Play it for laughs: wonderfully madcap UK sports

The Guardian

06-04-2025

'The sheer madness of it is the appeal'
Each year around May, people flock to the village of Blackawton in Devon. Divided into teams of three, they are given a plot of land measuring 3m x 3m. While their dignity is sometimes lost in the process, ferocious bangs to the ground, war cries, singing and silly costumes are most certainly invited. But why?
Well, if they can coax enough worms to the surface, there are prizes at stake: this is the World Worm-Charming Championships after all.
It's a proverbially ancient art, with a questionable origin story. Chris Oughton, head of the worm-charming committee explains: 'Back in 1980, two gentlemen were on the way out from the pub and needed to stop, for a certain emptying reason. While they were both stood watching the field opposite, they noticed seagulls doing a dance in order to get the worms out of the ground.'
And so, each year, about 300 competitors (and similar numbers of spectators) arrive in the small village. 'The sheer madness of it is the appeal,' smiles Oughton, the guy who 'makes sure the competition happens.'
Digging is strictly prohibited, instead the worms have to be 'charmed' to the surface. In 2009, Sophie Smith broke the world record – held since 1980 – by charming 567 worms. Often competitors remain empty handed. The competition starts with prep time during which each team is given a numbered plot and are allowed to 'prod and play'. But noxious liquids are banned. 'You're allowed to shower the ground with any liquid you are prepared to drink,' Oughton explains, although it sounds rather ominous – just how far are people willing to go?
Teams are in threes due to the roles that need to be assigned: a charmer, a picker-upper and a worm-counter. The rules are simple: in 15 minutes you want to pick up as many worms as possible from the assigned plot. It's an international affair, with people coming from Estonia, South Africa, Japan, Cyprus, France and Germany.
'It all happens in secret fields. Nobody knows where it is until that day,' explains Oughton. 'Before the competition, there's an ode to the worm that we sing. We also do a little prayer to make sure that the sun comes up every day, and then we process to the secret field.' The entire competition is prepared and run by volunteers and there's an entrance fee of £5, which is donated to charity.
While there aren't too many recurring champions (apart from a team called the Frogs who have won three times in a row), there are some signature moves to up your chances. 'Liquid and vibration are the two winners really. You've got to replicate that sound or feeling of rain.' Winners received worm-themed trophies, handmade by local potter, Imogen Nobel.
'The lengths people will go to are hilarious, we've had saxophone players, druids, people playing cellos and, of course, lots of dancing and stamping,' Oughton says, adding, there's no occupational hazard to the worms: 'We're very strong in our worm welfare, and we've been building that over the years. Half worms will get you disqualified – no cruelty to the worms. And they are immediately counted and then put back in a pre-dug trench, so they can get straight back out there. We provide containers so that people don't handle the worms too much at all.'
'It was pretty serious stuff. People were chanting my name in the streets'
There's nothing better to accompany a Sunday roast than a crispy, battered boat ready to be filled with gravy – also known as a Yorkshire pudding. For one weekend a year in September, however, a pub in Ramsbottom, Greater Manchester, becomes the gathering place for those trying to destroy this well-loved roast accompaniment – by throwing a black pudding at it.
The competition has been held here since the 1980s, in a lighthearted (if that's possible) homage to the Wars of the Roses, fought by the House of Lancaster and the House of York in the 15th century. There are 12 Yorkshire puddings to start with. They sit on a 20ft-high scaffolding plinth, placed in four pudding towers that are each three puddings high. The aim of the game is to lob a black pudding, via underarm throw only, high enough that it knocks the Yorkshire puddings from their tower. Each competitor gets three goes and the person who can knock off the most wins. Competitors must also have one foot standing on a golden block to ensure they are not too close.
In a moment of spontaneity in 2024, 17-year-old Harry Hogden decided to join his family and 50 fellow Swinton locals on a coach trip to Ramsbottom. Having never seen pudding-throwing in real life before, he figured it would be a quirky, fun day out.
Although technically a junior, standing at 6ft 4in meant he had to compete in the adult division. 'As soon as I got out of the coach, it was like entering a football match. One group of people was wearing a football kit with four stars on top of their badge, showcasing that they had won four times. It was pretty serious stuff,' he explains.
In the end, Harry managed to knock six puddings off the plinth, making him the champion. 'People were picking me up, throwing me up over their shoulders and chanting my name in the streets,' he beams. He was awarded £100, a trophy and a necklace of black puddings.
'A week after, I went to a festival not far from where I live, called Manchester Rocks. A stranger came up to me and asked if I was the pudding-throwing champion!' Harry very much hopes to fight for his title in the next competition. Does he have any advice on technique? 'Swing and pray,' he says.
'Some maggots don't even start and some get halfway and then start going backwards'
Around 30 years ago, 75-year-old Barrie Butler went abroad on holiday with his wife – today he doesn't remember where they went, but what he does remember is being introduced to maggot racing by a man outside a local social club.
After coming home to the UK, cab-driver Barrie decided to build a six-lane race track suitable for maggots. Like horse-racing, but with smaller subjects, bets are placed by spectators as to which maggot might win and six races are run over the course of the night. Maggots are kept in labelled lanes in order to tell them apart. The money from each betting programme sold goes to charity.
