Jess Wynn is on the Post Graduate Writer’s Programme at Falmouth College.
She is a Cornish-born budding feature writer and would-be novelist in her early 20s. She comes armed with a degree and a talent for clear, amusing writing – with an edge.
This story first appeared on the independent Internet magazine Hackwriters.com

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When it comes to sport I am not particularly interested. Generally speaking, I look upon them as dangerous and tiring activities performed by people with whom I share nothing except the right to trial by jury. (Fran Lebowitz, Metropolitan Life, 1978.)

With the brief to find an angle on the issue of sport, I enlisted the assistance of my most valuable and informative sources. ‘Get your boyfriend to write it, he’s a boy’ offered my mother (perceptive and accurate as ever). Boyfriend in question looked alarmed and asserted “I’m not going to talk about sport, it’s bloody pointless”.

So how true is this statement? Sport to me is epitomised by the action of leaving the room after my father has entered with the intention of switching on rugby or cricket. Sundays are inextricably linked with the migraine inducing sounds of Formula One (sorry God).

My dad would announce, to anyone who looked like they might be vaguely listening, before each race that ‘this was going to be a really good one’ . And he was always wrong; every race was the perfect dictionary definition of monotony.

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