The Christmas Day Massacre

Some historical facts fade into obscurity, without being or even waiting to be discovered, others are well documented and can be scrutinised to ascertain their validity.

What I’m about to portray is an obscure piece of history but based on eye witness accounts, and my own recollections of an event, as having lived through that traumatic time, and lived to tell the tale. The event Christmas day 1969.

I have in a previous article recounted some of the events which shaped that day, of which I feel I will quickly recap to set the tone of how the day began, before delving more deeply to what happened later that day.

Christmas ‘69

The day began, like Christmas day should, I as a 9-year-old boy, awoke early, having little sleep, due to the excitement that children around that age frequently experience at that time of year. I was now the proud owner of a Subbuteo Set, not quite the edition I hoped for, but still overjoyed none the less.

My parents weren’t made of money, but had granted my wish, I couldn’t have been happier with my lot, I considered myself very lucky.

As an added bonus my maternal Grandparents also gave me a Ref 7 which served as Aston Villa the team I supported then as I do now, also a Ref 47, as it was considered a second strip of many teams. I was in seventh heaven, with my now new possessions.

That afternoon after a luxurious lunch, the table was cleared and both my Grandads, Dad, and I, played out a tournament on the tabletop, my first foray into Subbuteo, and fondly remembered as the start of my journey with the beautiful game, and the first games (of many) that “The Villa” played out on the tabletop.

Later On

After the Subbuteo was packed away, the table was once again laid for yet more food to satisfy the appetites of the gathering. The turkey still taking pride of place, although now looking a bit ragged as limbs and other parts of its anatomy had been consumed earlier.

My Paternal Gran brought out her speciality, home-made pickled onions, in a jar so big, it made the turkey feel inferior. I’m told in not too many words, to go easy on the onions or I’ll have nightmares, well that’s not going to stop a growing 9-year-old is it. Gran new her onions, and I couldn’t get enough of them.

My Maternal Gran brought out her “Piece de Resistance” the Christmas cake, covered in snow white icing, hiding a thick layer of marzipan, atop a rich melt in your mouth fruitcake. How well this was going to compliment the pickled onions, I had absolutely no idea. But as an enterprising youth, I decided to experiment to find out. Sometimes great discoveries need even greater research.

The Evening Entertainment

The table was again cleared, and we all lent a hand, my contribution may have been of little consequence but, I was able to sneak another pickled onion in the process just to give my stomach a chance to mix it evenly with the fruitcake. After the massive clear up it was then time for our Christmas day ritual of the Ladies v Gents table skittles tournament.

If you’re not familiar with table skittles, a board not to dissimilar to our own is pictured above. The object of the game is to throw the ball from the front around the pole, and hopefully on the return trajectory a number if not all of the skittles will be knocked over and scored.

The Rules of the Game

These are quite simple, one can play individually or in teams. The way we played was we had 2 teams of 4, One Ladies, who will we call the Sisterhood, and a team of Gents, who will be known as the Mob.

Each team takes alternate throws one player at a time, scoring the skittles knocked down, and the skittles are reset after each throw. When all players have thrown, the process is then repeated until one team has knocked down a total of 91 skittles, no more no less, exactly 91, if a throw takes it over 91, that throw counts as zero. Score exactly 91 and that team wins the leg.

If a player knocks all 9 skittles down in one throw they gain a second throw before passing the baton on. If they do this 3 times in a row, they automatically pass to the next player irrespective.

If these are official rules, I have no idea, it’s how we played at the time. We played best of 3 legs for a set, and the best of 5 sets to determine the overall winner.

The Teams

The Sisterhood consisted of my 2 Grans, my Mum, and my Great Aunt, whilst the Mob included both Grandads, my Dad, and little old me. According to reports these teams had changed very little over the years apart from the inclusion of myself. I apparently took the place of my recently deceased Great Uncle.

Head to head records have been lost, but I’m assured that each year they were close affairs with neither team claiming much in the way of bragging rights, well not until 1969 that is.

