You know, I’ve been accused of many things in my time. I’ve been called a rogue, a renegade, a maverick. Some have even had the audacity to label me a misanthrope, but I’ve never been mistaken for a damned sports almanac… until now.
There I was, minding my own business in my favourite watering hole. A smoky, dimly lit joint, thick with the smell of stale beer and regret, where the regulars include a one-legged war veteran, a failed stand-up comedian in the throes of a midlife crisis, and a taxidermist with an unhealthy obsession with badgers. You know the type of place I mean.
I was sat at the bar, nursing my usual tipple (a double whiskey, straight up), when my old buddy, Frank, barged in, looking like he’d seen a ghost. Now, Frank’s a funny old fellow. He’s got more conspiracy theories than a paranoid schizophrenic at an alien abduction convention. He’s the kind of bloke who’d believe the moon landing was a hoax, Elvis is still alive, and the world is ruled by a secret society of lizard people.
This time, though, Frank was in a real tizzy. He stumbled towards me, wild-eyed and breathless, clutching what looked like a sci-fi gadget in his trembling hands. It was a strange contraption, resembling a retro alarm clock crossed with a flux capacitor. As he collapsed onto the bar stool next to me, he began to babble incoherently about time travel, sports results and the end of the world.
As I tried to make sense of his rambling, he thrust the device towards me, insisting that I read the display. It was then, in a moment of drunken clarity, that I realised what Frank had mistaken me for. He thought I was a future sports almanac.
Now, I’m not going to lie, I was a bit taken aback. I’ve been called many things in my time, as I’ve mentioned, but a walking, talking compendium of sports statistics? That was a new one on me. But then, I’ve never been one to shirk a challenge. I decided to run with it.
I squinted at the display, pretending to read the future like some kind of beer-soaked Nostradamus. Then, with a swagger born of countless nights spent spinning tall tales to gullible punters, I began to regale him with a string of audacious predictions.
I told him how the Cubs would win the World Series, how Leicester City would clinch the Premier League, and how a horse with three legs and a fear of hay would triumph at the Grand National. As I spun my yarn, Frank’s eyes widened with every word. He hung on my every utterance, lapping up my ludicrous claims with the thirst of a man who’d been lost in the desert.
And then, just as I was reaching the crescendo of my fantastical tale, he did something that took me completely by surprise. He ordered a beer. Not just any beer, mind you, but a time-travelling beer. A beer from the future. Delivered by drone, no less.
Now, I’ve seen some things in my time, but a pint of lager materialising out of thin air? That was a new one on me. But there it was, hovering in front of us like a golden, frothy apparition. Frank reached out, grabbed the pint, and downed it in one gulp. Then he let out a belch that would have made a Viking proud.
And that, my friends, is the tale of how my old buddy Frank mistook me for a future sports almanac and ordered a time-travelling beer. Now, I don’t know about you, but I reckon that’s a story worth telling. So next time you’re in a bar, and someone tries to tell you that they’ve got a better yarn, you just look them in the eye and tell them, “Buddy, you ain’t got nothing on me.”
