I played a very unusual game the other day. It was called Potato Croquet. Virtually identical to normal croquet only the balls had been replaced with potatoes and about as easy to play as a frame of snooker. Blindfolded. Aim for the hoop and watch in irritation as your King Edward swerves to the right. Or bobbles to the left. Hit your spud too hard with the mallet and it will turn to mash. And playing croquet with mash is even trickier because the rules stipulate that every crumb of potato must go through the hoop. On this particular occasion one competitor lost it completely and became so irate that he threw his Jersey Royal at one of the match officials. This meant he was disqualified on two counts, both for "hand-potato" and "luzzing a spud missile in the direction of the referee". Before the second round the umpire shouted "new potatoes please" and a potato boy leapt forward with an eclectic array of spuds for the contestants to choose from. There was a bit of argy bargy as some of the entrants argued over their fave tattie but I merely reclined on the grass with a cigarillo, adjusted my aviator sunglasses and requested "a waxy one". However, halfway through the next match it broke in two and I was forced to double up on a pair of spudettes. Needless to say I didn't make it through to the next round.

Later that day I went to the pub and a complete stranger came up to me and asked me if I wanted a game of pool. I said yes, on the condition we both put a bag over our heads. He told me I was crazy and I simply responded with two words. Potato Croquet. When I got back home I wrote a song about my day. The chorus went like this:

You're okay

With potato croquet

When you've got a round potato

It had a blinding kazoo solo before the last verse and I put a kind of waltzy lilt to it. It reminded me of "Golden Brown" by The Stranglers, which is a song about smack. Or, if you prefer, horse. Which is me. Hoss.