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.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Monday, 8 June 2009
UCLES* v Chemical Engineering (04/06/09)
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...
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...
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
UCLES* v Metallurgy/Zoology (14/05/09)
The BBC is a wonderful institution - enduring, iconic, steady and as self-loathing as any British subject could ever aim to be. Were the BBC a cricket shot it would be a stout forward-defensive followed by an unequivocal cry of 'NO' and a polite yet emotionless nod to the bowler. There would be no logo visible on the batsman's attire, save for the embroidered crest on his deep green cap and the 'Gobblefrunk of London' stamp on his faded cravat.
A wonderful institution indeed, but probably the most questionable predictor of weather since the owner of the Old Cornish Stores shop in Boscastle threw open the shutters of his store to see a beautiful Monday morning in mid-August 2004 and shouted to his wife "It's going to be a belter Maureen, get rid of all those kagools and order another tub of Devon Vanilla..."
The BBC website is particularly to blame, with forecasting akin to leaning out of your bedroom window and counting how many farm animals you can see sitting down. So I should have known that when it told me last Monday morning that our Thursday fixture at St Cats was destined to be washed-out by a torrential storm, rain was about as likely as an MP paying for his own Marks and Spencer’s meal for one.
And so t'was beneath a sky of magnolia hands and coalman's fingers, that UCLES* took to the field for their first home league game against Metallurgy/Zoology - looking with absurd optimism at a second win in a week.
Engaging in a typically underwhelming warm-up prior to bully-off, the UCLES* fielders noted that the opposition carried in their ranks an attractive young lady warming-up in a manner which suggested she may have been no stranger to the game. A ripple of fear passed through the onlookers like the cool chill of a toddler's stare. Lane observed that she was 'very nicely kitted out', a comment that we all deemed to be inappropriate for a man of his standing.
Skipper Bobby lost the toss and the opposition skipper made what would end up being a notable error of judgement - UCLES* were to bat. Linsdell and Robinson rolled smoothly onto the field like retired Daleks taking the air on Worthing promenade.
Linsdell began cautiously, like a man trying to hit an echo with a memory. He finally opened his account with a streaky edge to the third man boundary and the tone for the next hour was set. Having warmed up slowly - like a frozen Cornish pasty in the Spring sunshine – the opening pair were beginning to manage the bowling and milk it with hard running and occasionally hard hitting.
Despite a reasonable effort from the visitors’ attack, a fast outfield and reliable track was giving ULCES* a healthy start. Linsdell in particular was now making positive progress, like a slug that used to be a snail. But any swashbuckling intentions were stymied by the appearance at the ‘Relatively-infrequently-used-tennis-courts End’ by a certain well-kitted out young lady. Linsdell was the first to face the impossible position. A scything attack would be ungentlemanly and a dismissal unthinkable. The opener chose the only dignified route, scrambled a single and scampered to the other end like a banana running away from a bowl of custard. The over was survived.
As Linsdell snuck past 50, so Robinson departed, unlucky to fall to a fine catch at mid-on. Wylie joined Linsdell and delivered a couple of impressive blows but another cowardly quick single then brought the new man face-to-moisturised-face with aforementioned young lady. The contest was a thing of beauty but Wylie’s attempted hoik to leg was not. He was snaffled at short fine leg and returned to the polite smiles of the pavilion.
With the fear of failure limited by Wylie’s selfless gesture, Linsdell (pictured below with a cake) and Thwaites were able to push on with confidence. The former, though fading among screaming lungs and furious muscles, eventually clipped a sharp brace to take him to his third UCLES* century and his first at the home of cricket. UCLES* innings closed soon after at a reasonable but not insurmountable 158 for 2.
A wonderful institution indeed, but probably the most questionable predictor of weather since the owner of the Old Cornish Stores shop in Boscastle threw open the shutters of his store to see a beautiful Monday morning in mid-August 2004 and shouted to his wife "It's going to be a belter Maureen, get rid of all those kagools and order another tub of Devon Vanilla..."
The BBC website is particularly to blame, with forecasting akin to leaning out of your bedroom window and counting how many farm animals you can see sitting down. So I should have known that when it told me last Monday morning that our Thursday fixture at St Cats was destined to be washed-out by a torrential storm, rain was about as likely as an MP paying for his own Marks and Spencer’s meal for one.
