**Warning - This article has been rated PG13. Reader caution advised**

Words by Werner Splitz

And nobly, we stride the lanes

To hope our arms swing true

But don’t dare use that kid’s ramp thing

Else we’ll make fun of you

--Traditional bowler’s prayer, origins unknown

I have seen some terrible things in my time as the Bowling and Lawn Games Editor for the Dusseldorf Daily. I watched former Chancellor Angela Merkel score 23 at the annual G7 league match and heard Nicolas Sarkozy call her the ‘No Bloody Chance-ellor’. I was present at the infamous 1997 Stoke Swingball Massacre. I witnessed the ‘human bowling ball’, contortionist Dan Pretzel, attempting a strike using his own body and getting a 7-10 split and 35 broken bones. But meeting the King Pins player ‘Woof’ has shaken me to my hardy, practical core.

It's early May. We have taken the Diddler’s windowless van to the bungalow shared by the Chuckem Brothers. They open the door to us dressed in matching dungarees with their names emblazoned on the back, but they keep disappearing to swap clothes at 15-minute intervals so I never learn which one is which. They offer the team some pre-match lagers while debating the roster for Game 2 and, at the Diddler’s request, find an alternative route to get to Rowan’s that doesn’t go past where he does his community service. The team are debating whether to put forward a motion to have the bumpers up for the rest of the season when I notice a small, dirty cage in a corner of the room. As I approach it starts to shake, and I hear a low growling. “Is he friendly?” I ask, and the Chuckems suggest I offer him some food. I pull out a link of käsewurst and press it up to the bars, but a human hand slaps it away and barks “I’m vegetarian!”

Once I’ve calmed down and confirmed that I haven’t soiled my lederhosen, the King Pins try to show me I’m safe by bringing ‘Woof’ out. Led out on a leash by one of the Chuckems, I’m introduced to a man crawling on all fours wearing a ghoulish homemade dog costume. “What…what is he?” I ask, as he drools on the custom bowling shoes I always travel in. “He’s just a guy…we think,” says Barry/Paul. “We found him chewing on grass cuttings in a skip one day and brought him home,” says Paul/Barry. “So why bowling?” I ask. “Is he a natural athlete? Perhaps his unique stature gives him an advantage on the lanes over us standard bipeds?”

They look at each other. “No, he’s got the lowest score average on the whole team.”

“Why do you keep him around then?” I ask.

Everybody just looks at the floor and doesn’t say anything for a while. Before I can stop him, Woof begins to make love to my leg.

I regroup with the King Pins after match 2. For some reason, rather than socialise with the rest of the league, the team has chosen to celebrate with a couple of litres of Special Brew, warmed to a bubbly 32 Celsius in the back of the Diddler’s van. T-Ball, a player still finding his feet on the lanes (though not for lack of dazzling footwear), is having an entire keg to himself, though this later turns out to be filled with cranberry juice. With two new players making their debuts this week, Cuck and King Prawn, I ask about the King Pins ever-expanding roster.

“It’s about forging a sense of community,” says T-Ball. “We want to send the message ‘all are welcome’. We will literally take anyone.”

“Quantity over quality” chimes in Cuck from a chair in the corner.

I go to ask him a question, but he shuts me down. “No, no, don’t involve me. I just want to watch.”

“Are you not worried that you will lose consistency with so many revolving players?” I ask.

There is some murmuring among the team. After we manage to source a dictionary and they establish what the word ‘consistency’ means, they are ready to answer.

“It’s not something we really consider,” says Paul/Barry. “To be honest, we are using the team to make some money on the side.”

“If we register a new player as an ‘elite sportsman’ here on tour, it’s very easy to circumvent immigration laws,” says Barry/Paul. “King Prawn’s an Estonian national, he’s paying us to be here. We’ll try to bring his wife over later in the season.”

“Diddleri voodi on väga väike. Millal ma oma kallist Ludminat näha saan?” asked King Prawn.

”Yes, you bowled very well today,” reassured Paul/Barry. “Someone’s earned themselves a Happy Meal.”

I never saw King Prawn after that night.

For Game 3 of the season, I am struck down with a bad case of Schweinfeber and cannot attend in person. I toss and turn in the small bunk on my river steamer, listening to the match on an old ham radio. Cuck has renamed himself King Kong in an attempt to transition from a beta to an alpha. His scores do not back him up. The Diddler scores abysmally, perhaps due to the 10th birthday party happening five lanes down. There are some decent scores, but the team is languishing at the back of the pack.

I am plagued by sickly hallucinations that night. I am a pin, in first position, and a monstrous dog/human hybrid is bounding down the lane toward me. I wake drenched in sweat. Am I in too deep? Do I care too much for the King Pins, and can I retain my objectivity as a journalist? Whatever happens, I shall not quit. I have a duty to the Dusseldorf Daily, to my editor, and to my family. But which family comes first?

This is Werner Splitz, reporting from Finsbury Park.