More Than A Game…

As England get ready to face Argentina in the World Cup Semi Final, I am reminded of a quote from the legendary Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly.

On the theme of life and death, I wonder if Bill ever played Monopoly 🤔

“Double six! I knew my guy had the wrist action needed to win this thing. In your face.”

“There’s a long way to go,” replied Iron.

Not yet steaming, but certainly annoyed.  If there was one thing guaranteed to ruin his day, it was his nemesis, Boot, getting a good start.

Iron could only watch as Boot raced off towards the Electric Company and an early lead.

Race Car buzzed up next to Iron and nudged her front end into his handle.

“Luckily, these players don’t give themselves an extra throw for a double; he’d be away and gone.”

Iron was momentarily lost for words. He loved Race Car more than Monopoly itself.

“Their ‘house rules’ mean they don’t need a double to start either, so here we go. I’m up next. C’mon, player, don’t be rubbish.”

Her player rolled a two and a one.

“A fucking three, the useless clown.”

With that, she was off. Iron loved her all the more for her potty mouth.

“Stand aside, clothes flattener; I’m next. This is my day; I can feel it in my hoofs.”

Rocking Horse always started with an air of overconfidence.

In reality, he hadn’t been the winning piece since Christmas 1987, and that was only because two of the players retired hurt when they came to blows over a family disagreement that had been getting steadily worse as the years rolled by.

Nobody seems even entirely sure what the argument was actually about. Other than it was something to do with brussel sprouts.

Rocking Horse was immediately the recipient of a four, thrown by his player. The income tax space, incurring an immediate penalty.

There are only three things certain in this world: death, taxes, and Rocking Horse finishing last at Monopoly.

At last it was Iron’s turn to make a move. A solid seven, and he was off. Or at least he would have been if one of the players hadn’t called a cigarette break before he’d been placed in his new space.

After the smoking intermission, the game actually progressed quite nicely for a while. Iron enjoyed some jail time with Racing Car, without either of them being in the slammer long enough to put them out of contention.

They were certainly friends, but he wanted more than that. She was way out of his league, though; he was only a domestic appliance after all.

There were the usual sniggers when someone landed on the Community Chest space. It seems the word ‘chest’ is hilarious. It really doesn’t take much for the tone to be lowered.

Cliff Richard provided the soundtrack to the game as usual. One of the players suggested they play some “Jive Bunny for a change”. He was rightly ignored.

About an hour in, it all went predictably astray when one of the players spilt a glass of wine on the board, almost drowning Rocking Horse in the process.

This soon descended into a game-derailing discussion about the best way to remove a red wine stain. It’s blotting with white wine or club soda, by the way. Not rubbing it with French mustard as one of the players suggested.

After a lengthy clean-up, yet another cigarette break and the opening of a giant box of chocolates, the game was back on.

Positions rotated regularly as Lady Luck, or unadulterated skill, as Boot liked to put it, did its thing. As the game built towards its crescendo, Boot looked to be heading towards victory when his player landed him gloriously on the ‘Go to Jail’ space.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer piece of footwear”, said Iron in the general direction of his player. This was theirs to win now.

It wasn’t done yet, though. Another obstacle soon arose for Iron when one of the players declared they were tired and didn’t want to play anymore.

Fortunately, House Rule No.6 was immediately enforced, which states:

‘No player can use tiredness as an excuse for not playing the game to a conclusion unless it’s grandma.’

It wasn’t Grandma, so on they went.

Iron would have won; everything was going in his favour.

Although I accept this is very hard to believe, there are some things in life more important than winning a game of Monopoly.

One of them is Iron’s eternal love for Racing Car.

You might not know this, but Irons have the ability to communicate telepathically with players. They don’t do it often, but on special occasions, they can bend them to their will.

Think of the influence the smell of freshly baked bread has over a potential house buyer. It’s nothing compared to the power Iron has to make a player turn victory into defeat.

So he did just that.

With Boot safely locked up and Rocking Horse on the verge of bankruptcy, it didn’t take long to surrender the lead to Racing Car surreptitiously.

When the moment finally came, the sheer joy on the face of Racing Car made Iron’s heart sing. She was happy; he was happy. Love is love.

Another bonus was that he’d beaten Boot into third place.

“Hard luck, old chap,” said Iron, not remotely magnanimously. “Same time next year?”

Boot didn’t reply. He was a notoriously bad loser, which made beating him all the better.

Rocking Horse was his usual last. On this occasion, he didn’t seem to mind. He was still slightly drunk from the earlier wine incident and declared himself.

“The moral victor”.

Later that night, when they were all packed back up in the box, Racing Car whispered to Iron.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes,” replied Iron.

“You let me win, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I didn’t. You won fair and square.”

“I know that’s not true; it’s very sweet of you, though. You really are very special to me; I hope you know that.”

Iron didn’t reply; he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Racing Car had just made him the happiest Iron in the world.

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