I purchased an expensive loose collection of different colored tickets (reminiscent of the Sunday newspapers mixed with a year’s supply of junk mail) and sat down - poised and ready with my shiny new dabber. It was then, as the whole process got underway, I realized that half a lifetime of schooling and further education had failed to pick up a debilitating number dyslexia - as the digits on my paper danced around with mocking assignation, like a numerologist’s nightmare version of Disney’s Fantasia. Numbers came and went with alacrity and I barely got my dabber moist before bingo was called somewhere in the auditorium. I tried to focus harder and my brow became furrowed as I concentrated on the task in hand - with the kind of apprehension and frustrated application that transported me back to an exam I once took in a cold school hall (somewhere in east London during the summer of 1981).
It was then I realized what a uniquely mischievous instrument of hilarity the bingo dabber actually was; I suddenly recognized that great sport could be created by unleashing a completely unwarranted ink circle attack on any unsuspecting player within my vicinity. Blue Smurf kisses proliferated exposed skin as the azure dabber landed circle after circle of permanent ink onto my victims. Retaliation came fast as dabbing fever gripped our senses and after a maniacal minute everyone on my table looked like an extra from the film Avatar. Numbers came and went as did the life draining out of the elderly that had chosen to spend their last days (and their pension money) on random numbers and colored paper. I won ten dollars - this allowed me to gain back a seventh of what I had outlaid on the experience. The odds of me winning always appear to be large, yet the odds of somebody winning always appear to be small.