Swamp soccer, elephant polo and nettle eating - sports presenter Graham Little is trying them all in order to become a world champion
I didn't exactly cover myself in glory the first time I entered a world championship event. In fact, I covered a UTV cameraman in vomit.
I'd been press-ganged into entering last September's World Oyster-Eating Championships in Hillsborough, Co Down, for a feature on UTV Live. I swallowed 20 oysters in 21 seconds - the third-fastest time in the Northern Ireland heats - but just as the compere was hailing my efforts, the stink and slime got too much and I gagged, forcing oyster remains straight up into the air in front of the whole marquee. (And 30 hours later in front of the whole of Ireland, courtesy of the UTV report.)
That should have been the end of my days as a competitive eater, but actually it was just the beginning. Apart from the embarrassing vomiting, I had enjoyed the experience, and was particularly impressed with Rune Naeri, the reigning World Oyster-Eating Champion and world record holder, who the year before devoured 187 oysters in three minutes in the world championship final. Inspired by him and his coveted place in the Guinness Book of Records, I resolved to be crowned world champion in some bizarre sport or event before the end of the year. That explains why last month I found myself seated at a long table outside a Dorset pub in front of a large crowd and a larger pile of fresh stinging nettles.
Along with the 41 other competitors in the World Stinging Nettle-Eating Championships, I had to try to eat the leaves and flowers from as many two-feet-long nettle stalks as I could in one hour. Leaving the table for any reason within the hour of competition leads to disqualification, as does a "stomach evacuation", as the organisers delicately refer to it. The world record was - and still is - 74ft.
The use of gloves and mouth-numbing substances are banned, but I devised two sneaky plans to counter both of these rules. I had applied a healthy coating of Germolene New Skin to my fingers and thumbs to ward off stings, and I had also cunningly made a pig of myself at the Real Ale festival (which runs in conjunction with the nettle-eating), successfully numbing most of my body.
An hour is a long time in nettle-eating, and stomach evacuations are fairly common. Such an occurrence this year ended the involvement of the runaway leader with just 15 minutes to go, after he had already munched his way through 42ft of leaves and flowers. That left Ed Brooks, a 29-year-old local man, with a clear run to the title. He finished with 48ft inside him and no signs of evacuating his stomach.
I finished in a commendable third place after eating 36ft, but unlike Ed I had every intention of evacuating my stomach. The nettle juice had dyed my mouth black and I had spent the last 15 painful minutes retching with every swallow. I managed to keep control until the final whistle, but there was a sting in the tail and the entire 36ft came back up before I could retire gracefully from the front bench. For the second tournament in a row, I was puking in front of the country's media.
Clearly I just don't have the stomach for competitive eating, although I am rightly proud of being the third best nettle-eater in the world this year.
Thankfully, there are many other people around the world who also take the business of acting the fool very seriously, and all over the globe they have developed incredibly diverse annual competitions to celebrate bizarre athletic achievement, bravery, and pure stupidity.
My quest continues later this month in the north of Finland, where I am leading a team of seven former housemates to the Swamp Soccer World Championships. With more than 600 teams competing, this is one of the largest football tournaments in the world. That probably explains the organiser's infuriating lack of correspondence. After initially showing much enthusiasm for the first Irish team to enter his championships, Sami Kelin then stopped returning calls and e-mails, which led directly to the unfortunate series of events that has left my team having to travel 700km overnight from Helsinki in order to make a 9am kick-off in our first match.
Other tournament organisers have been more forthcoming. Sami's Finnish compatriot, Riku Jaro, is the organiser of the Sauna World Championships near Helsinki in August. He has bent over backwards to accommodate the first Irish entrant to his tournament, even offering to come and collect me from the airport and put me up in his house. But he signs off every correspondence "With steamy regards", so I don't think I'll take him up on his offer.
Some of the tournaments are more elitist than others, which will be another interesting challenge. For example, I'll be swimming through a bog in Wales in August - doggy paddle is the only stroke allowed - and then captaining the Ireland team in the high society World Elephant Polo Championships in Nepal in November. If I can talk with crowds in the bog in Wales and keep my virtue, or walk with kings in the mountains of Nepal and not lose the common touch; then mine is the Earth and everything that's in it, and I may not be a world champion, but I'll be a man, my son!
With apologies to Rudyard Kipling, I'll not be content just to prove myself a man - I want to win. In theory, the Sauna World Championships should be the easiest. All I have to do is sit there, after all. In practice, with temperatures starting at 110 degrees and increasing every 30 seconds, it is the most difficult and irresponsible tournament of the lot.
Canada's Rock Paper Scissors World Championship would appear to afford me the same odds of winning as any other competitor, as it is just a game of chance. Not so, according to its main man, Douglas Walker. He's so convinced it's a game of skill he has published a book of tactics - something for me to read on the plane to Toronto in October.
All of these tournaments uphold the same noble ideals as more conventional sports - except for one. In Cumbria in November, visiting competitors are actually rewarded for dishonesty. As a journalist, I should be predisposed for success at the World's Greatest Liar Competition, held in the Bridge Inn every year. Mind you, if any politicians enter, I will gracefully concede defeat.
Captaining Ireland in elephant polo at the end of November will represent the absolute zenith of my sporting career so far, and will also bring an end to my quest, whether successful or not. I will then retire gracefully from bizarre sports, and plan a well-earned two-week holiday in Queensland in January. At least that's what I have promised my girlfriend, Claire. It's purely coincidental that the World Cockroach Racing Championships are being held there at the same time . . . in a pub called The Last Chance Saloon.