This old dog DID learn a new trick

I'm back, obviously, and in severe pain. Last night I had a fine meal and a few drinks with Shrewsbury's counterculture. This morning, I thought I'd help set up the Shropshire Closed competition, come a respectable 5th in the foil and go home.

It didn't quite work out like that. Arriving at the venue, I was bullied by the young, thin kids into signing up for the epee and sabre too, presumably because they wanted an old man to push around and make them look better in the Master of Arms competition (awarded to the most consistent performance across all three disciplines).

Well, today the worm turned. Despite never, ever entering a sabre competition before, I won. Accidentally, badly, pragmatically, but I still won, despite knackering my back and lungs fighting the first 6 without stopping. The final was against my friend Jim, tall, rangy and good-natured. Next up, without a break, came the epee. This should be a bit better than sabre - I did an epee competition last year and won (another fluke), but it was tough this time: equal third, and Jim won.

Finally came the foil. This is really my weapon, but I'm the Stoke City of fencing. I fight ugly, cautiously, annoyingly: messing up the better fencer's game is the only way I can win. I fluke my way through the seeding poule without losing any, then hit a couple of difficult fights on the way to the final - powerful young men who injured me pretty badly. I think my hunch has been cut in two.

By the time the final came round, against Jim again, I was happy to be standing. I won, but every point was greeted by my coaches with a scowl, a grimace, a headshake, hands over the eyes - I started to get the idea that my style wasn't winning friends or admirers. It didn't help that Jim's twice my height and very tricky: I only have one move that works on him, so I used it, over and over and over, to his huge frustration. He's a much better fencer than me, but he's always been vulnerable to a triple feint delivered in a fleche (basically, flying towards him without leaving the point out, so he can't work out where the hit's going to land and has to wave his blade everywhere, until I smack him in the middle of the chest). Still - his dad's beaten me in the final every year for as long as I can remember, and Jim won the Master at Arms because he came second in sabre, first in epee and second in foil.

So the moral of the story is: ugly points are still valid points. I know you footy fans admire silky skills, flowing moves and nifty tricks. Fine. But we can't all aspire to such great heights. It was only a small competition, but the occasional success does marvels for one's self-esteem. Obviously, I'll have to slink into the club on Wednesday and endure the scorn of my coaches, but it's a small price to pay. The immediate legacy is more bruises, cuts and strains than I've ever received in my fencing career, inability to bend over and bruised feet. I may hire an invalid scooter tomorrow. Never again…