The Tossers: Inside the world of competitive egg throwing

The Obsessives is a series spotlighting the world’s most competitive underground sports, as well as the grassroots champions and communities that make them.

Every summer, the sleepy Lincolnshire village of Swaton comes alive with the rattle of vintage tractors, the clink of teacups, and the splatter of raw egg. Part countryside fête, part community fundraiser, the Swaton Vintage Fair plays host to one of the most unusual sporting events on the planet: the World Egg Throwing Championships.

It all begins with very little throwing. 

I’m perched on a podium, bunting flapping overhead, surrounded by a crowd of day-drunk families. At 4ft 10in (1.47m), I’m facing off against a 6ft 5in (1.96m) giant in the first event of the day: Russian Egg Roulette, where competitors take turns selecting from six eggs, five hard-boiled, one raw, to smash on their forehead. Crack the raw one, and you’re out.

The first egg I smash is hard-boiled — sharp pain blooms across my forehead. The second explodes, wet and cold, all over my face. My opponent roars, throws down his chair, and celebrates like he’s just won Wimbledon.

This is the image most people see when they stumble across the World Egg Throwing Championships – messy, dramatic and made for cameras, which is exactly why it steals the spotlight. But don’t be fooled by the spectacle. Russian Egg Roulette is just the warm-up act, designed to draw crowds for the real competition.

Behind the rural pageantry lies the main event: Throw and Catch, where teams of two launch raw eggs across ever-increasing distances and try to catch them unbroken, with bare hands.

Every round, the distance increases by 10 metres, making each egg harder to spot, harder to aim, and exponentially harder to catch. It demands sharp reflexes, a grasp of physics, and the kind of coordination usually reserved for high-level ball sports, if the ball were more delicate than fine china. 

It’s a fiercely contested title that draws elite competitors from New Zealand to Japan, and transforms this muddy Lincolnshire field into a global sporting arena. 

By the final stages, throws can span an entire football field. The current world record – a staggering 93.6 metres – was set in 2018 by two New Zealanders, Riki Paewai and Kris Richards, right here in Swaton. 

While I’m still wringing yolk from my hair, the atmosphere across the field starts to shift. With the chaos of Roulette over, the Throw and Catch contenders begin to emerge, and you can already tell who’s here to win.

Game of throws

A squad of Italians in matching uniforms limber up beside a row of tractors, while one team member from Caluso – Gian Luca Vercelli – proudly boasts of his 1998 Guinness World Record for most eggs caught in a minute (an impressive 29). Nearby, a German-South African duo in sweatbands insist they’re just here for fun, but keep sneaking off to practise behind the portaloos. Then there’s a team of locals with ​“TOP TOSSERS” emblazoned on their t‑shirts, huddled by the hay bales strategising like they’re about to storm a rugby pitch.

Soon, the tannoy crackles to life, calling competitors to the field. The Throw and Catch tournament is officially underway. Nearly 100 hopefuls take their places, raw eggs are carefully distributed, and the first-round distance – a deceptively doable 10 metres – is marked out.

Anyone can enter, and I’m roped in once again. ​“You don’t look like you can throw very far,” one bloke jeers at me, moments before we’re both eliminated in the first round. He wasn’t wrong – my pathetic lob barely made it three quarters of the way before splattering in the grass. There’s even a woman competing just nine days after giving birth while her mum cheers her on from the sidelines, cradling the newborn.

It’s simple in theory, but increasing the distance by 10 metres each round ​“rapidly weeds out the incompetence,” Andy Dunlop, president of the World Egg Throwing Federation tells me. Sure enough, within the first couple of rounds – even with three chances to nail each distance – only the serious competitors remain. 

What separates the world-class catchers from hopeless amateurs isn’t just experience — it’s understanding the science behind the catch.

“The idea is to take as much momentum out of the egg as possible,” explains Riki Paewai, the former professional baseball player who holds the world record. ​“You need to have your hands out front, take a wide stance, and shift your weight back as you catch to absorb the impact.”

The technique goes deeper than basic positioning, though. ​“Every egg has a small point and a fat bottom,” Riki says. ​“That egg needs to land on the point, as it’s the strongest part of the shell.”