Let the Games Begin

The first part of the ritual was to appoint a Captain for each team. The Sisterhood chose my Paternal Gran, or should I say she insisted, on the grounds as she was, the eldest, but in reality she had consumed copious amounts of sherry, wine, and home-made eggnog. that it was difficult to dismiss her insistence.

For The Mob my Paternal Grandad stepped into the breach insisting he was well versed in the oppositions Captains shenanigans, and was probably best equipped to keep her in check, which resulted in some derisory comments from the Sisterhood.

A coin was tossed to see who would throw first, and the Sisterhood won that right.

“Captains First?” Captain Grandad asked,

“Why not, you might as well follow me, like you always have”, replied Captain Gran.

Big words from a little woman, and always up for a challenge, she stepped up for the opening throw, “Strrrrike”, she cried as all nine skittles were scattered to the four winds. Apparently according to eye witness reports, her bonus throw was almost as good knocking down seven skittles with a resounding cheer from the Sisterhood.

Captain Grandad stepped up, pipe firmly clenched between gritted teeth, and scored a credible 6, which again set the Sisterhood off into ironic cheers, led by their slightly inebriated eggnog fueled Captain.

Then It All Kicked Off

Next up was my Maternal Gran, who removed her apron, rolled up her sleeves, and according to my Dad, and I quote “I had never seen such a look in my mother-in-laws eyes, focused yet scary, as if her life depended on it”. She didn’t disappoint either another 8 to the total, after a throw that would have broken bones had anyone been in the line of fire. The cheering of the Sisterhood was now rapturous.

Things continued like this until the Sisterhood only needed one to secure the first leg, Captain Gran stepped up, after yet another generous gulp of eggnog, Captain Grandad then offered some unneeded advice, to which Captain Gran replied that if she wanted his advice she would indeed ask for it, so please go away and kindly be quiet, you pedantic ass, or words to that effect. I asked Grandad what a pedantic ass was? His reply of just a term of endearment, did little to convince me from the tone of the delivery. He then blamed the home made eggnog, which made me wonder what on earth was in it, and should it be put on some banned substance list, or would The Sisterhood simply play the "For personal use" card.

I digress, Captain Gran stepped up grazed the outside pin, but it stood firm. We needed 12, Captain Grandad threw and somehow 1 pin remained standing as the Mob oohed and arghed. That was so close to a strike.

Next up was my Mum, with her backhand curve ball, which clattered the outside pin giving the Sisterhood a first leg victory. The Sisterhood cheered, and chanted “You’re going down” whilst pointing 4 incriminating index fingers in our direction, this was becoming personal.

Not Even Close

That was actually the closest we, the Mob actually came to winning a leg, the first and subsequent legs were all lost. We were soundly beaten, massacred by a team of ruthless women, who by this time had consumed so much eggnog, it now had to be rationed.

Captain Grandad’s comment of we were unlucky, was little more than a way of trying to make the loss a little more palatable. We had lost in fact we were lucky to get nil, such was the performance, but you can’t take anything away from the Sisterhood, they were on fire.

Lessons Learned

The records if available would show a 3-0 win to The Sisterhood, but, as can be seen was only half of the story. It’s one thing being soundly beaten, but if lessons are not learned from the experience, the chances of it happening again may greatly be increased. That evening I learned many things, eggnog is a performance enhancing drug, Ladies should never be regarded as the fairer sex, (especially when full of eggnog), My Parental Gran was 4’11” of pure evil when roused, and never get in the line of fire when my Maternal Gran had something in her hand, your chances of surviving severe injury would be limited at best.

The table was once again cleared, and a few bit’s and pieces were placed on the table to be consumed to soak up the eggnog, and another chance for me to consume yet another pickled onion or three. I had just lived through a nightmare, I didn't think the consumption of any number of onions would actually now be of consequence.  

Merry Christmas and a happy and prosperous New Year, have a good one.

Keep on Flicking

Ian