The Dartmouth Boggle and Word Yahtzee Sports Club (amateur)

established just before teatime 1993^©

Franklin Jeremiah Boggle strutted into his laboratory carrying his freshly made extra thick custard; a lunch which he firmly believed enhanced his cognitive abilities at least two hundredfold with every spoonful.

It was 1837 and the huge mountain of industrial pipes and cast iron looming in front of Franklin was his brand new experimental steam trouser pressing machine, a monstrous creation with six chimneys elevated through the roof and out into the smog.  As F J Boggle stood there, he couldn’t decide what to do first: eat his delicious brain fuel custard, or pull the lever.  In normal circumstances there would be no competition, but today was different.  Today, at last, would be the last day he would ever have to wear tram lined trousers, Mrs Kratchet, his useless housekeeper, could be relieved of all her inadequacies and allowed the freedom to make more custard.  Yes more custard.

As the lever clunked downwards in his sweaty grip, Boggle’s eyes lurched sideways at the slowly cranking flywheel. Eight pistons struggled, then sputtered, then whizzed in to action, pumping up and down at horrific speed.  The smile that spread across Franklin’s flabby lips was only broken by the big flabby tongue working its way from left to right in an attempt to mop the dribble of excitement from his chin. His eyes lit up. Quickly Boggle moved around the machine, twisting knobs and tapping dials. Then as a massive puff of steam erupted from a valve, Franklin realised something was wrong.  His pace quickened and his twisting of knobs became frantic.  He realised that at current pressure, the machine would never reach the necessary crease sharpness.  His trembling hand cranked up the dial to “Maximum Crease”

A particularly small pipe inside the machine, called Colin, knew that something was wrong.  As Colin looked around, the little corrugations along his length began to pop out and kink. He turned to his colleagues and gave a whimper as he started to expand.  It had been such a short life, but now as he grew, he could see his creator Mr Boggle frozen in terror in front of him.  In one hand a large bowl of steaming custard, in the other a sodden handkerchief clutching his brow. Colin was already nearly as big as Franklin and small jets of steam were escaping from little cracks.

As F J Boggle looked up for the last time, his hands trembled and the custard shook.  All he could see was Colin, a silver pipe blown up like a balloon and hissing in a comedic fashion before his eyes.  All he could think was “no more custard… ever!”

At the point of explosion, Franklin Jeremiah Boggle’s life force fused with Colin, the super heated steam, that large bowl of custard and his trembling hand to create 627½ small yellow quivering creatures of ill-defined viscosity.   And at that moment the force of the bang was just enough to fling them the exact 31 miles required for all 627½ Boggles to land plop inside a big lost crabbing pot 2 miles off the South Devon coast. And there they stayed.  For the next 156 years. Trembling.  Yellow. Stuck.  Except for the ½ Boggle, who the others used as bait for eels in their first ten minutes.

Meanwhile, in China, a small band of well educated but poorly trained Ninja letters, were struggling to fend off a fresh attack of grey mullet, the weapon of choice for short lived Chinese Emperor, Bertie Snott.  The Ninja letters were fierce, adamant in their struggle against the evil emperor who preferred numbers.  But as the fish rained down, all the letters could muster was a bad mis-spelling of the word “pooh” and, being small dice like creatures, they were unable to hold their swords high enough to commit Hari-Kari, so they had no choice but to surrender.

Bertie Snott laughed maniacally, wondering how best to dispense with his hard won prisoners.  Perhaps he should feed them whole and alive to his killer beetle colony.  No, better than that, he could smother them in jam and keep them in the garden to keep the wasps away during the summer. 

But just as he was trying to decide, a lovely looking Chinese lady passed by with some fresh cream cakes and he lost all interest in the prisoners.  And so, after 8 months languishing in a store cupboard in the emperors cellars, the palace guards took decisions into their own hands and exiled the Ninja letters to a small rock off the South Devon coast, a place Bertie Snott had won in a game of poker but didn’t want any more.

There the letters led a sordid life of crosswords and scrabble, laughing hysterically until the early hours every night for 156 years.  The mysterious creatures from the East could be heard on the mainland each night, and spread terror into the hearts of the locals, who knew them as Lord Pasties, or Clement Atlees, or Naughty Yak Pees, until they settled, under decimalisation, for the name Word Yahtzee’s.

It was early lunchtime, 1993.  A big fishing boat was reeling in its haul.  Bob, the skipper was happily sucking on his pipe and dreaming of his retirement, when he would spend every day playing snap with his pet spider Maurice, when all of a sudden a cry went up from the deck.  The line was snagged.  It was something huge.  “Maybe it’s a Russian submarine” shouted one of the crew.  “Maybe it’s a giant squid” shouted another.  But Bob knew better.  He was worried.  This could be nasty he thought, remembering the day as a youngster, he had come across the remains of an eel, dead sometime, but discernibly killed by a yellow creature he had never described to anyone. Cut the lines, he wanted to shout, but curiosity got the better of him. As the crab pot emerged from the water, draped in weed, the crew gasped.  The youngest of them hid his eyes.  Then in a mature and determined way, Bob strode to the line, drew his knife and cut the ropes. As the pot dropped all of the crew heard it… a wheezy, wibbly wobbly laughing sound.  And no-one was sure if what they’d seen was one creature or lots.  For the big yellow mass of quivering bleary cross eyed blubber bulged from the crab pot in a manner totally inhuman.  Just before hitting the water, a voice from the pot was heard: “Do you fancy a game of Ludo?”

As the pot drifted, the Boggles became excited.  At last, freedom.   But the drifting pot crashed onto a rock… a big rock inhabited entirely by strange Chinese letter dice.  The Boggles stared at the Word Yahtzees.  The Word Yahtzees stared at the Boggles. In the massive war that followed, much trembling, mocking and dubious word play ensued. However, around mid afternoon, somebody pointed out that it might be a good idea to break for tea.  Everyone thought that this was a very good idea and the accompanying cakes made all the Boggles and Word Yahtzees feel so good  about themselves that they decided to put off the war indefinitely, and play lots of board games, and maybe some other games, good light permitting.

And so at almost exactly just before teatime 1993 The Dartmouth Boggle and Word Yahtzee Sports Club (Amateur) was established (light and pitch conditions permitting) and the games began…

It was about three minutes after the above events took place that several previously unoccupied youths who just happened to be on the shore when the DBWYSC(A) shock wave hit, were assimilated into the debauchery and silliness of the club and spent the rest of their pitiful lives attempting to reduce their own and anyone else’s credibility by injecting a little humour and anarchy into what were previously quite normal events…

For an alternative history for the club, you could ask its members and hear something about the Double Sculls Blue Boat Race entry requirements.  Or you could ask our detractors and hear something about meat pies and a community service order.  But I don’t believe a word of it…