And so t'was beneath a sky of magnolia hands and coalman's fingers, that UCLES* took to the field for their first home league game against Metallurgy/Zoology - looking with absurd optimism at a second win in a week.
Engaging in a typically underwhelming warm-up prior to bully-off, the UCLES* fielders noted that the opposition carried in their ranks an attractive young lady warming-up in a manner which suggested she may have been no stranger to the game. A ripple of fear passed through the onlookers like the cool chill of a toddler's stare. Lane observed that she was 'very nicely kitted out', a comment that we all deemed to be inappropriate for a man of his standing.
Skipper Bobby lost the toss and the opposition skipper made what would end up being a notable error of judgement - UCLES* were to bat. Linsdell and Robinson rolled smoothly onto the field like retired Daleks taking the air on Worthing promenade.
Linsdell began cautiously, like a man trying to hit an echo with a memory. He finally opened his account with a streaky edge to the third man boundary and the tone for the next hour was set. Having warmed up slowly - like a frozen Cornish pasty in the Spring sunshine – the opening pair were beginning to manage the bowling and milk it with hard running and occasionally hard hitting.
Despite a reasonable effort from the visitors’ attack, a fast outfield and reliable track was giving ULCES* a healthy start. Linsdell in particular was now making positive progress, like a slug that used to be a snail. But any swashbuckling intentions were stymied by the appearance at the ‘Relatively-infrequently-used-tennis-courts End’ by a certain well-kitted out young lady. Linsdell was the first to face the impossible position. A scything attack would be ungentlemanly and a dismissal unthinkable. The opener chose the only dignified route, scrambled a single and scampered to the other end like a banana running away from a bowl of custard. The over was survived.
As Linsdell snuck past 50, so Robinson departed, unlucky to fall to a fine catch at mid-on. Wylie joined Linsdell and delivered a couple of impressive blows but another cowardly quick single then brought the new man face-to-moisturised-face with aforementioned young lady. The contest was a thing of beauty but Wylie’s attempted hoik to leg was not. He was snaffled at short fine leg and returned to the polite smiles of the pavilion.
With the fear of failure limited by Wylie’s selfless gesture, Linsdell (pictured below with a cake) and Thwaites were able to push on with confidence. The former, though fading among screaming lungs and furious muscles, eventually clipped a sharp brace to take him to his third UCLES* century and his first at the home of cricket. UCLES* innings closed soon after at a reasonable but not insurmountable 158 for 2.
UCLES* knew that quick wickets would probably secure victory so the mood was upbeat amidst the gathering gloom of the snarling clouds of May. Ordish and Wyatt clearly had too much for one of their opening batsman and his early departure gave UCLES* the impetus and saw the required rate edge swiftly pass the 10-an-over mark. Ordish picked up a second wicket in an impressive opening spell and the hosts were well in command.
Lane, Skipper Bobby and Brock all did more than enough to drive home the advantage and would have been amongst the wickets themselves had UCLES* catching ability matched up to their bowling.
Linsdell, who had been fielding like a Barbie doll with its arms in the wrong sockets even got a chance with the ball – a clear sign if t’were needed that Skipper Bobby felt the game was nearly up. The centurion finally finished the contest by running out the visitors leading scorer and UCLES* were impressively home by 31 runs.
The statisticians will highlight Linsdell’s hundred with their spitty felt-tips but those present will also remember a fine all-round team effort and the pathetic, sexist and immature attitude of all parties to the unspeakable joy of Wylie being dismissed by a girl. A talented girl she may have been but it won’t say that in the scorebook - his teammates have seen to that…
Friday, 8 May 2009
UCLES* v Molecular Biology (05/05/09)
There was a musty note of nostalgia in the air as UCLES* took to the playing fields of Luard Road to face Molecular Biology in their opening game of the 2009 season.
