The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Arabian Derby. It's the fairground game where you roll your balls to make a camel go forwards. Reach the finish line first and you win a knock-off Pikachu or a Goku figure with wonky eyes.

Arabian Derby isn't something I expected to be obsessed with. But I am. It's 9 pm and I'm walking through the fair, looking for the Arabian Derby, like a crack addict looking for a dealer.

I played it a couple of days ago, you see. And I came a close second. That knock-off Pikachu was almost mine.

I seem to have a natural knack at it. If I can just play one my time, I know I can win. Then win again one more time. And then keep winning until they have to drag me away from the stall.

But where is the Arabian Derby? The problem is, the fair's really big. It feels like I'm inside a level of roller coaster tycoon. There are people everywhere. Screams coming from rides. Balloons bobbing up and down. The smell of candyfloss and fried oil.

The longer I spend here, the more my stress levels rise. I have to find the Arabian Derby soon or I'll lose my zen-level concentration.

I've taken a wrong turn and now I'm in the section for children's rides. This can't look good: a strange man, by himself, hanging around the children's ride.

I finally make it to the Arabian Derby. It's crowded. There's a heated race going on right now. The man running the stall has a microphone and he's saying, "It's number 11, number 11, coming up, with number 2 behind, followed by number 4 and 9, and now number 2 has taken the lead, it's taken the lead, number 3 is coming now too, and number 6, number 11 is still behind, number 4's approaching, here's number 4, number 4's coming up fast, number 2's in the lead, just one more ball, and number 2 is the winner! The winner is number 2"

I stand at the back, waiting for a space to open up.

After about five minutes, there's a space. I dive in. I pay the man €3. I'm camel number two.

Number two of seventeen camels.

I'll admit, the odds of me winning aren't good. The odds are 1/17, in fact. But that's only if you think Arabian Derby's a game of luck. And it isn't. It's a game of skill. Pure skill.

The people of Girona are about to witness a miracle, I think. They're about to see me crush everyone at Arabian Derby. I pity everyone else playing against me.

The game begins.

Immediately I start losing, The ball keeps going off to the side. Fucking ball. It keeps going down the hole that doesn't move my camel. Why is that hole even there?

But it's not over yet. I roll my ball again. But I roll it too hard, and it takes ages to come back down.

This is okay, I think. You can still win. There's still time.

The game ends. Someone else has won.

After that, I play five more games and lose each one. Gone is my belief that I’m some kind of Arabian Derby savant, like the pinball wizard, only at Arabian Derby instead of pinball. I won't be quitting my job to become a full-time player of Arabian Derby any time soon, that's for sure.