Amazing what you read in the papers but now I’ve got your attention have a read of the rest of this week’s rubbish…or go celebrate!
A big weekend this one with the Villas Grey Foxes one more win from stepping onto the hallowed turf once again in the footsteps of giants.
Two years ago we enjoyed a surreal day on the hallowed turf where Our Geoffrey, Fiery Fred and Joe Root have all trodden with distinction.
We got stuffed but, for one day at least, the result seemed secondary.
Fingers crossed for one more day out in the sun.
Dear Mrs Bayne
Thanks to some excellent photography from a supporter of one of our recent opponents, I can introduce some of David’s team mates to you at long last, with a selection of “shots” a little bit more precise than the airborne one he got out to – again – on Saturday.
Bragging rights remain with his mate Bevan as we got hammered; I can sense Mr Bayne’s reaction from here.
The only plus point at all is that my butler duties are light this week as neither of us got a stain of grass on our whites.
This is Captain Joe and you would not think a big lad could bend down so far unless to pick up his pizza. I am unsure about the pair of hands that appear to be warming themselves on his rear but we are a liberal club.
Young Cloughie in the picture I have coached since he was knee-high, though I never realised that he actually watched the ball so closely before he whacked it to all parts.
Cloughie is a very talented musician and clearly seems to favour Beatlemania if the hair style is anything to go by or, like David, he simply sees no need for hairdressers.
On that subject I have finally secured a cut for the lad with my lovely hairdresser, avoiding the £2.50 Dish Cut normally on offer on the village. As you can see this is a good choice.
Nicola offered us a joint appointment but I sensed this another bridge too far.
Every team needs an oldie – how else would I get a game – and our regular “veteran” is Shutty known for his elegant batting, mystery military medium bowling and high-precision sledging.
Apparently the ECB have checked his bowling action and it’s no more bent than a certain Mr Muralitharan…so that’s all right then.
When Shutty bowls the odd wag has been known to shout “double top!” from the safety of Critics’ Corner and the comfort of several double whiskies.
Next up is Juni the quiet lad of the team and an all-rounder who gives the ball a serious whack.
We also have the odd teacher; here’s one of them practising his face to scare the shit out of the kids.
The ECB also looked at this action but deemed it trick photography and therefore completely impossible. Michael’s lovely wife Sarah is chief cheerleader and loves to rattle her pom-poms on the boundary edge whilst sledging the opposition.
We can find her most weeks down the Prosecco aisle at Morrisons being escorted gently off the premises.
Next up is one of our batting giants who I also coached long before he became three times as big as me. Recent studies in the UK have concluded that those lucky enough to enjoy a private education can be guaranteed the plum jobs.
Luke is Chief Pudding Tester for the giant ASDA supermarket chain with a salary package that includes free Mr Kiplings all year; he will often tell me that sitting down all day tasting puddings is a stressful existence.
Proof in the pudding, so to speak?
We also like to appeal to the gay community as this picture will testify with Captain Joe posing with our opening bowler and ex-boy band singer Louis from the tribute band Any YMCA Direction.
Louis denies the rumours but is secretly delirious over his poster boy image. I can also testify – as his Mum is an avid reader of this column and knows where I drink – that our boy is straight down the middle as we hope will be his bowling once fully fit again.
As a good club man, Louis knows that the occasional ECB grant is helped along the way with a look on the homoerotic side of life and his 2016 calendar is selling well in certain areas of Leeds and Manchester.
Joe denies the rumours flatly on the basis that nobody would wish to share a bed with him which is incontrovertible.
Finally we have Sam our gentle – if occasionally grumpy – giant. Sam opens the bowling and always liked to ring me for extra practice when he was younger; I am so glad those days are over and would have felt safer as a trainee suicide bomber.
Winter appears to have dropped by a little bit early in these parts so I decided to feed your boy with some warming produce from the garden. I did warn him that if his poo turned dark red, this was not a sign to run from the loo screaming and ring the ambulance.
As I mentioned last week, he is doing well in the Finishing School and this week offered to join me at the sink to dry the dishes.
Almost in unison we both realised this would not be a good look for anyone peering over my wall as Lady Secretary Marsden has been known to do, on the scrounge for free veg. Grunts were exchanged and he took the hint and buggered off.
In return for his blossoming domestic prowess – I have warned him that the vacuum cleaner is due it’s mid season appearance soon – I have been introduced to a marvellous concept on my television called On Demand.
Apparently it was there all the time though it thrilled me almost as much as my parents’ first Betamax video recorder. You never stop learning apparently.
It seems the local pub is intent on planting a new forest so work is a plenty and my settee is my own during daytime hours. Of course, all working men deserve a pint or two and David needs little prompting as to when it is “Bear Time”.
If, when he gets home, he suddenly springs to life at 7.55.pm each Sunday and heads for the door licking his lips, be gentle when you explain that The Bear is in a faraway land where the Three Wise Men convene each week to gaze at Our Jackie behind the bar.
On Sunday, Big Al, Patch & myself regaled our impressionable youngster with insightful tales into our shared experiences of the vasectomy. He listened intently, mystified why anyone would be at risk with the average age of women in the Bear approaching eighty.
My mother was only marginally more appalled at my writing this piece than she was relieved that I would not be bringing one of me into this strange world, dumping the thing on her door at regular intervals.
Big Al’s motivation for assaulting his nether regions was less certain as medical proof suggests alcohol diminishes fertility and the chance of a near-sixty year-old career alcoholic producing anything seemed remote.
Enjoy your weekend.
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