Before we were married, my wife and I used to live in a small but well-maintained cottage on a large country estate. It had an impressive garden which carried with it all the treats and shrapnel of country life - surprisingly large insects, the remains of rabbits and pieces of metal that probably fell from the sky during the war. It also had an old-fashioned cess pit into which drained all the household waste we could accumulate on a small budget and a questionable diet. This indelicate yet traditional featurette required us, occasionally, to face the joyous prospect of sticking long metal poles down small metal tubes to extricate not unreasonable pieces of our own excrement from the system.
It was just one of those unpalatable yet unavoidable facts of life.
On a completely unrelated issue the UCLES* cricketers this week found themselves playing yet another cup-semi final against Engineering. The game began amidst the heady niff of an English Ashes victory at Lords. The last time England beat Australia at Lords it was 1934 and that summer UCLES recorded just two victories, firstly against a Physics team that were close to splitting and secondly a Molecular Biology side that were yet to exist.
On Monday, with the traditional 40-over afternoon contest unrealistic in these busy times, a mutually inconvenient 30-over contest was agreed, to start at 4pm. Effervescent with charm, the Engineering side arrived in ill-matching clumps, like a draft moving through a meeting of Alopecia Anonymous. Shortly before the end of Countdown the coin was tossed and Skipper Bobby decided to bat.
At 4.20pm, with UCLES* batsmen twiddling oversized thumbs, the game finally began with just 8 fielders, one of whom was mysteriously twelfth man - but more of him, or perhaps less of him, later. With more singles on offer than at a computer gaming convention, Linsdell and Thwaites dallied slightly and squeaked their way apologetically through the opening overs with all the effectiveness of Joe Pasquale facing down a rabid tiger with a week-old bunch of daffodils. Thwaites in particular was developing something of a nervous tick outside off stump. Had he been Henry VIII's executioner, Anne Boleyn's head would have been displayed in the Tower on a toast rack.© Blackadder II
It was at this point that the Engineering side (which had slowly swelled to capacity like an old man's colostomy bag) strangely became 12. Linsdell and Thwaites watched from the middle as much arm-waving and finger-pointing ensued whilst the cuddling opposition skipper attempted to convince the UCLES* cricketing hierarchy that this new individual should actually be playing and the perfectly reasonable individual that had been fielding thus far was actually twelfth man. Some bizarre, and as yet unclear, compromise was reached and so we started again, slightly older and marginally more irritated.
As is always the case, Engineering were sweet and reflective in the field, offering dignified and unobtrusive support to their bowlers. Having had their polite request for the dismissal of Thwaites turned down on the basis that he wouldn't have edged it with a canoe, they were unfazed and refused point blank to be drawn into a boring and mindless period of abuse and ridicule. Oh no, hang on...
In spite of their ambling start, the openers took the total beyond 50 before Thwaites holed out at straightish mid-off. Wylie joined Linsdell and the accelerator was depressed until the latter was caught between a young man's thighs for the first time since an unfortunate incident at 'Ziggys' nightclub in Eastbourne one summer weekend in 1995. Thereafter, the UCLES* batting listed, lolled, rolled over and then sank beneath the waves of decent if unattractive attack - rather like being savaged by a poorly groomed Doberman. Scattering flower petals and happiness at every turn, Engineering took the last UCLES* wicket in the final over, leaving themselves an eminently achievable 150 to secure their rightful place in the final.
Back at the pavilion, Little Miss Linsdell was asking Ladds how old he was. But before Robin had a chance to respond he realised he had forgotten both the question and the answer.
In times gone by, UCLES* sides may have wilted in such circumstances like a Curlywurly in a sumo wrestler's arm-pit. But this small group of exam administrators are made of slightly sterner stuff and, stirred by the traditional goading spoon of the glorious opposition, they rose to their full stature like Godzilla after some bloke presses that red button in the 1980s cartoon. Ordish set the tone, whistling in from the Tennis Court end with relentless and controlled pace whilst at the other end Daniel 'Spitfire' Spittle unleashed his full 15-yard follow through with accompanying stare.
