Raising the bar
I have a mate, Steve, who's a lovely bloke. We used to go on motorcycle rides through the country, stopping at country pubs. Since we couldn't drink more than the occasional half, we would play pool or whatever the pub offered.

Now, Steve is great, but I have to admit that he's far sportier than me. Fitter, better coordination and way more alpha-male competitive. So the usual pattern would be that he'd beat me royally at whatever we were playing. I didn't mind; I was only in it for a laugh anyway.

One legendary day, the pub happened to have a bar billiards table. I like bar billiards - it's a pity you don't see it more often. But I'm no better at that than I am at pool, usually. However, on this day, the cue gods were smiling at me. Whatever I attempted worked; balls banana'd around mushrooms*, ricocheted complcatedly around cushions and snukked into pockets as if drawn by magnetism. I could do no wrong, even fluffed shots were fluking into place and the final score was something like 2,200 to 40.

I've never played bar billiards since. I know I'll never win like that again.

* Damn, I'm hungry now. Bananas and mushrooms, anyone?
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Wed 4 May 2011, 9:21, Reply)