For Linsdell it was a return to his sixth form years as a Hills Road student, where he spent many days failing to impress plain looking young women despite sporting an expensive suede waistcoat and enough hair to tightly pack a small scatter cushion. For Lane, the return to Luard Road was slightly darker - some 25 years since an ankle crushing game of rugby. One can imagine him now, dressed manically, with youthful facial hair and a tangible sense of gay abandon. No doubt he was also the same in the 1980s…
Skipper Bobby immediately bucked the trend set by his erstwhile predecessor by winning the toss. The five other UCLES* players present stood in the pavilion and watched him bounce back to the middle with all the smugness of Sir Richard Branson at a Grand Prix and genuinely still expected to be fielding. But such paranoia was unnecessary - Linsdell and Lane donned the fluffies.
The opening pair strode out to a wicket that was neat and bright but with enough grass to suggest that consistent bounce would be an optional rather than compulsory feature. Alongside the pavilion, large trees danced in a intoxicated vomit of emerald Englishness. The sky, earlier an impertinent grey, now relaxed in rolls of blue and coughs of white cloud. The setting was picked straight from the bitter memories of Brooke, Sassoon and Owen and the fresh kisses of summer were drying on the cheeks of Spring. It was nearly time.
After a winter of snow and the colours of rotting life, every cricketer welcomes the opportunity to step to the rhythm of a cuckoo's song. Unfortunately, such enthusiasm is no replacement for quality and UCLES* opened their season with a performance that stank like a slice of my late Grandmother's Stilton and Tuna Surprise.
Lane and Linsdell set the tone by digging themselves into a quiet and run-less hole. Lane fell first, bowled by a ball that zipped along the surface like a mouse on a matchstick go-cart. Debutant Thwaites began well only to be snuffled by sharp catch at point and Linsdell chipped meekly to mid-wicket. When Brock succumbed soon afterwards, UCLES* were 17 for 4 in the eight over - redefining the art of 20Twenty cricket.
Skipper Bobby mustered the first boundary of the innings with a hefty swipe to leg before Walsh carried on from his 2008 form with a series of effective wristy flicks. Despite occasionally having all the elegance of a Labrador chasing a windswept pile of leaves, Walsh's unnervingly accurate eye was considerably more effective and dogged than what had come before. Skipper Bobby departed for 10, closing followed by Ordish and Kodavati who were both back in the pavilion before Skipper Bobby had removed his helmet.
It was left to Walsh and second debutant Wyatt to edge UCLES* to a barely respectable 73 - with Wyatt's power particularly eye-catching. Walsh's demise left UCLES* eight down and thus - with a side of just 9 players - all out.
To have any chance of placing pressure on the hosts, UCLES* would need early wickets. Unfortunately, the two strikes they managed both came when the score was 72...not quite early enough.
Ordish and Wyatt both had their moments with the ball but Molecular Biology clearly had the class batsman of the piece and with the occasional lusty blow he kept his side in complete command. With the end just a scruffy single away, Skipper Bobby produced a top-class yorker to ensure a 10-wicket reverse was avoided. The highlight of the UCLES* fielding effort came the following over as Walsh took a flabbergasting catch in front of the railway line boundary to deny the other opener the red ink his half-century arguable deserved. It was a bright end to an uncomfortable defeat and a welcome first UCLES* wicket for Thwaites.
It had certainly been nothing to write home about. Indeed, had a mother received a letter of such a standard it would probably have been stuck to the inside of the bin rather than the outside of the fridge. Only after they had reached 72 did the home side show the vulnerability that UCLES* had demonstrated throughout their innings and despite their endeavour the bowlers never really had a chance to turn the tide.
One can only hope that the season improves from here on or future fixtures will be as welcome as a sneezing Didier Drogba at a Norwegian referees convention.
For Linsdell it was a return to his sixth form years as a Hills Road student, where he spent many days failing to impress plain looking young women despite sporting an expensive suede waistcoat and enough hair to tightly pack a small scatter cushion. For Lane, the return to Luard Road was slightly darker - some 25 years since an ankle crushing game of rugby. One can imagine him now, dressed manically, with youthful facial hair and a tangible sense of gay abandon. No doubt he was also the same in the 1980s…
Skipper Bobby immediately bucked the trend set by his erstwhile predecessor by winning the toss. The five other UCLES* players present stood in the pavilion and watched him bounce back to the middle with all the smugness of Sir Richard Branson at a Grand Prix and genuinely still expected to be fielding. But such paranoia was unnecessary - Linsdell and Lane donned the fluffies.