Ordish struck stumps early and that brought to the crease the handsome figure of the mysterious, late arriving '12th' man, fresh from his subtle and erudite observations during the first innings. The UCLES* fielders bid him a warm welcome and then, one thick edge later, a rip-roaring goodbye, complete with jugglers, fireworks and a well-choreographed finger wagging send-off from Spitfire.
Far from the walk in the park they were expecting, the visitors suddenly realised that a game had started and it was now the turn of the UCLES* fielders to decorate the air with observation and advice. Put under genuine pressure the special ones began to fade and panic, swiping wildly at the ball like a toddler trying to stab a fly with a cocktail stick. With just 149 runs in the bag, UCLES* knew that they would have to bowl out Engineering to win and so they strived. Kodavati and Wyatt took up the fight and there was much gnashing of teeth as edges were beaten and pads struck. Wylie took a thunderous catch on the boundary and at 111 for 6 the outcome was as uncertain as Prince Harry's parentage.
But in the end the home side were limited by their moderate total and umpires that had their arms stitched to their sides. By the time Linsdell's second over went for about 80, the game was up and the visitors scuffed their way to victory with all the dignity you would expect. You've got to give the Engineering players credit. So keen are they to ensure that the inter-departmental league and cup continue to thrive in their long-established traditions and spirit that they selflessly lend themselves out to other departments during the season. Indeed Spitfire made such a comment to their skipper during the post-match sweating and a polite kerfuffle ensued.
In 1843, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, arguably Britain's finest ever engineer, accidentally inhaled a half-sovereign whilst performing a conjuring trick for his children. After a number of reasonable attempts to remove the item from his windpipe he was forced to strap himself to a board and was shaken repeatedly upside down until it came free. Brunel wiped the coin on his handkerchief and replaced it in his coat pocket. When he relayed the story to his contemporary Robert Stephenson some weeks later, the latter remarked, "…but what Brunel, of your dignity?" To which the great engineer replied, "You may keep it, and I shall keep the half-sovereign…"
UCLES 149 all out (29.3 overs)
Linsdell 57 (58 balls)
Thwaites 23 (46 balls)
Wylie 27 (31 balls)
Vice 1 (3 balls)
Wyatt 6 (5 balls)
Skipper Bobby 2 (6 balls)
Brock 5 (8 balls)
Walsh 4 (7 balls)
Ordish 1 (3 balls)
Kodavati 0 (3 balls)
Spitfire 1 not out (2 balls)
Engineering 153 for 6 (27.2 overs)
Ordish 2 for 25 (7 overs)
Spitfire 1 for 49 for (7 overs)
Wyatt 2 for 20 (7 overs)
Kodavati 0 for 24 (3 overs)
Linsdell 0 for 17 (2 overs)
Vice 0 for 15 (1.2 overs)
Engineering win by 4 wickets
Friday 24 July 2009
Wednesday 22 July 2009
UCLES* v Physics (16/07/09)
My paternal grandmother was not a good cook. She was famous for serving gravy by the slice and a piece of her fruit cake kept the kitchen table level for nearly 7 years. Her crowning glory however came Easter Sunday 1983 when she presented family dinner guests with a peach flan inadvertently glazed with creosote. As one would expect, we politely enjoyed the dessert, with a fair lug of clotted cream, and all would have been well had Great Uncle Stan not collapsed and died of extensive oropharyngeal ulcerations just after Songs of Praise. His cremation took six days.
The contents of Nana Linsdell's cookbook was at the back of no-one's mind last Thursday as UCLES* took to the fields of St Catz to resume a 57 year struggle with the Department of Physics. Ladds and Murray made a glorious return to UCLES* spectatorship and unfurled themselves upon a bench with a cheeky handful of hops and fizz.
Skipper Bobby lost the toss and raised his eyebrows when the opposition skipper roughly inserted him. Linsdell and Thwaites waddled to the wicket like ducks with dysentery and they were immediately asked a series of difficult and probing questions by the opening bowlers, like Jeremy Paxman grilling an adulterous lover. It took them a little while to wind-up but Linsdell eventually managed four shots of purpose, including his first two maximums of a largely profitable season.
