Fiction | Reality
The Cheese Rollers
Not an Olympic sport — yet!
Desmond Morris was shaking. As the eight-time cheese-rolling champion, he was going for a record of nine titles.
So too was Paul Ford, who was also there on the hill doing his stretches like everyone else.
They would need them. It was cold and wet. The 1-in-3 gradient hill was brutal at the best of times. Today, it would be unforgiving.
Once the eight-pound wheel of orange Double Gloucester was let go, it rolled down the hill at over 70 mph like a golden disc.
Everyone would chase it down the 200-yard-long hill. But no one ever caught it. It was as futile as chasing the rabbit at a greyhound race. Many competitors broke ankles, arms, and legs. Dislocated shoulders, hips, and pelvises were common. But no one seemed to mind.
They were all after the same prize. If you won the race, you kept the cheese. It was that simple. A contest, that in the world of billion-dollar global sporting events, had stayed the same for hundreds of years.
And now it was time.
A hundred people were lined up at the start as the Master of Ceremonies held the cheese in his hand. Then he put it on the green grass and rolled it down the hill.
