More facts have come to light regarding the recent
Summer Cup and Summer Plate finals which were won
on the same night by Sandy Bells.
Apparently (allegedly...Ed) the perpetrator of
the crime, this act of wanton vandalism, the smashing
open of the Dragons kit box, was not carried out by
Mike Wallace. But by another... Read on.
The following event took place in the Polish Club at
Drummond Place in the Georgian quarter of Edinburgh.
Twenty hollow-eyed Chess players comprising of
four five man teams, were staring at a metal box.
A locked metal box (this is an important fact).
Inside the said box lay their tools, their weapons,
implements of torture, their obsession. Chess Pieces.
But who had the key?
Years of staring at the Chess board looking for
traps and tricks had taken it's toil on each player.
Trust had desert them. Faith was for fools.
The locked metal box was a ploy.
The haunted eyes flickered from face to face.
"Who has the key?" asks one player..
The rest grunt in satisfaction.
This was a good question. This was a question that needed
to be asked and yet only one had the courage to ask it.
The question was a TRAP.
He who answered the question, for it could only
be answered in the negative, would have to assume
responsibility for the situation.
Twenty pairs of shifty eyes searched twenty pale faces.
The questioner had placed a gambit before them.
He shifted uneasily. Would someone answer?
He had brought up the subject of the key.
If none answered then he would have to ask another question.
This very act would embroil him deeper into the situation.
He would have to assume control. Would nobody pick up the gambit?
Of course the older and more experienced players had
been here before. They could recall countless of occasions
when they had turned up for a Chess match only to find
the pieces locked away in some impregnable cupboard.
The possessor of the key was on holiday, in hospital,
in prison or had simply forgotten to turn up.
The match would be abandoned and everyone would go home happy.
The older and more experienced players waited...
They all stared at the box.
The black locked metal box.
Amongst this group of twenty hapless individuals stood a man.
A man whose life, up until that moment, had been hugely
uneventful. He woke, he worked, he slept.
Sometimes between work and sleep he played Chess.
He woke, he worked, he slept.
One dreary day dragged into another dreary day.
He trod an endless bleak road whose destination was despair.
He stared at the box. Inside this box was his only
escape from this pitiful existence. His salvation.
The other nineteen players heard a low growl.
"It sounded like the gates of Hell creaking open," recalled one player.
"It got louder and louder building up into full bloodied roar."
And roar he did. Fists clenched, eyes bulging, veins protruding
and heart beating. He attacked the box with a venom and passion
that only years and years of self denial and misery could produce.
He screamed profanities. He cursed. His howls of frustration
ripped at the very soul of those who were unfortunate enough to be present.
He gibbered incoherently, hot sweat poured down a face that
had twisted in a configuration of pure undiluted hatred.
Hope and reason had gone.
He clawed at the black metal box like a ravaging animal.
He gnawed the padlock with his teeth...
And when the foul deed had been done, he lay on his back.
Panting, sobbing and yet strangely satisfied.
Steps are being taken to repair the box.
Apologies have been sent and from what I can
gather, have been accepted.