Cricket is often at the mercy of the elements. Even when we play Mother Nature can often influence a game far more than tactical genius and there is nothing more unpredictable than an English summer, of which this one appears so typical already.
Last week started bathed in sunshine, gardens croaked for water and sun-cream was smeared everywhere but Liverpool. Yet, as Friday night came, Facebook was alive with cricketers arranging beer sessions as the rain poured incessantly.
Saturday morning came and several of us convened to see what was under the covers and if we could rescue the afternoon’s entertainment. Sure enough 48 hours under the covers and the wicket resembled a pair of Molly’s socks after a hike to the Bear.
Major Binns was already striding up and down with the Super Sopper, an ingenious creation rather like a giant loofer on wheels, picking up water like Big Al hoovering up a pint.
Puffing like the Worth Valley steam train, the Major’s ruddy features displayed apprehension as to what would we find underneath. Several dozen gallons of water later and we uncovered a predictable soggy mess.
Chiz and Molly rolled up with faces reflecting the possibility of a day hauled around Matalan and TK Maxx with card-flexing wives, although Molly looked dressed ready for more fence painting duty, seemingly having accepted his fate with unusual grace.
Brent the Rollerman was soon in operation, chugging up and down like a young Fred Dibnah, wiping soot stains from his face as he rolled out the wet grass like a pie pastry.
Feeling left out I claimed my own favourite machine, the ride-on mower, which always reminds me of learning to drive in my dad’s old Ford Capri although the mower does not have reclining seats, a cassette player or a faux-leather steering wheel.
Starsky and Hutch would not be seem dead on the Villas mower.
An hour astride this would sort out many a flabby Bradford girl’s wobbles but for a 51 year old with a dodgy back it was not a good pre-match warm-up. Gingerly dismounting, I hoped Tall Pete had not got me booked in for a bowling session later that afternoon.
Predictably, last to arrive was the youngest; team all-rounder Marsy looked a bit miffed that I had talked him out of extra beers the previous night with cricket still a possibility. One hour later though the ground was a picture; one hour later the clouds opened again.
C’est la vie as they say…in France.
The umpire cheerily told us that he had been scheduled to be on his own but the league had switched someone at the last minute because of all the early call-offs meaning we were now on the hook for double money for doing nothing.
I offered him a cup of tea and tried to charge him £20 just so we were square but he was having none of it. Marking my card for later in the season he slurped his tea contentedly, brass in pocket, grateful to t’Management Committee for funding his afternoon beers.
Why we had the rarity of two umpires at this late stage was beyond me. Even Michael Fish would have had the chances of play at no chance and yet now we had to cough up twice to confirm the bleeding obvious.
If MP’s expenses have become a national scandal, then umpires’ expenses have plenty of resonance locally too. At this rate some of the old buggers will be answering questions in the House.
As the rain hammered down our disconsolate visitors faced the long return journey to Grassington, whereas I drove Molly the much shorter distance home with floods of tears rolling down his cheeks as he faced an afternoon chained to Mr Ronseal singing songs from Twelve Years A Slave.
And then – quicker than another rule change from t’Management Committee – the phone rang. Had we got a Third umpire?
“I’ve done it…talked the Missus round…eta 2pm…all usual suspects advised…see you in the Bear!” The old boy had worked the oracle…it was cheeky beers time…and even Carol knew!
Arriving with the grace of a walking upside down bag of potatoes, Big Al looked his usual hangdog self, as if the world was about to run out of beer and curry.
He was unusually late for beer prayers which is always unsettling for anybody that knows him; it’s almost like a bomb warning. He cannot have been choosing what to wear as he looked as scruffy as always; maybe he had been having a love-in with Luckless Linda?
He grabbed a pint like a lost man in a desert having found an oasis (of Saltaire Blonde in Big Al’s version) and confided that the lovely Luckless was with her mother in hospital. So to cheer her up he was making her a chilli later and had a romantic night planned with a box of Aldi t-lights set up around the bath.
As there was only room for one, this was fine as Match of the Day would do for the big man. How a night in with Big Al could cheer anyone up – especially the thought of sharing a bed with him after a chilli – caused furrowed brows.
