Paintballing

The Year 8s may remember the date 10/10/10 as the day they first experienced the horrors of open warfare. As the bus arrived at Sedgemore Splat, near Glastonbury, the anticipation of battle was palpable. Two armies went to their separate ends of the battle field. Each with their share of overseas mercenaries; ranging from France, Spain - and even a large Australian! The theatre of combat was littered with abandoned forts, ruined vehicles, barrels and fences … and covered with the ominous technic lours of previous paint-shed.

Between each skirmish, the dead and wounded retreated to the ‘safe zone’ to compare stains and bruises. With coloured capsules firing across the tranquil Somerset meadows and the ‘crack’ of pressurised pop-guns peppering the countryside; there was no quarter given in the melees. Fearlessly the teams advanced on their opponents with minimal tactics or strategy; and the regular cry of ‘Ow Ow – OK stop I’m dead!’ was oft heard.

One of the wounded wrote a poem where he lay, it began:

“If should be dyed, think only this of me,
That there is a local field, near Street,
That is forever Inked”