The opening pair strode out to a wicket that was neat and bright but with enough grass to suggest that consistent bounce would be an optional rather than compulsory feature. Alongside the pavilion, large trees danced in a intoxicated vomit of emerald Englishness. The sky, earlier an impertinent grey, now relaxed in rolls of blue and coughs of white cloud. The setting was picked straight from the bitter memories of Brooke, Sassoon and Owen and the fresh kisses of summer were drying on the cheeks of Spring. It was nearly time.
After a winter of snow and the colours of rotting life, every cricketer welcomes the opportunity to step to the rhythm of a cuckoo's song. Unfortunately, such enthusiasm is no replacement for quality and UCLES* opened their season with a performance that stank like a slice of my late Grandmother's Stilton and Tuna Surprise.
Lane and Linsdell set the tone by digging themselves into a quiet and run-less hole. Lane fell first, bowled by a ball that zipped along the surface like a mouse on a matchstick go-cart. Debutant Thwaites began well only to be snuffled by sharp catch at point and Linsdell chipped meekly to mid-wicket. When Brock succumbed soon afterwards, UCLES* were 17 for 4 in the eight over - redefining the art of 20Twenty cricket.
Skipper Bobby mustered the first boundary of the innings with a hefty swipe to leg before Walsh carried on from his 2008 form with a series of effective wristy flicks. Despite occasionally having all the elegance of a Labrador chasing a windswept pile of leaves, Walsh's unnervingly accurate eye was considerably more effective and dogged than what had come before. Skipper Bobby departed for 10, closing followed by Ordish and Kodavati who were both back in the pavilion before Skipper Bobby had removed his helmet.
It was left to Walsh and second debutant Wyatt to edge UCLES* to a barely respectable 73 - with Wyatt's power particularly eye-catching. Walsh's demise left UCLES* eight down and thus - with a side of just 9 players - all out.
To have any chance of placing pressure on the hosts, UCLES* would need early wickets. Unfortunately, the two strikes they managed both came when the score was 72...not quite early enough.
Ordish and Wyatt both had their moments with the ball but Molecular Biology clearly had the class batsman of the piece and with the occasional lusty blow he kept his side in complete command. With the end just a scruffy single away, Skipper Bobby produced a top-class yorker to ensure a 10-wicket reverse was avoided. The highlight of the UCLES* fielding effort came the following over as Walsh took a flabbergasting catch in front of the railway line boundary to deny the other opener the red ink his half-century arguable deserved. It was a bright end to an uncomfortable defeat and a welcome first UCLES* wicket for Thwaites.
It had certainly been nothing to write home about. Indeed, had a mother received a letter of such a standard it would probably have been stuck to the inside of the bin rather than the outside of the fridge. Only after they had reached 72 did the home side show the vulnerability that UCLES* had demonstrated throughout their innings and despite their endeavour the bowlers never really had a chance to turn the tide.
One can only hope that the season improves from here on or future fixtures will be as welcome as a sneezing Didier Drogba at a Norwegian referees convention.
Nearly time
Jim had worked as a groundsman for nearly 40 years in all, but nothing diminished for him the feeling of easing the stumps into position in the Springtime, topping and tailing the pristine and adored rectangle of bothered grass. Today was no different. He placed the bails with spirit-level fingers and stepped back in pride, rubbing the base of his grumbling spine with calloused but caring hands.
His quiet satisfaction was brought abruptly to a halt by a presence at his shoulder. Jim spun round sharply and saw before him an immense character, his face and body obscured by a dark, flowing cape. In his pale and flesh-less hand he held a farming instrument that was almost as tall as he. Jim believed it was a scythe.
"Excuse me…" a soft but resonant voice began from deep within the endless hood. "You haven't seen Football have you…?"
"I think it went that way" Jim answered calmly, pointing vaguely in the direction of a nearby gutter.
"Much obliged" replied the stranger doffing the top of his hood slightly and gliding into the near distance.
"You're welcome squire" replied Jim the groundsman absently, before stepping lightly forward to brush a daisy petal off a good length.
It was nearly time.
His quiet satisfaction was brought abruptly to a halt by a presence at his shoulder. Jim spun round sharply and saw before him an immense character, his face and body obscured by a dark, flowing cape. In his pale and flesh-less hand he held a farming instrument that was almost as tall as he. Jim believed it was a scythe.
