May Contain Nuts
The third battle was the most intense. We were attacking and as the battle began the defending force were sited on the other side of the river. Above all they would be protecting their bridges from our troops, and I decided that a rapid assault from the front would be strategically brilliant. If this was the army I would be promoted for sure, I thought.
I ran dead centre down the slight incline to safety behind a massive tree. It then dawned on me that the way this was set up, the attacking force had positioned themselves in a wide 270 degree arc around this very tree.
I was shot in the face five seconds later. Tch.
Pain exploded just below my nose and I felt warm liquid trickling into my mouth. I returned to our team’s safe zone; once there I lifted the mask partially from my face and spat out a satisfyingly big glob of orange paint. I noticed then that the masks had loads of small holes around the nose and mouth... this is the price you pay in paintballing for being able to breathe.
The safe area is where players who have been shot come to life in the space of two minutes...cheg on, Jesus. During my two minutes I discussed with a team-mate how this game was far more intense than the first two “capture the flag” games.
“When this game started we were up against a solid wall of paintballs being fired,” I said. “That was fucked up.”
“Yeah, this one feels like being in a warzone,” he said. ”Cool, isn’t it?”
Indeed.
Before you are allowed to play paintball you must sign a waiver. This covers the nature and obvious risks of the game, and the one most of us focused on was the clause that stated that you accepted that could get hurt during the games.
‘Could’? Will. Everybody knows that you will be hurt and if you do not believe that tumbling into a ditch in a rain of paintballs to retrieve a flag will cause any discomfort then you deserve to get shot in the arse at point blank range whilst bending over to tie your shoelace. Well... had the warden not specifically forbade this. Nevertheless, signing your name in agreement does nothing to assuage the nerves of the more fearful player.
Yet this was not the clause that became important on Saturday... We also signed our names to agree that we understood that paintballing is a physically demanding game that demands a certain level of fitness. The 15 stone-plus members of our group smiled weakly at this but soon went back to discussing with glee where it would be most painful to get shot (apparently on the top end of the fingers where the nail overhangs). I laughed off the clause, struggled into my camouflage gear and duly armed myself.
It is now two days later and I can barely walk. On that one day I caned every muscle in my body and I believe I even grew new ones especially so they could start aching. Fucking hell.
The problem is that nobody takes a disclaimer seriously because the ones we normally see do not apply to us. In a theme park when a rollercoaster warns you against riding whilst pregnant, you snigger amongst yourselves and pat your beer belly knowingly. Part of this is because the disclaimers seem obvious...riding the corkscrew whilst pregnant taps into every mother’s fear that the foetus will be catapulted out at the first hump into the nearest vat of candyfloss.
But to hell with disclaimers when paintballing is so much goddamn fun. And to hell with its image as an exercise for corporate team bonding in which demure Joan from Accounts discovers a whole new side to herself as she ties the boss to a tree and pistol-whips the hell out of him. That is the official Comedy Line in this matter and it is wrong.
And ye gods, should I feel a sense of twisted exhiliration when I am being shot? And so soon after the baleful and chilling reality of the bombing on Thursday.
It would be tedious for me to ramble on too long about this, so I shall highlight the salient information: we won. We whipped their arses, although the contest was close. We may have been the team with the fat bastards, but they had a group of teenage girls among their number. It all balances out in the end.
Afterwards we compared bruises...one guy had been shot a third nipple that he paraded with pride, but for the most part the bruises were confined to the arm and the back. I received just two minor bruises due to my advanced skills that lie in the field of, er, lying in the field. Most of the balls seemed to bounce off me...I was lucky. Later in the evening we got drunk and wandered around the town centre and watched news of Birmingham city centre being evacuated on a silent television. We went back to the house and went to sleep, and when we woke up the room erupted in cries of pain and flatulence. It had been a good weekend.
I ran dead centre down the slight incline to safety behind a massive tree. It then dawned on me that the way this was set up, the attacking force had positioned themselves in a wide 270 degree arc around this very tree.
I was shot in the face five seconds later. Tch.
Pain exploded just below my nose and I felt warm liquid trickling into my mouth. I returned to our team’s safe zone; once there I lifted the mask partially from my face and spat out a satisfyingly big glob of orange paint. I noticed then that the masks had loads of small holes around the nose and mouth... this is the price you pay in paintballing for being able to breathe.
The safe area is where players who have been shot come to life in the space of two minutes...cheg on, Jesus. During my two minutes I discussed with a team-mate how this game was far more intense than the first two “capture the flag” games.
“When this game started we were up against a solid wall of paintballs being fired,” I said. “That was fucked up.”
“Yeah, this one feels like being in a warzone,” he said. ”Cool, isn’t it?”
Indeed.
Before you are allowed to play paintball you must sign a waiver. This covers the nature and obvious risks of the game, and the one most of us focused on was the clause that stated that you accepted that could get hurt during the games.
‘Could’? Will. Everybody knows that you will be hurt and if you do not believe that tumbling into a ditch in a rain of paintballs to retrieve a flag will cause any discomfort then you deserve to get shot in the arse at point blank range whilst bending over to tie your shoelace. Well... had the warden not specifically forbade this. Nevertheless, signing your name in agreement does nothing to assuage the nerves of the more fearful player.
Yet this was not the clause that became important on Saturday... We also signed our names to agree that we understood that paintballing is a physically demanding game that demands a certain level of fitness. The 15 stone-plus members of our group smiled weakly at this but soon went back to discussing with glee where it would be most painful to get shot (apparently on the top end of the fingers where the nail overhangs). I laughed off the clause, struggled into my camouflage gear and duly armed myself.
It is now two days later and I can barely walk. On that one day I caned every muscle in my body and I believe I even grew new ones especially so they could start aching. Fucking hell.
The problem is that nobody takes a disclaimer seriously because the ones we normally see do not apply to us. In a theme park when a rollercoaster warns you against riding whilst pregnant, you snigger amongst yourselves and pat your beer belly knowingly. Part of this is because the disclaimers seem obvious...riding the corkscrew whilst pregnant taps into every mother’s fear that the foetus will be catapulted out at the first hump into the nearest vat of candyfloss.
But to hell with disclaimers when paintballing is so much goddamn fun. And to hell with its image as an exercise for corporate team bonding in which demure Joan from Accounts discovers a whole new side to herself as she ties the boss to a tree and pistol-whips the hell out of him. That is the official Comedy Line in this matter and it is wrong.
And ye gods, should I feel a sense of twisted exhiliration when I am being shot? And so soon after the baleful and chilling reality of the bombing on Thursday.
It would be tedious for me to ramble on too long about this, so I shall highlight the salient information: we won. We whipped their arses, although the contest was close. We may have been the team with the fat bastards, but they had a group of teenage girls among their number. It all balances out in the end.
Afterwards we compared bruises...one guy had been shot a third nipple that he paraded with pride, but for the most part the bruises were confined to the arm and the back. I received just two minor bruises due to my advanced skills that lie in the field of, er, lying in the field. Most of the balls seemed to bounce off me...I was lucky. Later in the evening we got drunk and wandered around the town centre and watched news of Birmingham city centre being evacuated on a silent television. We went back to the house and went to sleep, and when we woke up the room erupted in cries of pain and flatulence. It had been a good weekend.
posted by Jamie at 7:38 PM
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