When Thwaites and Linsdell departed UCLES* progress slowed to that of a wet, three-legged St Bernard climbing up hill through a river of fast flowing golden syrup. Only Vice and Wylie profited late on with some sumptuous drives to take UCLES* to a notably under par 123 for 7 in their 20 over allocation. Against a strong Physics side, it already looked a couple of lilac leisure suits short of a WI aerobics class.
Having been sledged by his talkative if seemingly inconsequential brother for much of his time at the crease, Ordish began with purpose and direction. With the chirpy hoop of Spittle at the other end UCLES* were staying firm beneath a barrage of blows and stretching the evening towards dusk. The opposition, clearly expecting to be home in time to run a highlighter pen through a couple of chapters about the principles of inertia before bedtime, were obviously startled by increasingly contemptuous bowling and a fielding side that fizzed and chirped like a budgie on a barbecue. UCLES*, backs to the wall, were warming to their task.
Vice and Kodavati danced provocatively in the windows dressed by Ordish and Spittle and both were unlucky not to collect more wickets, especially with one catch that entered and then passed through Skipper Bobby like a piece of sweetcorn on steroids. Stretching and dragging out the contest with all the tenacity of a Yorkshire Terrier eating a crocodile, UCLES* took the game to the final over before a clipped full toss passed beyond the Superman dive of Walsh and to the boundary. The scorebook will hiss softly with the lie of an 8-wicket defeat but in truth UCLES* were just a muffin-sized piece of fortune away from a brave and unlikely victory.
Defeat, like Nana Linsdell's cooking, is sometimes difficult to swallow. But with a good lug of spirit, a side serving of managed aggression and a healthy dose of espirit de corps there is always something to take away from such disappointment…which is what we used to do…usually from the dreadful Chinese on the High Street.
UCLES 123 for 7 (20 overs)
Linsdell 32 (25 balls)
Thwaites 31(36 balls)
Robinson 6 (17 balls)
Skipper Bobby 0 (1 ball)
Brock 1 (3 ball)
Walsh 0 (1 ball)
Vice 14 (9 balls)
Wylie 18 not out (14 balls)
Ordish 6 not out (6 balls)
Physics 125 for 2 (19.2 overs)
Ordish 0 for 26 (5 overs)
Spittle 1 for 30 (5 overs)
Vice 1 for 32 for (5 overs)
Kodavati 0 for 24 (4 overs)
Skipper Bobby 0 for 4 (0.2 overs)
Physics win by 8 wickets
The contents of Nana Linsdell's cookbook was at the back of no-one's mind last Thursday as UCLES* took to the fields of St Catz to resume a 57 year struggle with the Department of Physics. Ladds and Murray made a glorious return to UCLES* spectatorship and unfurled themselves upon a bench with a cheeky handful of hops and fizz.
Skipper Bobby lost the toss and raised his eyebrows when the opposition skipper roughly inserted him. Linsdell and Thwaites waddled to the wicket like ducks with dysentery and they were immediately asked a series of difficult and probing questions by the opening bowlers, like Jeremy Paxman grilling an adulterous lover. It took them a little while to wind-up but Linsdell eventually managed four shots of purpose, including his first two maximums of a largely profitable season.
When Thwaites and Linsdell departed UCLES* progress slowed to that of a wet, three-legged St Bernard climbing up hill through a river of fast flowing golden syrup. Only Vice and Wylie profited late on with some sumptuous drives to take UCLES* to a notably under par 123 for 7 in their 20 over allocation. Against a strong Physics side, it already looked a couple of lilac leisure suits short of a WI aerobics class.
