keep on track during the first set, and our strongest lip muscles to keep the cheap moustaches in place. Somehow we managed to plough through our fits of giggles and hysterics to hit the opposition and catch crucial balls. With my hands buried between crunched newspaper and under tights, as a cactus (or chilli?) I couldn't hold balls long enough to throw them (though boy could I catch) and due to the restrictive material, the mask wearers' sight was limited to whatever was directly in front of them. As the only female wrestler and adorned with a Mexican flag, Kira looked brilliant and Chilli Greg proved as fiery as his costume as he leapt over balls and into catches:
(a catch and the moustache graveyard)
(Check out the strain on that face)
The Ole Dodgers won the first set and casually fell into the second. The ref did his best to keep things ticking along in a timely fashion but we were having none of it as we all took shots of new player Thom's tequila from the sidelines. Ariba!
We were at some point in the second set when some Tony-led chinese whispers came down the line suggesting that if we won the next game, we'd win the match. This was the first taste of victory we'd had since playing the Dodger Moores. I think the tequila was starting to take it's toll though as after the whistle blew we all managed to get out within the first minute. All except for Canadian Matt. Toeshoes now firmly in his past and with his moustache long since stuck on the wall in our makeshift facial hair graveyard, Matt found himself the sole player against five. You might write lesser Dodgeballers off, but with his powerful throws, basketball player leaps and ballet spins we didn't lose hope. One by one he picked off Balls Deep, like a cheetah cruelly snatching the young, weak and innocent buffalo from a herd. Wordlessly the rest of us embodied David Attenborough. Commenting in hushed tones from the sideline but not interferring with this natural course of events even as we heard the cries of wounded Balls Deep players. Then, out of nothing Matt made a catch! The numbers were evening up! Greg pelted back on to the caught only to be hit almost immediately and the whistle blowing seconds later ending the game. What can we say, Matt? Player of the week let down by a slow chilli.
Ole Dodgers won the next game though, sealing victory. Then, like someone had flicked a switch, the game descended into anarchy. Tequila shots were flying as frequently as the balls and Santiago dived across the line, flooring Tony in the process. We turned to see the lycra-clad Mexican-Wrestler Tony in a rough and tumble with prisoner Santiago. It was like watching two lion cubs, if the lion cubs were middle-aged men in fancy dress tickling each other. The Mariachi band were in a frenzy, and after disengaging himself from the wrestle, Santiago took over the mic to give us some genuine Spanish commentary. Who knows what he was saying? I presume lots of rude things about our mums, but it sounded amazing. The set finished with Tony Kamikazi-ing his way out of every game, a swirl of Ben, Chris and Abbie's ponchos, Thom finally learning not to cross the middle line and Santiago hiding behind a blow-up cactus.
(more photos of the Mariachi band in the background hopefully to follow)
After sticking around to check out the other teams costumes and watch the brilliant Zombie team stay in character for their first game (Shanes of Grah), we headed to the pub for some well earned beers.
People sometimes talk about London being too big a city, where it's hard to meet new people and your 20/30 somethings being less about fun, and more about building your career, settling down and being sensible. Go Mammoth Fancy-dress dodgeball, mid-game tequila shots, a mariachi band, cross-team wrestling, Spanish commentary, a win and hundreds of celebratory beers with our favourite teams. We had the night of our bloody lives. We are living the fucking dream.
P.S. We didn't get a trumpet player.
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