As we age, and as health declines and the monotony of life comes to bear, we are often seeking new avenues to fill the fun void. Having been openly critical in the past of blue rinse activity such as ‘Bingo!’ (Note: the added exclamation mark to make it appear more exciting than it appears to the naked eye), I found myself recently on a Bingo night out.

As I looked around at all the old people, it suddenly dawned that I was of median age. They had a bar, which was one good thing I surmised, although the drinks littering the tables were infrequent and there wasn’t a jug or stein in sight. Thankful that the exit door was in close proximity so I could feed my vaping habit on a whim, we purchased a few ‘score cards’ (sorry…I am no expert) as well as a ‘dabber’ (English translation: a highlighter pen) before we settled in for an evening of our lives we would never get back.

My belief prior to the first numbers being called out was that those playing must be somewhat backward in the intellectual stakes and so bored of life that if this was their highlight, what kind of misery would the rest of their days be filled with?

But, oh, how wrong I was! It was the complete opposite of relaxation. I was left traumatised to the nth degree by the speed and ferocity of attack. The numbers were read out as if on loop and I began to sweat profusely. The experts had the edge as they would recognise 2 fat Martians, or whatever the call was before the number was read. As for me, I was the laggard, playing catch up and a couple of numbers behind, and woe betide anyone who would talk to me as the senses and grey matter became seriously overloaded whilst I struggled to keep my head above water. At the end of the first line game, I noticed that all the drinks, my own included, had not been touched as, well, there was simply no time to take a sip as I downed a pint of Stella in one hit, a trick I have not undertaken since the misspent days of my teenage years.

Filled with a newfound wonder and admiration for the ‘players’, I admitted defeat and spent the rest of the evening drinking away my ineptitude and listening intently to the language. Now if you think Mechanics can confuse when ramping the price up as they drone on about sponge bafflers and the such, then take a trip to t’bingo:

There are some that are too obvious: Cup of tea: number 3 and four dozen: 48 being the cases in point. But then confusion reigns: Shotts Bus (no, me neither) is 56, gateway to heaven is 27 and fish, chips and peas is 33 (there’s got to be an acronym for that?).

But the added relish in the bingo bun is the smut and entendre’s that seem to be their stock in trade, some of which don’t live well since its advent in Italy around 1530 and its widescale introduction into blighty circa the 1960s.

The smut list includes Legs (11), Sweet 16 and never been kissed, dirty Gertie, number 30, down on your knees, 43 and a ‘favourite of mine, sixty-nine’.

Still in trauma, we took a break to Porthleven in Cornwall to get over the shock of the mental stress placed upon us from our solitary experience. With visions of a nice pint of cold Guinness in hand as we sat on the balcony of the Atlantic inn and surveyed the sea over yonder, we wandered into the bar which, although packed, was sat in hushed silence. Catching my eye from across the bar, a take no prisoners looking lady glared and lifted the microphone to her lips, ‘are you here for Bingo?’ she asked, to which my response of ‘no way mate! 68’ received the deafening silence and tumbleweed moment such a comment deserved….