Bag-boggling

I was pleased to see Paul Muldoon (interviewed in The Times last Saturday) nominating The Flea as a favourite among Donne poems. It doesn't mean I'm right but it does seem a neglected classic and I'm not averse to having Prof. Muldoon on my side.

Whereas one who is rarely on the same side as me, it regretably always seems, is Steven Waling, the Manchester post-avantiste poet who reports himself 'unaccountably sad' on his blog at the death of Edwin Morgan, the senior Scots makar. I don't think it is 'unaccountable', though, I think it's because Edwin Morgan died.

Anyway, I thought regular readers might be interested in the Bag Boggling Championships, held in Swindon recently, a sport played only in my family which should soon be on its way to Olympic recognition.

The sport has a disarmingly simplicity and is open to all, remarkably on this occasion by everyone present at my sister's house last week.

As will be seen from the picture with my sister, Pam Chadwick, fielding a boggle, the aim is to hit or preferably knock over with a tennis ball a target placed in between the two players. Two points are scored for knocking the target over (technically known as a 'boggle'), and on this occasion the target used was a small log, and one point for hitting it (for which the correct term is a 'bag'). First to 10 points wins and so far no match has needed a tie-break so no rule has been invented to cover that eventuality yet.

After some warming up, I decided on a darts-type throwing action similar to John Lowe's classic style. But a first round match between Ron Chadwick and my mother, Mary, saw two underarmers in opposition which was an intriguing strategy appreciated by the cognoscenti within the game. With eight players taking part, it was a straight knock-out format with Chris Chadwick, recently returned from cycling from Land's End to John O'Groats, among the most fancied but an early casualty with the obvious excuse of lactic acid deficit.

Always played in the most sporting spirit, Pam reluctantly found herself in the final and, at 9-8, had a shot to take the title but missed. She wasn't likely to get a second chance at that and, yes, Ladies & Gentlemen, I won. What else did you think was going to happen except that it very nearly didn't.

Last year's champion, Nicky Stephens then turned up and a Champion of Champions match went 10-5 to me, too. First thing I've won since the Portsmouth heat of the Ottakar's Poetry Competition quite some years ago, thank you very much.

But, of course, it's not the winning, but the taking part that counts and a fine family occasion with the youngest competitor 18 years old and the oldest 73. It is a part of the traditional English summer season, with Henley, Ascot, Wimbledon and the Chelsea Flower Show, or, for me, The Swindon Literature Festival, Portsmouth Festivities, Arundel cricket, The Proms and sometimes The Globe.

The game's origins can be traced back to Nottingham circa 1980 perhaps , invented by my father, Phil, on the patio outside my grandparents back door, a more concrete version of the game with a brick as target rather than the more rustic grass and wood edition played this year. With professional sport so increasingly dispiriting and unwholesome, it could be just the game we need to re-establish Corinthian values and something that everyone can happily take part in.