Having been sledged by his talkative if seemingly inconsequential brother for much of his time at the crease, Ordish began with purpose and direction. With the chirpy hoop of Spittle at the other end UCLES* were staying firm beneath a barrage of blows and stretching the evening towards dusk. The opposition, clearly expecting to be home in time to run a highlighter pen through a couple of chapters about the principles of inertia before bedtime, were obviously startled by increasingly contemptuous bowling and a fielding side that fizzed and chirped like a budgie on a barbecue. UCLES*, backs to the wall, were warming to their task.
Vice and Kodavati danced provocatively in the windows dressed by Ordish and Spittle and both were unlucky not to collect more wickets, especially with one catch that entered and then passed through Skipper Bobby like a piece of sweetcorn on steroids. Stretching and dragging out the contest with all the tenacity of a Yorkshire Terrier eating a crocodile, UCLES* took the game to the final over before a clipped full toss passed beyond the Superman dive of Walsh and to the boundary. The scorebook will hiss softly with the lie of an 8-wicket defeat but in truth UCLES* were just a muffin-sized piece of fortune away from a brave and unlikely victory.
Defeat, like Nana Linsdell's cooking, is sometimes difficult to swallow. But with a good lug of spirit, a side serving of managed aggression and a healthy dose of espirit de corps there is always something to take away from such disappointment…which is what we used to do…usually from the dreadful Chinese on the High Street.
UCLES 123 for 7 (20 overs)
Linsdell 32 (25 balls)
Thwaites 31(36 balls)
Robinson 6 (17 balls)
Skipper Bobby 0 (1 ball)
Brock 1 (3 ball)
Walsh 0 (1 ball)
Vice 14 (9 balls)
Wylie 18 not out (14 balls)
Ordish 6 not out (6 balls)
Physics 125 for 2 (19.2 overs)
Ordish 0 for 26 (5 overs)
Spittle 1 for 30 (5 overs)
Vice 1 for 32 for (5 overs)
Kodavati 0 for 24 (4 overs)
Skipper Bobby 0 for 4 (0.2 overs)
Physics win by 8 wickets
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Philanderers v Sarcophagi (28/06/09)
Consider if you will, the perfect English summer's day.
The grass beneath your ample picnic is short and soft but you smile at the youthful cheek of those few daisies that avoided the mower's teeth. A light breeze stirs the icing sugar that crests a Victoria sponge - homemade with more butter than necessary and more cream than polite. The sky is a Ukrainian blue and an anchored armada of soft white clouds shift and stir with restless ease. It's May, maybe early June and the triumphant rolling of Elgar verse leaps from every birdsong and bumble bee buzz.
By the end of the week though, there is a problem. The temperature, which had been tightly managed by wind and history, has started to rise and by Sunday, the smell of heat had taken to the air, hanging around like a childhood memory. The English have a deep, in-bred intolerance for raw heat (scones are served warm, not hot) and once the ambiently comfortable 75 degrees is passed our grumpiness radar starts to bleep away like a reversing milk float.
For generations, whilst griping about the dark and the rain, the English have held an unwritten belief that anything approaching 90 is simply not sporting - just not cricket. Accept of course last Sunday it was just that - barely at times, but it was cricket nonetheless. On a day of churlish and ugly heat, the Sarcophagi came alive.
Skipper James, with the notable help of Thwaites, had dipped deep into his battered book of cricketing characters to pull together a side to do battle with the lightly greyed genius of Philanderers. The coin toss went against the former UCLES* tweaker and Philanderers chose first use of a sneaky stripe of green softness.
Isaac and Hanwell had first use of a ball shaped like a Frenchman's favourite bulb vegetable, crafted perhaps by a back pocket and an ample pair of buttocks. The early stages were certainly competitive and it quickly became clear that early on, the main threat to the Sarcophagi bowlers would be the youngest Philanderers player, a man whose contribution to post-match war stories would largely be limited to memories of a school project about the Falkland Islands.
After a strong start from the hosts, a Frankland catch off Hanwell gave the Sarcophagi their opening 'first class' wicket.