Major Binns cut a cheerless figure as he sipped at his pint. Hon. Secretary Lady Marsden was taking the opportunity of no cricket to whisk him to M&S for some new Y-fronts tired of the frayed ones hung from the bedstead. When daughter – Our Ashleigh – claimed them as dusters only recently that was the last straw.
Meanwhile, Molly was regaling us with a description of a walk he had planned for a day out in Filey the following day.
“It’s Whitby to Scarboro…slightly up hill. Mind, if you come t’other way it’s all downhill!” Amazing we all thought, Denholme’s very own Sherpa Tenzing.
Eventually I got the call from the scheduled opponents for my U15s the following morning and, as the clouds burst once more, I had a day off from minding the special school…there was a God after all…OFSTED would have to wait another week for special measures.
Big Al received an update from Luckless who had apparently not eaten all day. Expressing his sorrow he shovelled Marsy’s peanuts into his mouth and slurped down his sixth pint. Dinner was now rapidly looking like a Khyber special for two as the big man started to get into his stride.
Around the table the beers were really taking effect now as Molly attempted a passing kiss, tongue rolling sideways out of a cheese Quaver infested mouth, at a very disinterested Carol. Surely it was not that time of the year?
Daughter Chloe wondered where she had put her ear defenders just in case, although a night at Uncle Shutty’s looked a safer bet if her mum weakened.
Not put off he dug deep and returned from the bar with a bottle of Echo Falls Rose. Carol tipped the lot into a pint glass reasoning that if she did weaken then better to be unconscious and let him get on with it.
Eventually it was close of play; Big Al rang the Khyber, the Major went off to try his luck in his new Jockeys and Carol dragged Molly out by the ear with with daughter Chloe tutting behind still adrift in cyber space as her dad professed his undying love for her mum.
We had a game Monday..time to sober up.
Save Idle Moor
I took a walk around the fields that the “spivs and speculators” want to concrete the other night. The rain had finally stopped and the horses were out in their meadows chewing a bountiful feast of lush, moist grass oblivious to the threat of new three bed-roomed semis.
Many years ago this land used to be mined for stone and Idle stone is in buildings far and wide. One of the campaigners found this great old picture. As we cannot rely on the Council to make the right decision, who knows what lies beneath?
Should Have Gone to Specsavers
Monday’s game was instantly forgettable as a sobering defeat brought some harsh reality to our dressing room. A long day in the field and beer was the last thing on my mind but I had not allowed for the persistent presence of Big Al.
Desperate to fill in the hour until his carer – Luckless – arrived with his daily hot meal he cajoled me into “just a couple”.
Fortunately, he was true to his word as Luckless came in, flashed a bottle of Radox in her handbag and the Khyber menu for good measure. Soon he was gone, wiping the last of his pint on his George @ Asda sweater as quick as his 20 stone frame and titanium hips would allow.
About to finish off my pint and head for home I was sure I had seen a vision for surely, sat in the corner, was James Martin, celebrity chef. Surely not?
Having played cricket like a blind man all day and with glasses now at home, this was not the time to ask a perfect stranger if he did a good grill.
I went home only for it to be confirmed that, as I burnt five day old bread and smeared on Aldi baked beans, one of the nation’s finest chefs had been sat in my local.
Heavens to Murgatroyd!
Blame Me!
Ever since I got the sun chair out of the garage a week ago the clouds have poured and I’ve just heard this on the radio.
“With more sun and those longer days to come…” Where?
As it pisses down once again here’s a sobering thought; we are barely 3 weeks away from the longest day and the nights getting shorter again!
Cheered you up? Maybe not…so here’s Keeley…works for me everytime…nurse!!!
The Road to Scarborough: Re-united and It Feels So Good
The Villas’ Grey Fox squad are eagerly awaiting the phone call from Chair of Selectors Mr Lawrence Snr to see who has made the squad this year. Watch this space for more details – those that wives are permitted to read – of this year’s campaign.
{Read The Road to Scarborough and re-live last year’s aches and pains one by one…I would say “click here” but would you really expect me to be able to do that?}
Nokia Man
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