For many years I’ve marvelled at the athletic achievements of friends and colleagues and barely a day goes by when my social media feeds aren’t full to bursting with pictures of race numbers, medals and triumphantly sweaty torsos.
Most summers one of my mates poses proudly with large fish he’s caught in some remote Balkan river.
And every so often close pals share those apps that tell me the time it took them to scale Everest on a BMX — and provide a detailed map for good measure. Incredible feats, every one of them.
Now I love a boast as much as the next man but most of my sporting triumphs — all three of them — took place in an era long before Facebook, Insta, X, Y and Z.
I do have an ornate bronze plinth marking the season I won the coveted Backworth Percy Welfare Cricket Club’s C Division batsman of the year title. But in 2008 I was largely inactive on the socials and it seems there’s no digital imprint of that significant accomplishment.
As for the part I played in Blyth Mini Rugby’s breakout 1982/83 campaign? I’m not even sure there’s a packet of Prontaprint snaps documenting that historic season for fans of the oval ball. Those who were there, know.
But by 2015 I was all socialled up. And it just so happens I was able to publicly celebrate one of the proudest moments of my life thanks to Mark Zuckerberg and my iPhone-powered megapixels.
This was the year I took on the good folk of Guernsey on their own patch… and won.
Almost a decade down the line and I understand it still rankles with the locals but I was never there to make friends.
I’d been holidaying on the jewel in the crown of the Channel Island since I was a kid.
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And when I became the proud father to daughters of my own it was one of the first places I dragged them off to. These days they love Guernsey and its cows, clotted cream and thick woollen jumpers just as much as me.
An idyllic spot that was once home to the celebrated French writer Victor Hugo, its picturesque coastline offers a mix of glorious clifftop walks and golden, sandy bays. At just 23 square miles it’s possible to familiarise yourself with the island’s highlights within a fortnight but I’ve been back at least 15 times.
Sarnians — as the good folk of Guernsey are known — are also famed for their sporting prowess. It’s just one of the many reasons I’ve always felt an affinity for Jersey’s lesser-known neighbour.
Footballer Matt Le Tissier, dressage legend Carl Hester MBE and touring cars speed king Andy Priaulx all hail from the island and throughout the summer an array of fairs and festivals bring a famously competitive spirit to the fore.
When I was aged 10, or thereabouts, I did complete the family fun run around Saumarez Park in the blistering August heat. One whole mile of rugged terrain, past the Japanese pagoda and National Trust-run museum of Guernsey folklore and costume, tested me to the limit but I did medal (as they say) in the end.
These days my running days are over and you’ll rarely see me pounding the streets of North Tyneside in Lycra… unless I’m late to pick up the fish and chips.
Even in 2015 I wasn’t the spindly-legged Steve Cram wannabe of my youth. But that didn’t preclude me from partaking in one of Guernsey’s most fiercely contested annual events. In fact, I arrived on the island that year in the form of my life.
For more than 30 years I’d been building up to my tilt at glory by adhering to a strict strength and conditioning programme, carefully controlled diet and uncompromising facial hair regime.
Behind closed doors — and my beard — my face has always been a temple. And that year, all of the hard work finally paid off.
It had been a dream of mine since the age of six to represent my country on foreign soil and claim victory as a gurner. July 2015 provided me with the perfect window of opportunity.
Gurning, ironically enough, doesn’t hail from Guernsey although, with a name like that, it really should.
In fact, it’s a tradition that can be traced back to the 13th century and the Egremont Crab Fair in Cumbria. Gurning quickly spread to become a rural English favourite with contestants traditionally framing their faces through a horse collar — known as ‘gurnin’ through a braffin’.
I’d become hooked on the sport in the early 80s but I can’t really remember where or how. Perhaps Roy Castle once rolled out competitive face pulling on Record Breakers?
Anyway, as someone with incredibly flexible cheeks and loose-fitting facial skin, I was always able to contort my features and hold the pose. I was drawn to the strange world of elastic lips and folding cheeks and always imagined myself making the North East proud on gurning’s global stage.
