It was the closing ceremony of the 2036 Azerbaijan Olympics.
I’d not had much time to watch due to the ever increasing pace of retired life in the Never Alone gated compound that now occupied the site of our lovely old cricket ground where I was seeing out my days.
Team GB had just completed a triumphant games for Emperor Boris, winning every medal available as the nation watched glued to their iPads fascinated by this strange concept called sport.
Boris was triumphant and defiantly justified his decision to shut down the NHS in the pursuit of Olympic “glory”.
“If you can’t afford BUPA then don’t get ill” he blustered from his castle built in the old Olympic Park, long since vacated by Sex Ham United FC.
School children were not allowed to read the banned books of old that gloried achievements called the Ashes and the Rugby World Cup for Boris had decreed that, if he was happy being a scruffy, deluded fat slob, then so should everybody else.
All the nations schools were now run by the Pokemon Academy and Head of Fitness And Well Being, Sir Eric Pickles – “obesity…what’s that?” – insisted that keeping the nation’s power stations running by burning every book ever written by Geoffrey Boycott was good value.
Leisure pursuits such as walking were banned which was just as well as the ancient area that used to be called the Lake District was now called Frackville and all the lakes had turned green.
Like all the local sports clubs that used to be called “grassroots” our little cricket club had simply run out of people able to stand up for longer than it took to have a pee.
Although the English Cricket Board (ECB) had pushed their revolutionary concept – the Over 70s ECB Premier League – to prove participation levels were still healthy, the competition had been dogged by corruption.
There were allegations of talent money being slipped into the long johns of ageing fast bowlers, keen to supplement their pensions.
Match fixing was rife as sprinkler systems were regularly set off late on Friday nights. Players were desperate to avoid the local league’s decree that games should now consist of 100 overs a side and any ball not hitting middle stump should be called a wide.
However, an idea spawned by a causal beer-assisted conversation many moons ago had spurred us on to take a different path and create the Villas first crown green bowling team. Sport, in whatever form we could manage, would still exist on All Alone Road.
Never Alone on All Alone Road. It had seemed to have quite a ring to it, though these days the only rings we residents heard were the daily calls to prayer from Imam Mollah which drifted melodiously across the compound.
“’Ee you lads t’beers ‘ill be served in t’Critics’ Corner bar in ten minutes” came the soothing tones “get thi sen there an go see Our Jackie who’ll ave yer daily Viagra pill too!”
We’d stolen Our Jackie from The Scruffy with a promise of her own Blow & Go salon on site. Although she’d lost most of her teeth by now the regulars seemed to rate the venture a success.
As soon as the daily ring went out, Big Al would begin preparations to savour the first freshly pulled pint of the day. It was time to attempt the daily exercise regime of pulling his socks on.
The lovely Luckless Linda had the job of pushing him in his reinforced chair as his third pair of titanium hips had only recently given way.
We’d struck a deal with Veuve Clicquot Businesswoman of the Year, Mrs Baxendale, now CEO of Wates plc, the biggest housebuilder in the country.
Promising never to take her son – Harry – out clubbing and womanising ever again to the Idle Working Mens Club, in return she had agreed to buy our wonderful old ground and build a retirement compound with the wicket preserved forever as a bowling green.
From the proceeds we’d built the clubhouse of our dreams with subsidised beer on tap, free Viagra and Tatiana from Tiblisi as resident masseuse.
The apartments were on two levels, built in the style so common in Lanzarote, all painted white with balconies looking out over the lush bowling green. Truly, these were our sunshine days.
First to buy had been retired entrepreneur Patch having sold his dental business for many millions to Vampire Capital plc. Finally Lady Patch could enjoy the lifestyle she craved and Harvey Nichols was now her second home.
She had insisted that he buy two apartments as she could no longer tolerate his snoring, banishing him to the lower level with a connecting door to Big Al’s new home.
Luckless was also delighted by this arrangement as she now had someone to help wheel her man to the Critics’ Corner bar.
Groundsman Binny and devoted Secretary Lady Marsden had also moved in, her ladyship finally abandoning her home to her 45 year-old son Adam and his wife, six kids and three dogs. Things had just got too comfortable for Adam.
It was a deal that suited Lady Marsden too as their apartment was next to the club garage and often she would find her beau fast asleep, sat on a mower, covered in grass cuttings, smelling of diesel, dreaming naughty thoughts of the perfect mowed strip.
Fellow curator Brent was in the adjoining suite; post pioneering surgery and new bionic knees, he was now the star of the bowling team, often running the full length in pursuit of another deadly delivery and a chance to sledge the opposition.
Together they kept the old square as pristine as it had been all those years ago as Old Donald, not in need of his outfield cutter any more, wandered the perimeter on his scooter offering advice perched on his saddle, keen eyes scouring the arena for any bits of fluffy moss.
As a mark of respect we’d left the old cricket nets standing though one was now an allotment. Some said it was still better than the wickets they played on back many moons.
Old men had gathered for many years after to drink whisky in a corner of the ground, recalling tales of daring do on wickets that could deprive one of manhood and teeth on any Saturday afternoon.
The other strip had been bought by Old Basil who was still coaching Young Darwin and, by now, Young Darwin Jnr.
“Come on son!” implored Old Basil as the bowling machine whistled down another 90mph delivery at his protégé “Straight bat for f*cks sake!!!”
It was hard not to feel sadness at what had become of the old place as I poured another glass of carrot juice, my pilates kit neatly ironed, lap-top open on Plenty of Grannies.com, the search for my perfect woman as yet unfulfilled.
Like a ship that had been listing for years, most of us had known what was to be our eventual fate but denial and delusion had been the order of the day from those steering this ship.
By the time the cracks were too big to patch, as ever it was too late and by then, nobody was left who seemed to care.
As I read the profile of Dirty Doris from Denholme it was hard not to wipe a tear from my old eyes.
I glanced one last time at the old team photos adorning my wall, closed the lap-top, picked up my faithful Nokia and made my daily journey for a few cold ones.
Bax says
Ah bless, at the time of life you are referring to life would be so different! Mrs Baxendale CEO and chief brick layers empire would of grown beyond recognition. BVCC would still be there but playing off the roofs of the retirement condominiums built to house the gifted from the scruffy! Harry would make an anual appearance (just to make sure his appearance money kept roiling in) having played for Lancashire and captained England for many a year would feel duty bound to keep the memory of his godfather and beloved Uncle Willy alive (other than a blue plaque ) stuck on the difficult to find entrance to BV and think “my Dad cooked the best ever BBQ they had ever seen before they were banned because of global warming!