Thrill to another extract gleaned from the pages of the legendary Daily Rivet, the official unofficial organ of the Lord Toad’s X1, a team of cricketing amateurs based in Ringwood, nestling in the verdant beauty of the New Forest
NETS have now finished, so the TOADS have at least half a dozen players who can remember how the game works. First fixture of the season is on Sunday 27 April against the humble yeomen of Coombe Bissett, featuring possibly the most sumptuous cricket tea you will enjoy all season, complete with homemade cakes, tea served from an urn by buxom country wenches, and the ubiquitous mini sausage rolls, without which any game of cricket would be the lesser for it. The ground, situated amidst a sea of yellow oil seed rape, as well as some purple stuff, as well as the more normal green stuff, is situated on a slight slope allowing an unsurpassed view of the crumbling ruins of Tinhenge which lie to the East, one of the few local remaining relics dating from the Corrugated Iron Age.
And so it came to pass that, after 40 days and nights of continuous rain, the Toads piled into their cars two by two and thundered off to Coombe Bissett to face their destiny. The first game of the new Millennium was upon them. All the hundreds of hours of selfless devotion spent during the winter in the process of fine tuning their athletic bodies for the rigours of the modern game were about to be put to the test. As we thundered on beneath the true blue skies of Hampshire, I realised that this was to be the first full season without the larger than life presidency of Roger. The president is dead, long live the president - the new presidento of our club, the lovely Jenny Pitcher. She turned up to watch the Toads, in her new posh car that I don’t at all feel envious of! She ate strawberries, mainly.
It was to be a game of two halves. In the first half the Toads were excellence itself. Taking the cue from Nick Guy’s excellent early catch, we bowled and fielded as sweetly as the sweetest sweetmeat offered from a platter of the finest in sweetness by the sweetest of semi-naked virgins. Our bowlers did us proud and our fielding was of the rarest quality, to the extent that if we had been a fine wine we would have been definitely bloody ‘appellation controlee’. After reducing the opposition to a mundane 140 odd runs from 45 overs, we attacked our first (and probably finest) cricket tea of the season with all the gusto at our command, of which there was a plentiful supply. There is nothing like a drop of the old gusto at moments like this, especially if accompanied by homemade cakes and scones of the finest quality - not a mini sausage-roll in sight but somehow that didn’t matter, we were on a high. A mention here must made of the captaincy of Alan Corlett who, in this correspondent’s eyes, was a shining example to our readers of all ages. Not a young man himself, Alan showed a wisdom beyond even his years in his field placings and advice to some of the younger bowlers such as myself. Another mention for an extremely hungover Brian Corlett who performed heroics in his unaccustomed role of wicket keeper.
But the second part awaits, not so much fun, this part. In this part we fail to build on the platform of the first part. In fact the platform of the first part falls down on our heads. The rot begins with the controversial dismissal of Dave Baldwin and wickets begin to fall. Alan is playing well but as soon as Alex suggests he may score a glorious Captain’s 50, he is out. Nice one Alex! who is obviously still rather unsure of how to harness the power of his telepathic thought beams for the good of the team. The highpoints of our largely dismal innings are four glorious sixes by Alan Bingham and a good knock by Mark ‘Ronnie’ Radford who also bowled well and won Man of the Match. We were all out for 80 odd and therefore lost, as that is unfortunately how the rules of the game work.
And so, a drink was in order and off we went to the bloody Fox and Goose, all meals in a basket and happy families sitting round eating hastily microwaved lasagne and listening to Coombe Bissett F.M. at a volume that drowned out all attempts at conversation. So we all went outside and attempted to have a conversation, one that finally ended for me about four hours later in the illicit drinking den known to mere mortals as the Railway. Where else can you get pissed, watch women fall backwards off bar stools, and mime along to Ginger Baker’s drumming in Cream’s over the top rendition of the legendary Robert Johnson’s Crossroads. When I left I felt nearly as drunk as the drunk bloke at the bar. All in all, an excellent end to a good day out. Here’s to many more like it during the course of the season. Toads, give yourselves a big hug.