Dom Joly: Jackets off for a serious spot of wiff-waff

Lunch had been great – an almost French affair slap bang in the middle of the Cotswolds. We had sat under a huge tree in the garden of some new friends – loads of kids running around while adults downed large quantities of decent red wine and home-made pizza. The last thing on my mind was sport. I went through my plans for the rest of the day – get home, lie on sofa, watch telly, sleep ... a perfect Sunday. Suddenly my host leant over towards me and brought me out of my reverie. "Do you play table tennis?" It was said in a conspiratorial whisper, as though he'd just suggested a quick romp in the bushes.

I was caught off guard. As it happens I do play a bit of "wiff-waff", as Boris Johnson would have me call it. I used to play it at school, where there was always stiff competition for the table. We would invariably end up playing the rather unsatisfying "round the table" version in which everyone runs around taking turns to hit the ball like some drug-fuelled maypole event. There were communal bats. As the glue had long left the bats for better climes, the rubber covers would always be hanging off the wood ... apart from Adam Gander's personal one. This spoilt child had his own brand new bat that he kept locked in his trunk. There was also the eternal conundrum of how to hold the things. Did you adopt a tennis grip or go for the more exotic-looking "Chinese" option, where you placed it between your split fingers and attempted fiendish spin?

Since school I have tended to play the game occasionally in windy barns on friends' farms surrounded by hay bales and horse shit. When I moved to the country I decided to get a bit more civilised. I bought a bright blue all-weather table and put it in a garage under a complicated array of spotlights. It sat there unused for a couple of years until I moved it outside – this did the trick and we play about twice a year on very sunny days when we want to pretend we're on holiday in France.

"Well ... do you?" My host was looking at me while indicating towards a small outbuilding. I nodded and we slipped quietly away to do battle. His table was in a low-beamed former workshop. We selected our bats silently and began to knock up, sizing each other up and privately wishing that we had not drunk so much wine.

He seemed a solid player, no real forehand but could get most things back. When we were done knocking up we kicked off a best-of-three match. What followed was one of those beautifully competitive British sporting situations where both sides' determination to thrash the other was masked by a thin veneer of sportsmanship and jokiness.

To my surprise I won the first game. Then the kids found out where we were and suddenly we had an audience of excitable little things jumping about and asking us what the score was. "How do you play?" "Who's winning?" The pressure was now extraordinary, both of us now playing for our position as Superdad. A hundred yards away, the womenfolk gossiped under the tree unaware of the great battle unfolding in the outhouse.

He took the second game off me and suddenly we were all square. The kids were now screaming their support despite having no idea what was going on. We both took off our jackets – this was serious now – a country duel to the death. I concentrated on his lack of forehand and served almost exclusively to it. I could sense that he felt that this was bad sportsmanship but I didn't care. I won the game and let go a slightly too-loud whoop of delight; very bad form.

We shook hands in an overly formal way. The kids streamed out in front of us and announced to the table that I was the victor. I went into insincere modest mode and said that it had been really close and that we were both a bit crap ... secretly, I was bathing in a private glow of victory. I had satisfied the honour of my family and made my children proud. I had come to this neighbouring village and humiliated their chief. This was my village now ... time for a bit more wine, I think...

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