The premise is that a hapless team of unfit fart-a-bouts have to play a team game versus another equally luckless group.
On each side is a "ringer" i.e. a proffesional player of the sport in question, he gets 3 hours to pick (schooground style,) train his team and work out strategy. Then the game begins.
The ringer on the losing side loses his life, while the winner recieves sexual favours from any person present or past (shipped in by time travel) they desire.
Can anyone think of any sports that should recieve the "Ringers" touch?
― Jarlr'mai (jarlrmai), Monday, 4 November 2002 16:48 (twenty-three years ago)
Rowing - two international standard teams go head to head with one shit commoner on board. Will they row to his pathetic lager soaked pace or will they risk killing him by going for Olympic speed?
Synchronised Skydiving - One veteral X-treme World Champion of rad air moves and one extremely scared old dear from Nantwich shoved out of a plane and doing stunts for points.
― Lynskey (Lynskey), Monday, 4 November 2002 17:02 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 00:39 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 00:42 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 00:52 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 01:06 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 01:12 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 01:17 (twenty-three years ago)
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 01:23 (twenty-three years ago)
I should take me leave, but before I do that, let me posit one more.... (think, think....)
OK:
Ironman academy: 100 of the legion of misguided proles who spent more than 60 quid on phone calls but failed to make it into even the audience of WWTBAM are forced to run up and down Ben Nevis, cycle 60 miles, writhe through 60 feet of estuarine mud in Lytham-St-Annes and, as an extra Kryptonfactoresque task, recite an entire chapter of a random Neville Shute novel. Muttered commentary by various St John Ambulance Brigade members and disenfranchised BBC licence-payers.
― Pooster (pooster), Wednesday, 13 November 2002 01:50 (twenty-three years ago)