Riki and teammate Kris Richards were flown to Swaton after winning the prestigious New Zealand Rural Games to represent their country, but even two professionals at the top of their game had luck to contend with. ​“It was so hazy I couldn’t see the egg until it started falling. I had to guess where it would land based on my partner’s throwing motion, from nearly 100 metres away.”

Federation president Andy confirms that environmental factors are crucial. ​“You have to think about pressure, wind, air temperature,” he insists. ​“A headwind cuts your distance down, but a following wind helps. On a really hot day, the air sac inside the egg expands, increasing internal pressure – and that makes it more likely to explode on impact.”

That’s why the Federation even standardises egg quality. ​“Medium, free-range organic eggs have optimal shell-to-weight ratio,” Andy explains. ​“The sweet spot is hens aged 20 to 30 weeks.” He tries to ensure each of the 2,000 eggs used at the Championships is sourced to such specifications – when your margin for error is millimetres, these details can make all the difference between a world record, and going home empty handed with egg on your shirt. 

Masters at work 

Back on the pitch at the 40-metre round, the crowd ​“oohs” and ​“ahhs” as an egg flies across the field like a slow-motion missile. The real trophy should go to the commentator, who surely cracked more egg puns than anyone in history (I lost count at 47) – ​“What a lovely underarm lob. Eggs-quisite control!” he booms, as the egg lands perfectly in a pair of cupped Italian hands. 

Only five teams remain: the graceful Italians, now crowd favourites thanks to their precision, moving like synchronised swimmers; the scrappy German-South African headband duo, who fearlessly leap, dive and fall to keep their eggs in play; and a handful of determined Brits who’ve somehow survived this long. Among them, overshadowed by the flashier teams, are Matt Hobson and Andrew Jones from Northampton, two quiet first-timers who’ve been methodically working their way up the distances.

The German-South African pair scramble with desperate energy but lose their egg after a wild bounce off one player’s chest, followed by a spectacular faceplant into the grass. The Italians look untouchable – until disaster strikes. When the Guinness World Record holder drops a crucial catch, he lets out a groan that echoes across the field. They finish second, a devastating loss for a team that had seemed certain to win.

Victory belongs to the understated pair from Northampton, who drove 100 miles that morning just to take part. Matt and Andrew might have looked like long shots, but it wasn’t beginner’s luck. ​“There was real technique,” Matt says with a wink. ​“The key is judging the wind, and stopping the egg from spinning.”

They hadn’t expected to win, but they had a plan. After studying We Could Be Heroes: One Van, Two Blokes and Twelve World Championships, a comic memoir about the world’s most obscure sports, egg throwing among them, they watched, analysed, and developed a strategy they hoped would carry them through. 

Andrew’s already on the phone to his family. ​“We’re world champions!” he shouts, holding up his medal. ​“I’m going to talk about this for the rest of my life.”

As the final egg is flung and the crowd drifts toward the tea tent, 65-year-old Andy Dunlop continues darting about in a yolk-streaked polo, clipboard in hand, making sure everything is going to plan. The president of the World Egg Throwing Federation takes his role seriously – so seriously that he defied doctor’s orders to be here just weeks after being hospitalised with heart issues.

As the sport’s tireless frontman, he helped dream up the Championships in 2004 to inject life into the quiet vintage fair and raise money for local emergency services – a cause close to his heart as a retired firefighter. That’s also why Roulette kicks things off every year: it’s a crowd-puller, a guaranteed viral clip, and a sure way to bring in donations. Some grumble about the waste of food, but Andy’s quick to point out that every egg helps fund real-world rescue efforts. 

Still, the spectacle means he’s often left defending the Championships as a legitimate competition. 

“People even say Throw and Catch isn’t a real sport,” he shrugs. ​“But what about javelin? That’s just someone throwing a pointy stick down a field. We actually try to catch the javelin.”

The title will be up for grabs again next summer in the village of Swaton, Lincolnshire, at the Swaton Vintage Fair. Entry is open to anyone willing to take a crack at it.

Magda Campagne is a music and culture photographer. Follow her on Instagram.

Buy your copy of Huck 81 here.

Enjoyed this article? Follow Huck on Instagram and sign up to our newsletter for more from the cutting edge of sport, music and counterculture.

Support stories like this by becoming a member of Club Huck.