With the contest developing nicely like a 6x4" in a vat of Chromogenic material, Hickey replaced Hanwell and quickly began to suspect that it wasn't going to be his day. Stumping appeals and comfortable catches passed in a flash and then Monk attempted to catch a miscued pull shot with all the grace of a sloth trying to catch a falling sandcastle between two rolling pins. Hickey's face was a picture. A lost mixture of bewilderment and disappointment, like a dinner party host that had just caught Winston Churchill wiping his backside with a hand towel.
Hickey's time would however come, firstly as Lord threw himself forward to take a fine catch like a man that almost missed a bus despite standing at the stop. Further wickets fell, punctuated by glorious shots from the most dog-eared pages of the manual. It had been a pleasing if not always pretty effort in the field from the Sarcophagi, with Thwaites lively behind the stumps, quipping softly like Stan Boardman at a school fete and ultimately Philanderers posted a perfectly interesting 159.
Mr Kipling and Mr P.G. Tips delivered tea, in their inimitable style, as the mercury passed out in the heat.
The Sarcophagi opening pair were Linsdell and Anstee and both started confidently until Anstee nicked a snorter. Monk joined Linsdell at the crease for the first time outside UCLES* colours. Although progress was sufficient, the Sarcophagi batsmen were clearly wearing the heat like an ill-fitting hat. With echoes of greatness in the bowling, there was no time for reflection, particularly on a wicket that threatened occasional blows to the face, like a blind man practicing Riverdance in a rake shop.
The batsmen decided to wait for one particular opening bowler to tire, but it was ultimately fruitless, like driving slowly on a trip to see your mother-in-law in the hope that her coastal home would fall into the sea before you got there. With the heat folding in on itself like a badly tossed pancake, Monk and Wylie fell away and Linsdell, batting with all the elegance of a brown bear painting toy soldiers, ended a half-century with a shot ugly enough to lose any game. With Lord gone, and clouds gathering in threatening but ineffectual pockets like Russian soldiers invading Finland in 1939, Thwaites patted back the onion for a fragrant maiden leaving a run-a-ball 18 from the final 3.
Not for the first time, Skipper James prematurely declared cricket the winner, but Thwaites had other ideas and with some scampering and decent striking he pushed The Philanderers into a disappointing but dignified third.
And so The Sarcophagi began what will doubtless be an illustrious history with a tightly yet honourably fought triumph. Once again, The Philanderers proved that aching limbs are nothing to glinting eyes and vivid memories, re-colouring the outlines of the past. Age is nothing. My great grandfather once made 114 not out for the Salvation Army at the age of 89. He was a firm believer that all runs should be made on the front foot, which is admirable, but on that particular August afternoon it did mean that he fell out of his wheelchair 27 times.
The Philanderers 159-9 (35 overs)
Isaac 7-1-23-2
Hanwell 7-0-36-2
Frankland 11-1-47-0
Hickey 7-2-23-3
Anstee 3-0-21-1
The Sarcophagi 160-5 (34.3 overs)
Linsdell 68
Anstee 6
Monk 34
Wylie 8
Lord 5
Thwaites 15 not out
Isaac 5 not out
The Sarcophagi win by 5 wickets.
The grass beneath your ample picnic is short and soft but you smile at the youthful cheek of those few daisies that avoided the mower's teeth. A light breeze stirs the icing sugar that crests a Victoria sponge - homemade with more butter than necessary and more cream than polite. The sky is a Ukrainian blue and an anchored armada of soft white clouds shift and stir with restless ease. It's May, maybe early June and the triumphant rolling of Elgar verse leaps from every birdsong and bumble bee buzz.
By the end of the week though, there is a problem. The temperature, which had been tightly managed by wind and history, has started to rise and by Sunday, the smell of heat had taken to the air, hanging around like a childhood memory. The English have a deep, in-bred intolerance for raw heat (scones are served warm, not hot) and once the ambiently comfortable 75 degrees is passed our grumpiness radar starts to bleep away like a reversing milk float.
For generations, whilst griping about the dark and the rain, the English have held an unwritten belief that anything approaching 90 is simply not sporting - just not cricket. Accept of course last Sunday it was just that - barely at times, but it was cricket nonetheless. On a day of churlish and ugly heat, the Sarcophagi came alive.
