Even the most optimistic of souls would have known deep down that prospects for a game of cricket last Saturday were non-existent.
As the forecast rains arrived almost to the minute we loaded our bags into the car knowing this was a journey with no outcome unless the Pokemon Club made a few kills along the way.
The Convict was unwell and loaded with Lemsip which made a change from Tetleys. Having at last decided on a fitness regime for the season – the Australian one – his immune system has collapsed. It seems beer really is good for a man.
After a summer of being awoken by his returns in the early hours, now he’s off to the gym at the same time; I am thinking of billing the club for sleep deprivation or simply nailing his door shut.
Worse was to follow later in the weekend when I caught him in his room red-handed with the Dyson. He followed this up by making me a cuppa; surely I had broken him at last?
We were to be playing at the beautiful old Tong Park ground with our free spending, promotion seeking opponents usual ground still recovering from the Boxing Day floods.
The hired guns looked gloomy as the pouring rain surely meant no pay day this week. It’s the time of year when mobile phones are drawn quicker than bats as the murky world of underhand payments to secure “loyalties” for another year stirs into life.
Local giants Underachievers CC are rumoured to have approached a well-known Mr Big as their new supremo with a war chest of Roman Abramovich proportions. Will Molly be lured by the whispered offer of a pie and a pint per wicket?
Brace yourself for a winter of wage inflation for lads barely averaging twenty with bat or ball.
A once idyllic setting for cricket – as long as you brought your midgie spray – the old ground is a throwback to another age. You descend down a winding narrow track with whitewashed old buildings teasing you in past the fishing lake.
The facilities may be basic – the ground lost its status as a premier venue as a result of the merger of Tong Park and Esholt several years ago – and electricity is still only a dream. At least we had running water and plenty of it, mainly off the covers.
What future the ground has is not clear with only a few years left on the lease and land at a premium. It would be a sad day if this gem from a bygone era was lost for good.
Eventually the opposition captain conceded that Mother Nature was today’s winner; he would have to go home to the wife and we all trudged off a good hour later than common sense would have picked.
I awaited the call to worship from Team 2 for surely there would be beers. This was no country for sober cricketers.
Alas these are changing times and my Nokia stared back with a blank, vacant and unloved look. The Convict trudged around the house similarly unloved, not enthused by my Classic FM Relaxed Moods CD as I lounged in my new lair.
I thought about lighting a few candles to send him to the pub. Inevitably we resigned ourselves to the fact that we were alone and only The Scruffy could save our souls so off we went.
When he ordered a blackcurrant and soda Our Jackie looked ashen and plugged her defibrillator in promptly.
“Is he turning you gay love?” she enquired oblivious to my feelings.
“Who are you calling gay?” piped up gay icon Gary Tipper sat at the bar wearing his natty new striped boating jacket still hoping for that elusive invitation to Henley. For now, Lister Park lake would have to suffice, negotiating his punt around the dumped cars each Sunday afternoon, no jacket required.
The Scruffy was far from full and even Nob ‘Ed Korna was empty, the inmates rumoured to be all lost in Aldi. Life was collapsing all around us.
Worse still Our Jackie was now abandoning us to rush home to road test her new bed.
“It’s me third this year!” she said heaving a huge Next carrier in a vain attempt to disguise her recent buys at last night’s secret Ann Summers party down in the cellar at The Scruffy.
Eventually we rolled home having at least avoided the X-Factor with visions of Our Jackie sporting her new bed-head gear wielding her riding crop.
I woke early to good cheer from Radio 4, two back to back stories appearing to offer a slant on our times.
The noble volunteer pursuit of bell ringing is under threat with numbers falling and average ages of remaining participants rising; sound familiar?
More sinister is the rapid increases in children’s cancer attributed to modern sedentary lifestyles. Perhaps a bit of bell-ringing would not go amiss?
Footnote
And finally, this from the current issue of Private Eye (1426) as one of their regular Number Crunching features.
67 – record haul for Team GB…widely credited to John Major’s creation of National Lottery-funded UK Sport.
470 – school playing fields recorded as having been “disposed” of since John Major lost power.
One more nail in the coffin for the good ‘ole sporting legacy yarn?
Leave a Reply