"Excuse me…" a soft but resonant voice began from deep within the endless hood. "You haven't seen Football have you…?"
"I think it went that way" Jim answered calmly, pointing vaguely in the direction of a nearby gutter.
"Much obliged" replied the stranger doffing the top of his hood slightly and gliding into the near distance.
"You're welcome squire" replied Jim the groundsman absently, before stepping lightly forward to brush a daisy petal off a good length.
It was nearly time.
Friday, 1 May 2009
UCLES* v Molecular Biology (30/05/06)
UCLES* 2006 league season began Tuesday night with one of the most complete performances in the history of the club. Indeed, on reflection, it turned out that the fixture with Molecular Biology (known as Mol Bol...no relation to Spag) was as one-sided as the elephant man’s face.
After two postponements at the hands of the moistness of May, the weather finally held its nerve, defying the dark clouds that grumbled their way across the skies like old men bemoaning a modern haircut. It was as typically English as early summer could ever be – indeed it could only have been more so had James Hewitt been sat on a deckchair beside the pavilion, humming Elgar and drunkenly dropping strawberries on to his blazer.
On a pitch that hid damp secrets beyond a tough greenish crust, not unlike a mouldy crème brulee, Skipper Steve chose to bat first and so Linsdell and Siyambalapitiya were tossed out into the stunning green salad bowl like a couple of cherry tomatoes.
A sedate opening over passed by before Linsdell clipped a couple of cheap boundaries in over two to set the tone for the hour to follow. On a pitch that played considerably better than could have been expected after the persistent precipitation the new opening pair applied an unexpected combination of thinking and thudding to put the Mol Bol bowling to the sword.
Linsdell in particular was making good use of his new trampoline-bat, picking up regular boundaries and moving passed 50 inside the first 10 overs. With Siyambalapitiya playing Ernie Wise to Linsdell’s Eric Morecambe, the pair bundled their way passed the 100 mark after just twelve overs. Linsdell fell shortly after, but not before a 19-run over that took his personal tally to 80 and the partnership to 131.
As is so often the case, one wicket brought more as Parikh, Bean and Skipper Steve all fell cheaply. But with Siyambalapitiya holding the reigns, and achieving an excellent half-century, UCLES* reached an imposing 175-4 in their 20 overs. Skipper Steve then gathered the team in the dressing room for a rousing pre-fielding monologue, which was ultimately less Henry V and more Police Academy V. It seemed, however, to do the trick.
With little thimbles of raining tickling the air like a mild but nagging cough, so UCLES* took to the field to finish the job. What followed was one of the most awesome displays of pace bowling ever seen under the UCLES* crest.
Wood and Spittle began the show with an eight-over spell that ended the game as a contest. Just as Wood was cracking middle stumps like rotting late autumn conkers, so Spittle was embarrassing batsmen with late in-swing. Having taken four wickets between them, the openers were replaced by Danson and Ordish, much to the relief of Linsdell behind the stumps who was keeping wicket with all the grace and success of a blind, fingerless monkey trying to juggle sand.
Whilst Danson locked horns for a tense and ultimately unrewarding battle with a cricketer of the female persuasion, so Ordish was producing a smooth and largely unplayable spell to blast away the middle order, taking 3 wickets for a single run in 3 overs. In its own way, it was probably the best bowling display of the evening. Danson finally rattled the stumps for himself as the game drew to its inevitable end whilst Parikh collected the final two wickets with more impressive pace bowling. White also provided a couple of overs of strong support, lighting a beacon for flight and guile among the speed merchants around him.
In the end, 10 wickets had fallen without a chance coming to hand. Nine times UCLES* bowlers crashed the tiring woodwork and just once the pressed fluff of a pad had intervened. It was just as well really, as the late spring chill had fielders wringing their hand like old man Steptoe. Indeed, having admired the astonishing range of pullovers, tank tops and cardigans on show, PC Bean has confirmed he will be investigating to see if any be-flannelled young men were seen ram-raiding an Oxfam shop prior to the fixture.
