It was noon under the charcoal sky of a dark December day, and in Kensington the stench of fear rode the winter wind like scum on the turgid waters of the Thames.

Led by a proud young warrior, the SGB army of jesters and crumbling ancients donned creaking armour tarnished by neglect and prepared to face the well armed and frequently well-oiled Imperial hordes. The anticipation of the imminent war was greatly increased by the youthful exuberance of the leader who, judging how slow the ancients would be at getting out of bed, had instructed them that the battle would commence at 12, and that hell's fury would ride the edge of the executioner's blade for anyone foolish enough to arrive late. His duplicity was great, for the battle did not commence until gone half one, by which time the ancients had sweated mightily in their clunky (and rather rusty) armour, and were starting to feel the need of a pint of tea*, slippers and a telly.

"I haven't raised my weapon for 6 months" whined one elder in a crackly voice, to the great amusement of the others who sniggered and started making strange pelvis-thrusting gestures in unison. "Apart from last Sunday, for 6 hours or so", he continued... converting laughter into open-mouthed contemplative silence quicker than a greased weasel leaving a loudly blown digeridoo.

In this silence echoed a small voice saying "em, you do realise we're going to get our backsides thoroughly..." "Shaddup!" thundered the young warrior, "Positive Mental Attitude!"

The Imperial Hordes began to arrive looking numerous, the strip lights gleaming from their nicely polished armour, regarding the assembled SGB army with some scepticism. They were indeed a less than impressive sight... one strong warrior trying to pretend he could take them _all_ on by himself, one jester, and two zimmer-frame wielding ancients huddling behind the warrior like legendary figures, dead, buried, but to stupid to lie down somewhere dark.

These ancients did indeed receive many taunts from the rapidly growing Imperial legions, but the young warrior was seen to hold his head high and claim in a somewhat official and legal voice "Fear not, for I have rewritten the constitution such that we will have reinforcements in the form of a damsel: young, fair, and armed to the teeth!" And indeed it was so, for the Lady Eleanor of Islington did arrive, and did join the side of SGB one minute before battle was due to commence, claiming she would have been there earlier, but for a delaying tactic of the opposition - the mysterious and powerful enchantment known to some as "Gav Time"

Battle commenced, the bold SGB 5 against the marshalled thousands of the Imperials, and the SGB army did not involve themselves in underhand psych warfare tactics, for they would not do such a thing, ever. And one Imperial legionnaire was not seen to fail to complete their shot 10 times in a row due to barracking.

Some of the younger Imperials however were greatly distressed at the discovery that the ancients could indeed still smite targets with some skill despite earlier conjecture that they might not be able to see the targets or hold their weapons high. For they did, in spite of the shaking of their elderly muscles.

The Jestor provided battlefield amusement for both sides, while pottering around collecting daisies instead of shooting his arrows at the target. When (harshly) questioned, he claimed he had "forgotten"
what he was at the battle for, and was thereafter soundly ridiculed and beaten senseless by his own army, while the Imperial legions laughed like drains.

And when the dust settled at the end of a day, the ancients slumped to the ground exhausted, the damsel ceased to stamp her little feet in fury and the young warrior casually wiped a single drop of perspiration from his brow having fought his finest "bottle" despite nearly "battling" it in the final moments. The jester received a final kick in the kidneys for good measure, but the Imperial legions lay scattered, broken in the dust. They had been vanquished, thwokked, utterly destroyed, crushed under foot, sliced into a hundred million tiny pieces, shown the error of their pride, given a good slapping, shown the door, fed to the sharks, bedded down with the fishes, given a good look at the underside of the daisies. Their posterior had been soundly nudged, their chips cashed, their cookies crumbled, their buns ovened. They had bowed to the inevitable, and they were as yesterday's milk left too long in the sun. They were the pebble under the steamroller, the steamroller under the car crusher, the car crusher in the path of the dinosaur killer! The friendly competition ended to the chant of "Dust! Dust! Dust! Dust!" and all participants departed for the pub to celebrate the overwhelming skill, mastery and beauty of the victors.

Ian "Warrior" McGibbon: 585, 60, 45, 1 record
Andy "Elderly Surprise!" Pirie, 556, 1 glaswegian scalp.
Paul "Jester" Williamson: 538, 57, 3 daisies
Eleanor "Damsel" Daplyn, 537, 3 curses, 9 stamped feet.
Chris "Ancient but has attractive weapon" Moore, 534, 4 cracked joints

As reported by an unbiased observer, the man on the scene, the fly on the wall, the ointment on the ...never mind.

PS - whaddayamean bias? Didn't you ever hear that the Victors write the history books? Well, more accurately, the victors enjoy the spoils, while the historians write the best history they can.