Guernsey — and the occasion of the 105th Rocquaine Regatta — afforded me the opportunity I’d been waiting all of my flexi-faced life.
I’d been on the island for a day or two when I spotted an advert in the Evening Press detailing the open events at the upcoming regatta. Both Mrs Rushworth and I agreed that wife carrying wasn’t a wise move and I didn’t particularly fancy picking a pint of winkles. Who would? But gurning? Get me the nearest braffin!
Arriving at the regatta 48 hours later — and having stretched my face almost as far as the Brittany coast in preparation — the next step was an expression of interest (I’ll get my coat).
My name was added to the list and I was told the draw would be made just as soon as the entrants were confirmed.
Now it turned out that not everyone loves gurning quite as much as me.
And only one other person signed up to battle it out for the 2015 Rocquaine title.
Cathy Horlick was her name. I’ll never forget the fire in her eyes or the flex in her jaw. If the game was Twister then that was her game face.
We shook hands amicably enough before settling into our braffins. I hadn’t accounted for the weight of a horse collar around my neck and immediately worried I was at risk of pulling a muscle in my shoulder or slipping a disc.
Cathy looked unfazed. She was already warming up with the odd grimace here and the occasional squint there. The mind games were almost too much to bear.
I looked away but that only made things worse. I realised a crowd of around 23 people had massed in front of the gurning platform — some of them armed with what appeared to be rotten fruit.
It was time to focus. I’d been building up to this moment all of my life and the people of North East England were counting on me. Lose this and I’d be letting myself, my family and my friends down. I just couldn’t face gurning defeat.
What I hadn’t realised until the heat of battle was that I was never destined to join the pantheon of global gurning greats. You see I have a natural overbite — or a malocclusion to give it its technical term — which means my top teeth sit over the front of my bottom teeth.
Given that a key gurning skill is to project your lower jar as far forward and up as possible, possessing an overbite is a distinct disadvantage. Multiple world champion Peter Jackman — who won his first title in 1998 with a face called the Bela Lugosi — even had his teeth removed completely to make his facial features easier to manoeuvre.
I didn’t want to forgo my gnashers but, on the other hand, I didn’t dare lose to Cathy.
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My rival clearly had teeth (at least in 2015) but she also had the perfect technique.
And as we gurned off I could see her gradually angling her features into what looked like a winning position. The crowd (down to around 17 by now as wife carrying proved to be the bigger draw) went wild for the local favourite but I had one last move in my locker.
I’ve always believed a winning gurn comes from the core and as I tensed my stomach muscles I mustered every last bit of inner strength. The result was a face only a mother could love.
My wife — still relieved I wasn’t carrying her — and daughters whooped with delight (or screamed with horror). Could this be the ugliest win ever?
Not quite. After many minutes of hushed deliberation, the local judges declared a draw. At least one spectator called for a rematch and another yelled ‘fix!’. Fixadent would have been more appropriate.
Neither me nor Cathy were in a fit state to go again. Gurning at international level’s a draining affair: our jaws were aching, our cheeks were flushed and, in pursuit of victory, I’d managed to push a painful beard whisker into the top of my nostril. It was like a needle.
Joint first? It just didn’t have that boastful, celebratory ring to it. I needed something with more substance for the socials.
Just then, the senior gurning judge — a purplish chap who’d clearly pulled a few big faces in his time — presented me with a green and white rosette in recognition, he said, of my sportsmanship, enthusiasm and commitment to the gurning cause.
It simply said ‘Special’. And, in truth, that’s just how I felt on that memorable July day on Guernsey.
The following morning I made the front page of Evening Press alongside hometown favourite Cathy. I’d like to say I was recognised thereafter, and for the duration of our stay, but that would have entailed strolling around the island in a permanent state of gurn, looking like Sloth from The Goonies. And nobody wanted to see that as they tucked into their seafood platter at Crabbie Jack’s.
This year’s Rocquaine Regatta takes place on July 27 and I’ve often considered having another crack at looking daft and putting the gurn back into Guernsey. But the jury’s out on whether I could produce one more jaw dropping performance…