Skipper James, with the notable help of Thwaites, had dipped deep into his battered book of cricketing characters to pull together a side to do battle with the lightly greyed genius of Philanderers. The coin toss went against the former UCLES* tweaker and Philanderers chose first use of a sneaky stripe of green softness.
Isaac and Hanwell had first use of a ball shaped like a Frenchman's favourite bulb vegetable, crafted perhaps by a back pocket and an ample pair of buttocks. The early stages were certainly competitive and it quickly became clear that early on, the main threat to the Sarcophagi bowlers would be the youngest Philanderers player, a man whose contribution to post-match war stories would largely be limited to memories of a school project about the Falkland Islands.
After a strong start from the hosts, a Frankland catch off Hanwell gave the Sarcophagi their opening 'first class' wicket.
With the contest developing nicely like a 6x4" in a vat of Chromogenic material, Hickey replaced Hanwell and quickly began to suspect that it wasn't going to be his day. Stumping appeals and comfortable catches passed in a flash and then Monk attempted to catch a miscued pull shot with all the grace of a sloth trying to catch a falling sandcastle between two rolling pins. Hickey's face was a picture. A lost mixture of bewilderment and disappointment, like a dinner party host that had just caught Winston Churchill wiping his backside with a hand towel.
Hickey's time would however come, firstly as Lord threw himself forward to take a fine catch like a man that almost missed a bus despite standing at the stop. Further wickets fell, punctuated by glorious shots from the most dog-eared pages of the manual. It had been a pleasing if not always pretty effort in the field from the Sarcophagi, with Thwaites lively behind the stumps, quipping softly like Stan Boardman at a school fete and ultimately Philanderers posted a perfectly interesting 159.
Mr Kipling and Mr P.G. Tips delivered tea, in their inimitable style, as the mercury passed out in the heat.
The Sarcophagi opening pair were Linsdell and Anstee and both started confidently until Anstee nicked a snorter. Monk joined Linsdell at the crease for the first time outside UCLES* colours. Although progress was sufficient, the Sarcophagi batsmen were clearly wearing the heat like an ill-fitting hat. With echoes of greatness in the bowling, there was no time for reflection, particularly on a wicket that threatened occasional blows to the face, like a blind man practicing Riverdance in a rake shop.
The batsmen decided to wait for one particular opening bowler to tire, but it was ultimately fruitless, like driving slowly on a trip to see your mother-in-law in the hope that her coastal home would fall into the sea before you got there. With the heat folding in on itself like a badly tossed pancake, Monk and Wylie fell away and Linsdell, batting with all the elegance of a brown bear painting toy soldiers, ended a half-century with a shot ugly enough to lose any game. With Lord gone, and clouds gathering in threatening but ineffectual pockets like Russian soldiers invading Finland in 1939, Thwaites patted back the onion for a fragrant maiden leaving a run-a-ball 18 from the final 3.
Not for the first time, Skipper James prematurely declared cricket the winner, but Thwaites had other ideas and with some scampering and decent striking he pushed The Philanderers into a disappointing but dignified third.
And so The Sarcophagi began what will doubtless be an illustrious history with a tightly yet honourably fought triumph. Once again, The Philanderers proved that aching limbs are nothing to glinting eyes and vivid memories, re-colouring the outlines of the past. Age is nothing. My great grandfather once made 114 not out for the Salvation Army at the age of 89. He was a firm believer that all runs should be made on the front foot, which is admirable, but on that particular August afternoon it did mean that he fell out of his wheelchair 27 times.
The Philanderers 159-9 (35 overs)
Isaac 7-1-23-2
Hanwell 7-0-36-2
Frankland 11-1-47-0
Hickey 7-2-23-3
Anstee 3-0-21-1
The Sarcophagi 160-5 (34.3 overs)
Linsdell 68
Anstee 6
Monk 34
Wylie 8
Lord 5
Thwaites 15 not out
Isaac 5 not out
The Sarcophagi win by 5 wickets.
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