Each winning maggot then gets entered into the final race. 'Some maggots don't even start and some get halfway then start going backwards,' says Butler. While he is based in Lincolnshire he's adamant he will take bookings anywhere there is a demand. He currently hosts around two races per month with up to 120 people attending, details of which are uploaded on his website (maggotsontour.co.uk). Each race is shown on a 120in screen. 'It's not like fishing; you don't have to warm the maggots up in your mouth or anything, but they are supplied by my local fishing shop,' he says. 'I then place them in boxes that can be joined together so that all the maggots can be tipped on to the track at the same time when the race begins.'
With each race lasting on average two and a half minutes, Butler likes to keep things interesting by sometimes adding matchsticks as hurdles. 'We make sure to give the maggots names so that spectators can cheer them on: Sweet Caroline, Smiling Susie and Brian are the most popular ones.'
For Butler, the night is all in the commentary and he refers to himself as 'Big Bad Baz' during races. At the end of the race, the winning maggot is auctioned off to the highest bidder. The highest a single maggot has ever sold for was £530, which was donated to charity at the end of the night.
'The first time I competed there was a lot of bruising, but it got better each time'
Dating back to 1612, shin kicking today makes up part of the Cotswold Olympick Games, which takes place every May and includes more standard running races and tug o' war. Shin kicking isn't for the faint hearted, although steel toe caps were banned decades ago, it is still very much a contact sport. Competitors battle one on one, placing a hand on each other's shoulders with arms straight while kicking each other in the shins, the aim is to unbalance the opponent and force them to the floor. The winner is whoever is able to achieve the most throwdowns within three rounds.
Five-time champion Adam Miller hasn't competed since his last win in 2020, but still watches each year. 'You can use as much straw as you can for padding between your knee and ankle,' he explains. Miller grew up locally in Honeydale, Chipping Norton, and has been used to watching the match each year. He describes it as 'a game that gets the community together'. He was first signed up in the pub in 2015, but never imagined winning: 'I thought, what have I got myself into?
'Everyone is provided with a lab coat-style jacket to give you something to hold on to, but also they protect people's clothing from ripping,' he explains. But there's no sure way to protect yourself from the inevitable pain of being kicked in the shins.
Miller might have more advantage than others though. 'I can take a good kicking,' he admits, adding that, as he's a farmer, 'I've been used to cracking my shins on equipment and having sheep kicking me and all sorts.'
Which leg you use to kick the shin doesn't matter, the goal is to unbalance someone enough to get them on the floor. Some even compare the moves of the sport to jiu jitsu. On average there are between six and 10 pairs competing each year, and are partnered up at random. 'The first time I competed there was a lot of bruising, but it got better each time I entered,' says Miller. Every year the winner gets a medal and an engraved cup, which they have to return. 'People watch this and think we are all stupid, but this is tradition, people think it's brutal, but it's the sport,' says Miller.
While he encourages everyone who is thinking about applying to 'give it a go', if this one feels more of a spectator sport, then there are plenty of food and drink stalls to keep you occupied.
'You should only enter if you're prepared with the mindset that your toe might break'
'The aim is to interlock your big toe with your competitor's and then get your opponent's foot on to a horizontal board,' explains 36-year-old Ben Woodroffe, the four-time world toe-wrestling champion, under the moniker 'Toe-tal Destruction'.
The game begins on the right foot and continues until someone has pushed a foot on to the horizontal part of the board, also known as the 'toedium'. Once a point is scored, competitors then switch feet and play again on their left. They do a final third round on their right.
The sport celebrated its 50th birthday in 2024 and originated in Derbyshire at a pub called the Bentley Brooke, when a booze-fuelled brainstorm was held between a group of friends, who jokingly decided to create a sport they could be good at. (They were beaten by a Canadian in the second year of the championship.)
Today around 200 spectators turn up in Ashbourne's market square each year, with some competitors so loyal to the sport that they have entered yearly for the last 15-plus years. Alan 'Nasty' Nash remains the longest-reigning champion, with 17 wins under his belt. He officially retired in 2024. A tattoo on his leg reads: 'In a ring of toes where champions dwell, with nimble digits they cast their spell.'
The sport was turned down by the Olympic committee in 1998, but with a recent rebrand it's hoped they can push for the 2033 Olympics. Woodroffe started recruiting people in Paris last year. 'This sport has what it takes,' he says.
Woodroffe has been watching toe wrestling since he was 14 years old and always dreamed of winning the championship. He campaigns for people to take the sport more seriously, but is aware that many believe it's all a joke.
In 2024, 28 competitors entered the tournament, which lasted around three hours. A waiver must be signed by competitors before entering to acknowledge that they are 'free from foot infections or conditions that could be contagious or harmful to other participants'. A referee also confirms foot hygiene after each competitor washes their feet in a bucket of soapy water.
If the toes won't grip, either because they're too sweaty or different sizes, talcum powder can be used, and if that fails, they will be strapped together with gaffer tape and bandages. While being bandaged toe-to-toe with a total stranger might be too extreme for some, last year marked the first year when winners were handed a cash prize of £500 each alongside their medal and trophy.
'You should only enter if you're prepared with the mindset that your toe can break,' Woodroffe warns. 'Mine broke at a 90-degree angle last year, but I kept going. Pain is temporary, being a champion is for a lifetime.'