Sir Bobby

I’m 33 years old.

Like most people my age I look back with amnesic nostalgia at being 23 or, on bad days, 13. And there are very few reasons to want to be any older, but there is one.

If I were 43 then I would have seen my first Town game in 1977, not 1987. I would have been at Wembley the year after, and maybe even in Amsterdam as teenager. I would have drunk heartily from the cup of triumph as my not-so-little football club taught Europe a few things about style, substance and dignity.

But as it was I was chasing a blue balloon around the living room when Roger Osborne won us the FA Cup and by the time Mick Mills lifted the UEFA Cup I had long since been asleep, dreaming of action men, Tonka toys and Neapolitan ice-cream.

And so I never saw an Ipswich side managed by Sir Bobby. I fell in love with them, certainly, but via a massive transistor radio and not through the sounds, smells and air crunching atmosphere of a swaying Portman Road. Were I 43, then I would have the pictures in my head to sketch and colour again and again for my children and grand-children. As it is, the only Sir Bobby sides I ever saw live were wearing the white of England or the indisputable stripes of Newcastle United.

So I never met the man (although I nearly did, but that’s another story) and I never saw a single second of his tenure as Ipswich manager. And yet, when the news of his passing spread across the news wires last week I was first numbed and then deeply, deeply saddened. I’ve been thinking about why…

In the modern world we are bombarded by the importance and indulgence of celebrity. The lives of these special few are highlighted by how different they are from us – how their cars, holidays, parties and palaces make our achievements wilt and wither in their shade. Yet with Sir Bobby it was different. We adored Sir Bobby not because of what made him different, but from what made us the same. We had the same dreams, the same morals, the same expectations and the same beliefs. We shared a belief in things being done a certain way and, most importantly of all, we shared a mutual love for this small, globally insignificant corner of England where we came together as one of the final bastions of a fast-fading type of community.

We treated Sir Bobby as one of our own – and rightly so. But if he couldn’t have been from Martlesham, Stowmarket, Bury or even Haverhill then I’m glad he was a Geordie. They know a hero up there, and they know how to worship.

People say we won’t see the likes of him again and maybe they’re right. Football people are increasingly being driven and influenced by the commercial priorities of modern life. The game we grew up with is passing from the passionate to the paymaster and the road we’re on is littered with computer games and beach soccer tournaments.

There is therefore more to mourn this summer than one single man. Sir Bobby stood for all those great footballing traditions we so want to retain – the man management, the charisma, the sporting imperative and the honest humility of good people doing the right things for the right reasons.

But perhaps we shouldn’t think too much about what dies with Sir Bobby – now may not be the time to face the hornet’s nest that is Twenty-First Century Football. Now is the time to remember and salute the Geordie Gent that arrived as our gamble – and left as our Godfather.

My Dad once told me how sad he was that I never got to meet his father, who died in the 1950s.

“You’d have loved him”, he said. “He was a lovely man”.

Hearing him say that has always stuck in my mind and in my throat. And maybe it goes some way to explaining why I feel the loss of Sir Bobby so tangibly. It was not just what he meant to me, but what he meant to other people as well. I may never have been personally touched by his simple, human magnificence, but I have been surrounded by it every moment of my life. All 33 years of it.

Goodnight Sir Bobby. Thanks for everything…and don’t worry, we promise to take care of your ‘beloved Ipswich…’

UCLES* v Engineering (20/07/09)

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

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

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.

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...

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.

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…

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.