My great grandfather was wounded at Passchendaele in 1917. The fact that he was more than two miles from the front line and tumbling out of the upstairs window of a Belgian brothel at the time is a fact my family tend to gloss over. Whilst recuperating in hospital in Hampshire my great grandfather met an astonishing solder called Corporal Tim Throbber who had lost both his legs to a errant shell in the Spring.
Together they passed the long summer evenings playing chess, discussing the war and creating elaborate tapestries from the dreadful clothing brought to the hospital by well-meaning locals. My great grandfather eventually recovered from his injuries of ill-repute and returned to see out the war in the catering corps, creating amusing shapes from mouldy root vegetables.
It was nearly 20 years until he saw Corporal Throbber once more, on Southend sea-front where Throbber was selling ice-creams from a small tray balanced on his limited lap. My great grandfather bought a Raspberry Ripple and found it pleasing. My great grandfather's elderly donkey had a cream horn.
The two ex-soldiers discussed old times and shared their suspicions about the intentions of the smartly attired but questionably motivated Mr Hitler. They parted warmly like a rice pudding and were never to meet again. My great grandfather lived to be 112 and kept wicket for the Salvation Army way into his 90s. Corporal Throbber was sadly killed in 1955 after he fell asleep in a field of Barley and was run over by a combine harvester. The local police spent two full days looking for his legs.
What is the relevance of this enlightening tale I hear you ask. Well frankly I don't blame you…
Kings & Selwyn playing fields are what the ancient Greeks used to call 'a very large piece of grass'. According to the 1450 Census of Land, Acreage and Rivers some parts of this vast field are technically France. Whatever its girth, Kings & Selwyn has been a happy hunting ground for UCLES* in recent years, most recently in a sound demolishing of the police force the previous week, although not in a constitutional sense.
Early preparations were disrupted by the arrival of Cox dressed like a blind man who had robbed an Oxfam shop. Bizarrely, along with ASDA loafers, he was daringly sporting Guy Lane's trousers after the moustachioed veteran had gone to Argentina in just his pants. Robinson rescued Cox from total embarrassment by producing a spare pair of trainers from his bag, rather like a corner shop owner would discover pornography 'out the back'. Despite this gallant rescue, Cox still began the game looking like a small boy that had lost his kite.
The game started some 20 minutes late after the Skipper Bobby and the host captain from Chemical Engineering decided they needed to walk the 4 mile round-trip to the pitch to toss the coin. The spin went against the UCLES* man and the visitors were inserted on to a green sponge, fresh from a vigorous bath and only a light squeeze.
In the opening overs the ball misbehaved outrageously, causing Linsdell and Thwaites to pull strange, involuntary faces like epileptic clowns. Linsdell in particular was lucky to survive two tight attempted run-outs and an airy waft through to the 'keeper. But as time passed, so the vast pockets of space began to mock the fielders and runs came frequently and freely. Linsdell, fresh from an unbeaten hundred in his previous knock, was starting to make decent contact, including one punchy drive that raced over the boundary and had to be fielded from the doorway of a Fromangerie just outside Lyon.
Frustrated by a pitch as clingy as a nervous toddler, Thwaites succumbed trying to lash the ball into the car park and Wylie strode to crease. The housewives' favourite had a strange glint in his eyes - half-menace, half-desire. A new bowler appeared. After warming-up for half-an-hour, marking his run out three times and translating 'The Wind in the Willows' into ancient German, the first change then saw his lovely red ball thrashed to all parts by Wylie with elegant, breathless ease. Memories of Monk's astonishing assault on this ground a few years back came to the fore until Wylie fell trying to introduce another bowler to new and interesting forms of humiliation.
Robinson joined Linsdell, who had now added 'losing balls in distant ditches' to his short list of lifetime achievements, and the latter moved passed 50 as the UCLES* total started to dampen the opponents belief. Running hard like obese builders chasing a battered sausage, the two middle-agers lifted UCLES passed the 100 mark and on towards prosperity. Linsdell succumbed for 72 with a handful of overs to go - caught having hit the ball into the clouds.
Skipper Bobby joined former-skipper Steve and slowly, then quickly, then slowly and then very quickly they set about taking UCLES* out of sight. The final over was a painful affair, with a part-time bowler delivering a fragmented and disjointed mixture of bobblers and bubblers. Robinson in particular filled his boots greedily like a man that hadn't eaten since a buffet to celebrate the marriage of Prince Andrew and Lady Sarah Ferguson. UCLES* ended on 162 for 3 in their allocation and although the fat lady wasn't singing, she was certainly having a little gargle.
Despite their bolshie total, the UCLES* side surveyed the large fielding arena at the start of the opposition's reply with all the enthusiasm of Gordon Brown at a cabinet meeting. And in an attempt to save their legs they produced some of their best ground-fielding of the season - sharp, incisive and, in Kodavati's case, as over-zealous as a Tasmanian Devil on Tic-Tacs.
But even without the sharp fielding, the stage was set for the bowlers. Ordish and Spittle were miserly and aggressive and the contest was flattened within a few minutes. Wyatt joined the fray and produced the eye-catching contribution of the game with some accurate and demanding bowling. The excitement got too much for Cox who shouted "come on John…" to nobody in particular.
With Kodavati strangling one end, Wyatt whistled through the middle-order and he was only denied a deserved 5-wicket return by Wylie spilling a dolly with all the grace of a Tyrannosaurus Rex trying to catch a Monkey's fart between two frying pans.
With the game fading like a 1970s photocopy, Skipper Bobby turned to Parsons for a cheeky over of spin. Instead she sent down some incredible bouncers. The first ball bounced six times, the second just five. Just when it looked like Barnes-Wallis would be required to keep score, Parsons snuck in a straight one that yorked the batsman on the second bounce. Stumps trembled and bails fell in a cacophony of silence. People looked at each other across yawns of gloom...I guess that must be out. Forget the background, read the scorebook.
The hosts survived the full 20 overs but their final total of 102 for 8 was scarcely worth the effort. UCLES* finished the game with a near impertinent swagger and their progress may not quite be a runaway juggernaut but it is perhaps an old Luton van with dodgy breaks and a three-piece suite in the back.
The only disappointment for UCLES* is that Wyatt was denied a 5-wicket haul. Wylie could have blamed the fading light or maybe an irreverent spin of the ball. But Wylie knew, just like Corporal Throbber, that he didn't have a leg to stand on. Ithankyou...