Ultimately, UCLES* inflicted on their opponents the biggest reverse since Robert Kilroy-Silk entered the Eurovision Song Contest with a cover version of Parkes and Charles’ classic “There’ll always be an England.”
The sun may yet shine on UCLES* cricket.
After two postponements at the hands of the moistness of May, the weather finally held its nerve, defying the dark clouds that grumbled their way across the skies like old men bemoaning a modern haircut. It was as typically English as early summer could ever be – indeed it could only have been more so had James Hewitt been sat on a deckchair beside the pavilion, humming Elgar and drunkenly dropping strawberries on to his blazer.
On a pitch that hid damp secrets beyond a tough greenish crust, not unlike a mouldy crème brulee, Skipper Steve chose to bat first and so Linsdell and Siyambalapitiya were tossed out into the stunning green salad bowl like a couple of cherry tomatoes.
A sedate opening over passed by before Linsdell clipped a couple of cheap boundaries in over two to set the tone for the hour to follow. On a pitch that played considerably better than could have been expected after the persistent precipitation the new opening pair applied an unexpected combination of thinking and thudding to put the Mol Bol bowling to the sword.
Linsdell in particular was making good use of his new trampoline-bat, picking up regular boundaries and moving passed 50 inside the first 10 overs. With Siyambalapitiya playing Ernie Wise to Linsdell’s Eric Morecambe, the pair bundled their way passed the 100 mark after just twelve overs. Linsdell fell shortly after, but not before a 19-run over that took his personal tally to 80 and the partnership to 131.
As is so often the case, one wicket brought more as Parikh, Bean and Skipper Steve all fell cheaply. But with Siyambalapitiya holding the reigns, and achieving an excellent half-century, UCLES* reached an imposing 175-4 in their 20 overs. Skipper Steve then gathered the team in the dressing room for a rousing pre-fielding monologue, which was ultimately less Henry V and more Police Academy V. It seemed, however, to do the trick.
With little thimbles of raining tickling the air like a mild but nagging cough, so UCLES* took to the field to finish the job. What followed was one of the most awesome displays of pace bowling ever seen under the UCLES* crest.
Wood and Spittle began the show with an eight-over spell that ended the game as a contest. Just as Wood was cracking middle stumps like rotting late autumn conkers, so Spittle was embarrassing batsmen with late in-swing. Having taken four wickets between them, the openers were replaced by Danson and Ordish, much to the relief of Linsdell behind the stumps who was keeping wicket with all the grace and success of a blind, fingerless monkey trying to juggle sand.
Whilst Danson locked horns for a tense and ultimately unrewarding battle with a cricketer of the female persuasion, so Ordish was producing a smooth and largely unplayable spell to blast away the middle order, taking 3 wickets for a single run in 3 overs. In its own way, it was probably the best bowling display of the evening. Danson finally rattled the stumps for himself as the game drew to its inevitable end whilst Parikh collected the final two wickets with more impressive pace bowling. White also provided a couple of overs of strong support, lighting a beacon for flight and guile among the speed merchants around him.
In the end, 10 wickets had fallen without a chance coming to hand. Nine times UCLES* bowlers crashed the tiring woodwork and just once the pressed fluff of a pad had intervened. It was just as well really, as the late spring chill had fielders wringing their hand like old man Steptoe. Indeed, having admired the astonishing range of pullovers, tank tops and cardigans on show, PC Bean has confirmed he will be investigating to see if any be-flannelled young men were seen ram-raiding an Oxfam shop prior to the fixture.
Ultimately, UCLES* inflicted on their opponents the biggest reverse since Robert Kilroy-Silk entered the Eurovision Song Contest with a cover version of Parkes and Charles’ classic “There’ll always be an England.”
The sun may yet shine on UCLES* cricket.
Blossom
We have a lovely little tree in our front garden. Last week it was ebullient with blossom yet this week it is featureless again, like Morph at Tony Hart's funeral.
That can only mean that Spring, that season of dancing infants and Jane Austen, has launched upon us again and we are just days away from yet another season of unfulfilled expectations and limping dreams. I can hardly wait.
Until then my dears, until then...
That can only mean that Spring, that season of dancing infants and Jane Austen, has launched upon us again and we are just days away from yet another season of unfulfilled expectations and limping dreams. I can hardly wait.
Until then my dears, until then...
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