Well, we had the work X-Mas party last night and it was great fun. This time the bosses organised three games at a swanky new ten pin bowling joint that had just opened up in the city. The music was all 80s. As we walked in Michael Jackson was playing, followed by Eye of the Tiger. The beer was free, though I was driving so I didn’t partake too much (very responsible am I). I did, however, drink a Cosmopolitan – which was quite nice.

Anyway… the bowling.

The last time I bowled, the first Gulf War had just started. I remember this clearly because the pundits were wondering whether Israel would enter into the battle now that Saddam (remember him?) had fired a few rockets in their direction. At the time, I was trying my best to keep the bowling ball out of the gutter and not embarass myself. It wasn’t the most uplifting experience.

13 years later and I had returned, and who knew what the night may bring. Tragedy or glory.

I was the first person to bowl that night. Seconds before I let go of my ball (Size 11 for all those bowlers out there… does that mean 11 pounds or 11 kilos… whatever) we were told that the first team to bowl a strike would win a free round of cowboys – you know shots of butterscotch and vodka.

Well there I was, eyeing those pins, looking at them and remembering Saddam and his crazy invasion of Kuwait and some Israeli offical wearing a gas mask talking about chemical attacks and me bowling another gutter ball because gutter balls were all I was good for and my team-mates giving me that look, that sad, pathetic look making me feel so small, so inadequate, so… not very good at bowling.

And I stood there – for who knew how long – at least long enough for someone to jab me in the arse, and suddenly I was moving and my hand was moving back and I was reaching the thin blue line and I was letting go of the ball and —

— if I told you I got a strike for my first bowl in 13 years would you believe me?

Well, would you?

Many years later, the people at Strike Zone in the City – where the waitresses were young and blonde and they played 80s music all night – would remember the massive roar of shock, surprise and joy as that No 11 ball struck down those ten, frightened and intimidated pins. And I stood there, not entirely sure what I’d just done, not entirely believing my eyes, but unable to doubt the fact that I, Mr Ian Mond, the man voted worst Jewish ten pin bowler for 1991, had just scored a strike, the first strike of the night.

I’ve never had a Cowboy before, but WOW did it taste good.

After three rounds of bowling I scored a 122, a 102 and a 98. I came second overall out of eleven. Many people doubted the fact that I hadn’t bowled for 13 years and called me a liar.

People can be so jealous of natural talent.