Painball

Delighted last night to notice that my paintballing bruises are nearly gone, nearly three weeks after the event. The occasion was a birthday party. Being a novice, I had been naturally fearful of the pain which might be involved. How bad could it really be though, there were cammo-clad children swarming the field of combat and young men shooting each other at close range wearing only t-shirts.

But when the first round whacked with flesh-liquidating force into my thigh as I quaked behind a tree, it dawned on me that I might not be getting out of this alive. The three layers of cloth between my fragile limbs and the enemy bullets were not exactly doing a Kevlar-vest job. The visor too proved less than effective when a paintball veered in at the correct angle to smack me a stunning blow on the chin.

A bored-sounding young woman had laid down the ground-rules and safety-tips before the fun commenced. Everything she had told us to avoid as it would be especially painful, I sampled in the first 5 minutes. Getting hit on the head: check. Hands: check. Throat: check. The only thing I managed to avoid was having my eye put out.

Not that I didn't give as good as I got. I savagely raked my friends with brightly-coloured death at every opportunity. After 20 minutes of this mutual punishment, however, I made a desperate dash for the enemy stronghold and captured their flag, motivated by a desire for the pain to end rather than any thirst for victory.

Paintball tip: 
Don't do it, obviously. But if you must, entirely wrap your body in heavy layers of newspaper, tramp-style, under your clothing beforehand.