An away day on the edge of the Dales – Skipton – saw the resumption of my Second X1 career on the road to the rest home, false teeth and death by slower than medium pace. A new season was here again.
Off I set in the company of Harry, our trustworthy scorer. At least “H” is happy again now we have got rid of the dreaded lap-top and he can sharpen his coloured pencils once more.
Reliable scorers are like gold dust so really bright of the league to alienate a portion of them!
Skipton is one of the largest grounds in the league so the warm-up lap was sparsely populated. Captain Chaos – JB – typically invented his own approach, bouncing into the dressing room like a Jack Russell on acid, sun-cream daubed on his already red nose.
Scattering gear like a frenzied woman at the Debenhams’ sale – he announced, somewhat predictably, that his knee bandage was either in the car or lost. The other fifteen bandages had been sourced and applied as he stood there mumbling beneath them.
Off he hopped into the distance on his one good leg, only to return flushed and wheezing several minutes later to instantly find the “missing” item in his bag.
Those around him moved a few feet further away and odds were sought as to how many games his new sweater would last before it too would be far beyond the Daz Challenge or simply have disappeared.
We were put in to bat against an opening bowling attack slower than my mum on Skegness beach in 1971; it was never going to end well and my mind wandered back to mum bowling me out with ease, aged 8, with the odd choice send-off and a raised digit or two.
“On yer way loser…and no ice-cream for you today! I win!!!!” They brought kids up tough when I were a lad…tha knows!
A few cautiously played overs, fearing the worst if I got out to this rubbish and there it was – an invitation to “fill my boots” and open my new account with a bonus. A juicy wide, leg-side full-toss saying “hit me to the next village old timer!”
Sadly, instead of throwing the kitchen sink at this ripe melon, there I was a few minutes later, sat in the changing rooms with a team mate on suicide watch and all belts being removed from the room.
Having skilfully guided the ball with precision into the arms of a rotund fielder who would barely move for the rest of the day – save for the teatime cakes – there was a long afternoon of contemplation ahead.
I scoured the 2014 Fines Sheet and calculated that “out for a duck/shit-shot/bowled by a pimply foetus” would necessitate a direct debit. We may have got rid of match fees but I may need Wonga.com this season.
Soon we were 1-2 and I had more company in the dressing room as pads were hastily sought and my mate Duck – batting ten – decided that it would be wise to begin a warm-up jog back to the rooms from over in the distance.
With daughter Annie walking patiently alongside as he hobbled back, post varicose veins being ripped out a few weeks ago, it looked like quick singles were off the menu unless we could get Annie running for him.
We mounted a strong recovery, however, led by skipper Tony only for another collapse leaving us 139 all out and definitely “under par”.
After a sumptuous tea we returned to the rooms to prepare to hit them hard…once the cakes had settled.
Having passed his “fitness” test (nobody else available) our veteran seamer Molly began strapping on a bizarre contraption claimed to protect his injured shoulder, ravaged by years of strain courtesy of Tetleys.
It was like a bullet-proof Kevlar vest, so tight the big man could barely move his upper body, which at least was keeping his generous tits under control, something wife Carol’s stolen old frayed pink Playtex had abundantly failed to do.
Was it really therapeutic or had Carol commissioned a “hit” on him as another season began – could he really be worth a “contract”? We looked to the trees and sought out the sniper as Molly decided he would go topless after all and young Jordan rang Operation Yewtree.
The relief on the big man’s face as his body sighed gratefully at the release was palpable but any hopes of a sensible team talk had long vanished leaving it to H to issue the usual clarion call “…go f*ck ‘em lads!”
Which we nearly did, losing only by a single wicket unable to prise out Stevie Wonder – batting at six – and Ironside – coming in at ten, quickly enough.
Captain Chaos had “forgotten” his toiletries again (suspicious weekly event) so I offered him my Sensitive Men range just to get rid of him.
Strangely, my exfoliating shower scarf – designed to rub bits man cannot reach in company – drew some alarmed glances although a quick sweep over the lower regions and Molly, eyes glazed, had placed an order.
“By ‘eck last time I were touched like that he kept saying Amen.” said Molly with no need for the marital bed that night.
Eventually we landed back at the Villas where a close game was being edged by our Firsts and some familiar old faces waited to greet me up in Critics’ Corner with their inimitable warmth and bonhomie after a winter away dodging the Grim Reaper’s cricket bat once again.
“Scoreboard’s not working…what’s up wi’ it?”
“It’s too cold oop ‘ere…when are wi getting’ heated seats?”
“Bloody grass is too green!”
There was still much joy in their hearts!
I skipped on, pretending to be as deaf as them, musing that there sat half a dozen cases to make a good argument on behalf of euthanasia and none would feel a thing, pissed as they were on Aldi whisky.
Surely my old team-mates would shower me with some needed affection?
And yes, at least they had clearly missed me though only because nobody had remembered to switch on the immersion heater or brought any jelly beans.
Lee advised me that he had now claimed my “spot” meaning any cameo appearances would require me asking where I might sit this season so I trudged off to collect the boundary flags, resigned to my fate as yesterday’s man.
This weekend sees the first big test of the season – not cricketing but relationship – as we have the dreaded double weekend where anyone even breathing in the bar Saturday night may end up playing the day after in the cup.
If the ICC really want to see how matches are fixed just come to Skipton – again – this weekend as both teams meet to agree over a few beers, the toss of a coin and a wink of the eye.
I just hope the foetus is playing for their Under 11s.
Slow News Week
Sky, as the pioneer of 24 hour news, love a good disaster to fill up the airtime and avoid anything relatively informative being broadcast to it’s dumbed down audience, me included.
Our senses have been drowned recently by endless coverage of the Oscar Pistorius trial with all the big-hitters de-camped to South Africa to cover a case that appears as open and shut as his toilet door was…allegedly M’Lady.
Why this should interest us greatly in the UK is anybody’s guess but it’s easy news and a few anchormen can get an early summer tan.
However, an unseemly adjunct to Sky’s wall to wall coverage is their inevitable app which I somehow struggle to find – thankfully – on my old faithful Nokia.
This is particularly so with their coverage of the South Korean ferry disaster where viewers are encouraged to go on line and read the last texts of drowning school children.
Presumably it can also show you where not to sit on a toilet in South Africa? Keep up the good taste Rupert.
In My Day
In response to ever increasing player shortages the league have come up with their own response this year, proving they really do understand clubs’ issues; fail to field a full team and its fines and points deductions all round…very constructive.
Clubs have had to issue warnings to anyone walking within grabbing distance of grounds as they now risk being dragged onto a field dressed in white and made to stay there all day.
Critics’ Corner have all been issued with new shirts and the tea ladies have been instructed to drop the cakes and do ten overs in the field if required.
Meanwhile, back in my day, life were grand!
A True Gentleman
A piece in the Daily Mail forwarded to me contained a guide to those that aspire to be considered a true gentleman. The most bizarre of the approved practices was “making love on your elbows”.
Anybody that has tried the “plank” in Pilates will know this is probably sound advice.
After 30 seconds you start to shake, a minute guarantees strong vibrations with your tongue out and ninety seconds should see a total collapse with eyes popping, an escape of wind and no ability to move until feeding time.
And proving that I am far from the finished article, hair products and wearing lycra are definite no-no’s meaning keeping ones upper and lower bits in check is far from de rigueur.
Rose says
HILARIOUS !!! Truly one of your best ….. x