THINK you’re sporty because you once beat your dad at arm-wrestling? No sport you can do after eight pints really counts as a true athletic endeavour. For example:
Throwing tiny spiked missiles at a board is the height of sophistication if you’re a delinquent 10-year-old, but a sport? One played by professionals who are also professional drinkers? You can get every dad in the pub to watch your mate’s tepid attempt at a triple twenty only when there’s no football on telly.
A crowd-pleaser, but there isn’t much skill behind flinging a ball into fancy sticks. Especially as even the most hammered person in the room can throw it in the right direction and win a few points by sheer drunken force. It’s knocking things over. That’s not really a game.
There is no good reason for leaning over a table with a long stick unless attempting truly imaginative DIY. A cousin to snooker, which involves complex colour-coding and still attracted some truly epic alcoholics, pool is simple, pointless and dull. Best used to see if your smashed friend has double vision.
If table tennis can be recognised as a sport, why can’t table football? Because swivelling poles wildly is only notable for being the last remaining coherent movement you can perform after five Jagerbombs. You might as well be a toddler learning new muscle skills.
The perfect pub sport because it can be played by two men too inebriated to stand up. They shove at each other, grunt, sweat, and then one wins because the other was momentarily unsure of where or who he was. Runs a high risk of spilling someone’s pint, leading to the final sport.
Technically done in the pub car park, this sees two shitfaced men face off against each other and swing their fists at blurs in the hope that one will connect. The first to fall over is declared the loser. The winner’s prize is to put the boot in and stagger off for a kebab.