The Cheese Rollers

The Cheese Rollers

It’s never quite made sense to me. Why would anyone in their rightful mind put themselves through this? I guess it’s a conundrum I will never understand. Yet I find myself climbing Coopers Hill to watch it nonetheless, excused by the fact it was within walking distance of my house. Either that or watch it from my conservatory window. Clearly I had nothing better to do on that bank holiday weekend. Besides, of course, watching twenty clueless men sign a disavowal in case they die. That way, the council could wash their hands of any forthcoming legal action struck against them. After all, it was not their responsibility for these raging airheads rolling down a hill. If they willed it then I think we ought to let natural selection take its predestined course.

 Flanking us from either side were towering beech trees, whose limbs arched downward in our direction as though reaching for a handshake. I could not tell if they were bidding us a pleasant visit or subtly shepherding us back the way through which we came. They seemed to speak in a language of their own, their secrets disclosed in the rustling of the leaves. If you listened closely enough, you could make out their conversations.

            “To think we release oxygen for these utter morons,” I imagined one tree jeering, pointing a barked finger at the brow of the hill.

            To which the other would reply, rather sarcastically: ‘It’s always nice to see they are putting it to good use.’

            I listened to their discussions as if they were that of passing strangers. At least I would have done were it not for the chorus of cheers that so rudely stole my attention. Beyond the stand of trees, the first contestants were coming forward. We followed the track running parallel, trodden flat by the traffic of shoes, until it petered out to vegetation again, where nature had reclaimed its dominion.

            As I remember it in my mind, we reached the top of the hill, so exhausted we were but a step away from collapsing to the floor. We sought respite on a timeworn bench, a height from which I could study my hometown with appreciative eyes. To most people, it would seem like any ordinary place. Somewhere an itinerant traveller would likely stop to pick up supplies or ask for directions at the nearest petrol station. Though I knew it to be the birthplace of an outlandish tradition called ‘cheese rolling’. Every year, without compromise, thousands gather to witness this clownish spectacle. Those few brave enough to hurl themselves headlong down its steep slope, do so in the hope of taking home a wheel of Double Gloucester cheese. Yes, you heard me right… a wheel of fucking cheese. I always wondered how much one must love cheese to risk their life for it. Especially when they could just as easily buy it over the counter at their local supermarket. But, nooo, not the people of Gloucestershire. We like ours battered in dry mud and grass cuttings. If anything, I think it epitomizes the sheer lunacy of humankind. The participants volunteer with the indifference of human crash dummies, convinced they were beyond the bounds of pain. Apparently broken bones were small prices to pay for a block of curdled milk. If you want to see the human condition in all its undignified glory, I can assure you, look no further than the witless sport of cheese rolling.

            It was only a short while later that the first race began. The cheeserollers formed an awry line, all jostling for the slightest advantage over their opponents. Even from a distance, there was a certain degree of electricity in the air that came with the competitiveness to win. The spectators lining the hill fell quiet as the official pinched the whistle to his lips.

            “On your marks, get set…”

            A high-pitched peep sounded and off they went. Leading from the front, an ugly example of a man, wearing a sordid flannel shirt and tracksuit bottoms, lost his purchase on the grass and ate the surface below. Following close behind him was another daredevil who might otherwise have stayed upright until gravity mercilessly swept his feet out from under him. The two men had completely lost control. Then again, the pair of them were legless before they even started, having spent the morning in the Cross Hands pub. I could not help but smile, albeit faintly, as though it were some strange exertion, at the notion of this entertainment. How could someone do this to themselves? It was about as rational as a lamb willingly subjecting itself to slaughter. Worse yet, all for the sake of a cheese. What good is a cheese, I wondered, when you are vegetablized in a hospital bed? Those men were merely walking calamities waiting to happen.

            Then came a surprise to everyone. There was a melodious gasp among the spectators as another man took first place barely twenty feet from the finish line. He descended at such a speed that one misplaced foot would most definitely result in a one-way ticket to A&E. But, hey, at least he would have his wheel of cheese for company, stinking out the emergency room beside him. He stumbled over and clattered to the ground, mud caked down the front of his shirt in anarchic streaks as if a child had been left alone with a pot of brown paint. Nevertheless, he managed to roll himself to victory in spite of the late scare. His body was bruised worse than a ripe banana, with contusions swelling down each of his arms. Before he had so much as wiped the blood from his nose with the underside of his sleeve, the victor was holding the cheese aloft.

 In what way, I felt inclined to scream, did it deserve the same treatment of a trophy? How have we got to the stage where stupidity is rewarded? I had once read somewhere that some victories were merely defeats wearing the wrong clothing. Never had it been more relatable than in that moment. A fully-grown man celebrating with a cheese in his hand. So ecstatically, in fact, that you would be forgiven for thinking he had just won a gold medal at the Olympics. Embarrassing. Even the trees seemed to shake their heads in disapproval. Greeting his victory was a round of laughter and applause from the crowd: the ingredients of entertainment. Some held out their phones, hopeful to capture one last tumble to content their appetites. I only sat there puzzled. Disgusted, but more than anything, puzzled. Perhaps it all came down to the simple fact I didn’t like cheese. Yes, Gromit, not even Wensleydale.