The Quaggy Cup: On Fire!

Where there's smoke, there's fire. Words to live by, those. And such wisdom is particularly appropriate when one is wondering where to spend a glorious sunny August Sunday afternoon while in the greater metropolitan region of South London. Well, Old Ken has got two words that I'd like you to pronounce with true feeling. Please say them out loud as you read them, summoning up all the "intenstinal fortitude" (to quote Gorilla Monsoon) of the Macho Man Randy Savage when going against the wily likes of the upstart Koko "The Birdman" B. Ware. The words are these: Quaggy Cup!

Now, you may recall that Old Ken has something of a fondness for the Quaggy, one of the most important tributaries to the Ravensbourne River (itself a meaningful player in the formation of the greater Thames estuary). Indeed, the Quaggy helped me overcome a bout of projectile vomiting back in the spring. Well, when I heard that an entire day of fun and frivolity was going to be devoted to this majestic waterway, I made my preparations.

Was it appropriate, I wondered, to take it upon myself to dress as the spirit of the Quaggy—a kind of irrepressible water sprite whose antics could charm one and all? Well, upon arrival it became readily evident that conventional dress (specifically, shirts) was hardly to be observed.



Blessedly, this free and loose spirit caught hold of all and sundry, making no discrimination of age as the ivory-haired gent in the photograph above so deftly displays.



But look! What's that up in the air? Is it some sort of strange bird—perhaps, the dreaded Raven Spirits of the Ravensbourne River come to terrorize the small village festival of the peaceful Quaggy tribe, taking us down, down deep into the mines where we will be forced to dig for precious ores for all eternity to feed to the power-mad schemes of the mighty raven overlord, Optal-Max Schreek!



No, thank goodness, no. Instead, we realized, that it was raining men. Hallelujah!



In what actually turned out to be a pretty impressive spectacle, these four intrepid parachutists landed on a cordoned off patch of the field. Unfortunately, their landing was not accompanied by "Eye of the Tiger," which was reserved for a later exhibition football match.



Now, when you think about a summer festival of this kind, what springs to mind? Greased pole climb? Dunking booth? Tractor pulls? Rummage sale? Hot dogs and burgers on the grill? Corn on the cob? Well, Old Ken can honestly say that none of those mentioned above made it to the first annual Quaggy Cup. That said, we did get quite a show from a truly unusual and, with some luck, endangered species in the British Isles: English Cheerleaders!



Yes! Big Win!



Of all people, Old Ken realizes that human bodies come in different colors, shapes and sizes, all of which can be beautiful and it is only small-mindedness that makes us think otherwise. But what about tattoos? Is this not the sort of willful intervention into personal appearance that—more often than not—simply begs for critical scrutiny?



While you mull over those tasty ethical queries, feast your eyes on but a few of the awful tattoos on display at Quaggy Cup. As you may perceive from the images above, this devilish morsel was coyly concealed beneath a startling platinum mane—and might well have remained there, had Old Ken anything to say in the matter.



Now, it's one thing to take a photo of a terrible tattoo on a woman's back when she is engaged in conversation. It is something quite different, I submit to you, to try to get a photograph of what has to be Old Ken's entry for the worst tattoo ever, while the proud owner is male, with two thuggish friends, and looking your way. (If you have evidence of a worse tattoo, by the by, I challenge you to post it on the comment section with your description).



Nonetheless, this tattoo struck me as being so bad as to be worth the risk. Cast your eyes, if you will, upon the oh-so-delicate shading and the clever trompe l'oeil technique of affixing those bellicose gloves to a pictorial tack, which is presumably embedded in the dude's calf (which only begs the question of why it is there rather than on a more logical locale like a shoulder or bicep). Finally, note the attention to iconographic detail: on the upper wrist band of each glove is a minute ensign of St. George—the flag of England upon which the design of the more familiar British "Union Jack" is based. In other words, this is English boxing—none of that namby-pamby British stuff! RRAR!