The Great Game of Rummikub

The Great Game of Rummikub

Audlem’s Most Fierce Battleground

Few people realise that beneath the gentle, rose-scented calm of Audlem lies a scene of ruthless rivalry, fierce calculation… and the occasional Battenberg sponge. I refer, of course, to the fortnightly gathering of the Audlem Rummikub Club.

To the uninitiated, Rummikub may look like a sedate pastime involving numbered tiles and polite murmurs. In reality, it’s closer to hand-to-hand combat (albeit with more tea and fewer broken bones). The reigning champion presides like a benevolent monarch – though many whisper that ‘benevolent’ is perhaps too generous a term. The rest of the group gather with trembling hands, feverishly hoping this will be the week the crown finally changes head.

Preparation begins long before the first tile is laid. Competitors arrive early, ostensibly to ‘catch up on village news,’ but really to eye each other up and plot tactics. Cakes are laid out with all the gravitas of a Michelin tasting menu ready for the half time break and tea flows like a sacramental elixir. One member – whose name must remain secret for legal reasons – even brings her own teabags, convinced that the rest of us are plotting to swap in a weaker brew to undermine her concentration.

Then the tiles clatter, brows furrow, and the game begins. Strategies form, alliances crumble, whispers of ‘foul play’ are whispered across the table. Someone inevitably attempts a daring manoeuvre that stretches the definition of ‘rules’ beyond recognition. Others, driven by the thrill of battle, mutter darkly about ‘tile sabotage’ by a previous player who has swiped their position! And yet, somehow, the laughter drowns out the groans.

Great drama always surrounds the fabled ‘smiley faces’ – the wild tiles that can be played as any number. Some guard them like crown jewels, (me) others wave them about with reckless glee. The real tension comes when you’ve got the perfect combination clutched in your hand, just waiting to pounce and clear your board in one glorious swoop. The trouble is, while you sit there silently vibrating with excitement, the player before you takes forever to make up their mind – fiddling with tiles, sighing deeply, and generally stretching out your agony until you’re certain you’ll combust before your turn finally arrives.

At the end, the champion remains unbeaten more often than not, while the rest stagger away like weary marathon runners – except with frazzled brains instead of aching legs. The short walk home through Audlem’s peaceful lanes becomes a test of endurance, as each player mentally replays their missed opportunities in tragic slow motion.

So, dear reader, spare a thought for the heroic members of Audlem’s most gruelling sporting league. Should you ever hear the faint clink of tiles and a suspiciously triumphant cackle drifting on the evening air, you’ll know – Audlem’s Rummikub afternoon is underway.