Earlier this week, I noted with interest the news that The Bird was bringing back its rock, paper, scissors tournament.
I was immediately carried back a decade or so to a time when a young, inspired entertainer (thazz me) and her long-suffering best friend (Lynne, the wee Canadian) embarked upon an RPS journey of their own.
I don’t even know where I got the idea, but one day I decided that I would organise a proper Roshambo competition. I’d get a few bars to participate, bring in a media sponsor and, somehow, we’d raise enough money to send the local winner and a guest to the (get this) World RPS Championships in Toronto.
The first thing to do was work out an organised plan. Sure, it was a simple game, but if we were going to do rounds and a final, we had to approach it all professional-like. We would need a referee, so I ordered two shirts: One for Lynne and one for our other friend, Carol. Both had agreed to assist in that capacity while I worked out the other details.
I approached Jacques Scott, and managed to sell them on my wacky idea. Each week, we would promote the competition by getting the gals to go to the participating bars and referee punters playing against the bartenders with a chance of winning a free beer. Jacques Scott also sponsored my shiny new official Cayman RPS banner, designed to hang outside the bar that was hosting the heat that week. I wanted to spread the word further, so I grabbed an old advertising banner that was blank on the back, and spent a few nights with multi-coloured Sharpies, creating a handmade version to hang elsewhere on the Seven Mile Strip. Banksy, eat y’heart out.
We got multiple bars to sign up, including Hammerheads (now Cayman Cabana), Lone Star, and Aqua Beach (now Peppers) for the finals. Every competitor had to come up with a fighting handle, like Fist of Fury or Mighty Mouse, and we drew up a results board to be displayed in a place of prominence. Las Vegas events wish they had our attention to detail.
All preparations were going along swimmingly … until the referee shirts arrived. Having no sense of fabrics, I had just ordered what looked best on the site. Turns out they were fashioned from material that made Saran Wrap seem like Egyptian cotton in comparison. Lynne’s shirt was slightly loose, and she’s part salamander anyway, so she was cool enough. I had misjudged the size of Carol’s shirt, however. The unforgiving heavyweight polyester clung to her like a second skin, and the sweat was pouring down her face five minutes in. It didn’t take long for her to – understandably – chuck in the towel; it could have been very bad press otherwise. ‘RoshambLES: Referee collapses at tournament, scissors chaos’.
One of the last things on the list to secure was a radio sponsor. I remember meeting with a manager who had recently transferred from the US, and the more I explained what the competition was all about, the more he clearly thought me to be some batty British woman with wild notions of what could be classified as entertainment. Nevertheless, either his eagerness to get me out of his office or finally coming around to my way of thinking got me the coverage I requested. We were all set.
Looking back, I can’t believe the small profit we made, relative to the sheer amount of work involved. Each week, we’d visit a bar, spending a good few hours encouraging the free beer RPS challenge. I would put up banners and take down banners, announcing the location of the next heats. I’d plug in colourful disco balls near the entrance of the property hosting the competition that night, set up a heavy sound system with microphone so I could emcee, get the table and clipboard ready for signups, and put the results board in place. Lynne was taking to the referee thing like a duck to water. You’d think she’d graduated summa cum laude from the RPS Academy of Iceland or something.
Despite all the energy it took, it was a riot – and so popular. People really got into it, and soon we had full signup sheets on our hands. The finals at Aqua Beach were absolutely packed, and the venue set up a boxing ring for us to add more cachet to the proceedings. I even bought T-shirts for all the finalists, and ironed their fighting names onto each one. Talk about ‘beyond the call’ – that was the first and last time in my life I ever ironed anything.
My previously unconvinced media contact completely changed his tune when he saw the turnout, and Jacques Scott – God bless them – came through with the first prize of flights, hotel and competition tickets for the World RPS Championships in Toronto, held in the Steam Whistle Brewery.
I tagged along that year to see what all the fuss was about. Do you know that they had teams from the US, Canada, Norway … even Australia? There was a ‘street competition’ for observers, where they could win RPS Dollars, and as we watched competitors get eliminated on the main stage, we realised there was actually more to playing this game than just luck. Example: Most amateurs will throw Rock their first time, as it seems like a strong move. That’s why more seasoned players go for Paper. Fascinating stuff.
Our champion didn’t get too far in the tournament, but it didn’t matter – we had the best time.
Lynne and I ran the local competition twice before the World RPS Championships closed up shop in 2009. Such a shame. Maybe Cayman should put in a bid to be the new location! We already know what we need to set up, and the rules are simple.
Time to start sharpening those scissors.
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