Five go Paintballing

About a week ago I received a message on facebook from an old school friend who I hadn't seen for quite some time. In his message he wrote that because another friend of ours was getting married in a few weeks he had organised a Stag event for the following weekend. He had booked a day of paintballing.

When I saw the word paintballing I instantly visualised packs of sweaty men running around a wooded area shouting and barking in a mist of testosterone and atavistic rage. Intense physical exercise isn't one of my favourite pastimes but because it was for our friend I decided to cast my reservations to one side and said I'll be there.

For the next week I kept getting rather apprehensive about the whole thing. I had been told that it hurts when you get hit by a paintball and that some people take it quite seriously. I disguised my worry with light-hearted banter, telling friends that they'd better watch their backs and making the point to one friend in particular that I was going to hunt him down like the dog that he is.

The night before, me and a few friends went into Bath city centre for a few drinks and discussed what the next day might yield. After a few drinks I started to feel incredibly excited about the whole thing and couldn't wait for the following day.

I was picked up from my house at 8:45 the next morning on the orders that we needed to be there at 9:15 with a 9:30 start. I didn't feel too hungover but I got the feeling that was because of the grip of nervous energy. Once we arrived I thought my nightmare had come true. Shaven-headed, surly men were wandering around the entrance of the complex in camouflaged overalls and mean, black boots. You don't have to be on the front-line, you can always lay low, I told myself.

After dealing with the administrative side of things (collecting our overalls, goggles, dog-tags et cetera) the mass of people were separated into three smaller groups. Our group was placed with another two parties who, to my relief, were of similar age to us and also didn't look like serious paintballers.


And so to the actual paintballing itself. It was fantastic. Not for a long time had my heart beat with such reckless abandon nor my poor legs been tested so much. There was the sweat, the scrapes, the agony and the ecstasy, and in the mini-games we played I usually ended up behind a barrier of some sort, exhilarated by the swarm of paintballs whizzing overhead whilst popping up sporadically, like a meercat, to let off a few paintballs at the opposition. My crowning glory, the zenith, of my day came when I had a one-on-one shoot out with a mystery opponent. I was behind a tangle of branches and logs whilst he was under an old Jeep. I kept poking my head and my gun around the side of my cover whilst he kept waiting for me to do so before firing at me. Eventually I managed to shoot him and take him out of the game. The satisfaction came in shooting him in the head, a direct head-shot. Once you were shot you had to make your way back to the safe zone where you would wait with your fellow wounded for everyone else to come back. When I entered the safe zone after this particular game it emerged that it was one of my good friends who I had shot in the head, leading to a bout of Immodesty.


I hit a few people and was hit a few times myself (no, it doesn't hurt - its like being punched on the arm/shin/lower back by the big kid at school). After all was said and done, we paid up, compared war wounds and parted ways, arranging to meet up in town later for drinks and a session of reminiscing. The whole day was a huge amount of fun and something I would suggest anyone to do. There was such a vast range of people there (rotund males, young children, svelte girls), meaning there was no danger of exclusion or being singled out due to inexperience.

The next morning I could hardly get out of bed such was the lethargic weight of my legs, but it was worth every hobbled footstep around the house.