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The Cycling Club dinner

“I attended a local cycling club’s dinner this winter and was honoured to be seated at the table with the Chairman and the club secretary.The Chairman, like most chairpersons in organisations, is a position of honour for the work they have done in the past. The secretary rarely has a good relationship with the chairman. They become resentful of the position, the holder of which does very little graft and takes a lot of the credit.

After the meal, the chairman stood up to give a speech. This started well, but after 20 minutes everyone in the room was shuffling in their seats. Another 10 minutes and the younger riders had excused themselves from the dull stories and escaped to their phones as the blue light lit up their faces. Another tale from the chairman, seemingly without a pause, and the complete racing section of the club had given up trying to be polite were at the bar. The secretary kicked me under the table and moved her head left-to-top-right towards the chairman and mouthed ‘do something’.

Everyone at our table was now staring at me to end the pain. Everyone else in the room was staring at their dessert spoon and pondering how to best silence the man’s drones.I then received a kick in the shin from the secretary and a violent head movement, this time resembling a horse trying to pull its tied harness from a burning stable.Spotting the chairman’s empty glass, and although he was in the middle of a story about a race which no one in the room could prove he didn’t win… I decided the best course of action to end the pain, was to fill the chairman’s glass, and propose a toast to the Chairman himself for all his efforts over the years, thus ending the tedium with a compliment.I had been drinking my way throughout his dull tones, that sounded like an echo without the origin shout, and was a bit hammered. Stumbling slightly when rising from my chair,

I walked around toward the chairman, all of the dead eyes of the surrounding tables on me. As I focused on my steps, I forgot about the bottle of wine, slamming it into the back of the secretary’s husband head and sending it crashing into the table.As he raised his head, a tiny trickle of blood appeared at his cheek. The room was silent and open-mouthed. I stood above him, still clutching the weapon

“Hit me again, I can still hear him”

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