Disclaimer

This post contains scenes of mild self-deprecation, time scrambles, and questionable endgame technique. Viewer discretion advised.

All views expressed in this post are entirely my own and written in a personal capacity. This blog is for entertainment purposes only and does not represent the views of my employer, colleagues, or any chess federation I am (or was) affiliated with.

So, first chess tournament in god knows how long — I think the last proper one was around 2015, back when “En Passant” still felt like a party trick rather than something I only remember after it’s too late.

Yesterday, I made my way to near Barnstaple (because apparently that’s how my SatNav defines civilisation) for a Rapid Chess Tournament — 6-round Swiss, 25 minutes + 5 seconds per move. In other words, just long enough to make mistakes slowly and watch your opponent do the same.

The venue? Alverdiscott Village Hall — a charming relic tucked between rolling hills, sheep, and the kind of dead zones where even Wi-Fi signals dare not roam. No internet, no phone, no escape. Just pure, unfiltered chess and the faint smell of instant coffee.

Upon arrival, I recognised a few familiar faces from ten years ago — notably Stephen Homer and Trevor Thynne, proving that chess players, like fine wine and opening theory, only get more stubborn with age.

Round 1: The Return of the King’s Indian

My first opponent was Christine Constable — whom I remember from the old days selling chess books and nostalgia at congresses. I had White and decided to go for the Four-Pawn King’s Indian Attack, because nothing says “I’m back” like throwing all your central pawns forward and hoping for the best. She misplayed the opening, I got a huge advantage… and then immediately forgot how to calculate. After some inner turmoil and a few quiet prayers to Stockfish, I finally found a checkmate.

Result: 1-0.

Round 2: Pawn Shop

My next opponent was a local Barnstaple player who mentioned he had a bye in Round 1 — so technically, I was his warm-up act. We got into a dull, closed position and traded queens early. He then blundered a pawn, then another, and then one more for good measure. I converted it in what could only be described as painful slow motion.

Result: 2-0.

Round 3: The Wolga That Wasn’t

I faced Grant, one of the top seeds. With White, we entered a Volga (Benko) Gambit Declined, because I prefer my gambits without actual sacrifice. It was equalish for most of the game until both clocks decided to commit seppuku. With under 20 seconds each and mutual panic setting in, we agreed a draw.

Result: 2.5-0.5.

Break Time: The Signal Quest

During the break, I had one mission — find phone signal to assure my wife I hadn’t been abducted by Devon sheep. After driving halfway up a hill and waving my phone around like a divining rod, I finally got through. A few screenshots and “still alive” messages later, I rolled back into the car park just in time for Round 4.

Round 4: Philidor’s Revenge

Top seed. Black pieces. Philidor Defence, a.k.a. “the opening that promises equality and delivers chaos.” I misplayed it so badly that I’m sure my opponent was one move away from claiming moral victory. Then he ran short of time, I somehow fought back, reached a winning position… and then didn’t win. Because time trouble giveth and time trouble taketh away.

Result: Draw. 3-1.

Round 5: Homer’s Odyssey

Up next, Stephen Homer — who, I discovered a few days earlier, recently beat GM Mark Hebden. So, yes, I was slightly nervous. We played a wild Queen’s Gambit, full of tactics, traps, and small heart attacks. Somehow my tactical radar worked for once, and we reached yet another mutual time scramble. We agreed to a draw, mostly because neither of us could remember how knights move anymore.

Result: 3.5-1.5.

Round 6: Cooper Crushes the Comeback

Final round: young player named Cooper. I had White and decided to play the King’s Gambit, because nostalgia apparently makes you do reckless things. It went well… for about six moves. Then my position collapsed faster than a Jenga tower in an earthquake. I was so annoyed I didn’t even stay for the prize ceremony — I just congratulated Stephen, got in the car, and drove home to sulk.

Final score: 3.5/6.

Respectable. Rusty. Thoroughly humbled.

The Verdict

Did I play well? Sort of.

Did I blunder less than expected? Possibly.

Did I remember how to castle both sides? Barely.

But after ten years away from the board, it felt good to be back — sitting across from actual humans, not staring at an ICCF screen, and realising that even with an IM title, you still have to prove it every game.

For now, no more tournaments planned. Which is fine by me — at least until the trauma fades and the next entry form appears in my inbox.