The Daily Rivet

Ashurst tomorrow and am just recovering from the Toad’s first annual marathon fielding competition in which you have to do a compulsory fielding session of three hours until it is so dark and cold that you begin to feel very dark and cold yourself. While this is happening, a succession of batsmen and bowlers rush in and out and everything takes on the quality of a dream. Actually, it wasn’t a dream it was the Toad’s inaugural Single Wicket Competition, and was won handsomely in the deepening gloom of Carvers by Alex, although Charlie Pierson made him have to work very hard for it. Congratulations to the both of them and also to Alan Corlett who coped brilliantly with the complex administrative details of the whole thing, in the absence of the absent Howard. One good thing about it was that every batsman had to face two overs, which is about one and a half more than many of us usually face in proper matches!
And talking of proper matches, what about Ashurst then? Possibly the best team we play all season and who we have never beaten. Well, this time we almost did. After 45 overs of excellent bowling and fielding including two brilliant run outs by Alex, two catches by Australian debutante Owen and an orgasmic diving catch by Davie Baldwin (yes, he really made me come!), we had reduced the might of Ashurst to the ignominy of 98 (yes, 98) all out.
With Tim Baldwin and Neil taking us to the dizzy heights of 62 for 1, victory seemed at last within our grasp. Even the Toads with a history of near legendary batting collapses could not lose this one, or could they? The sixties proved to be our major downfall, as it had indeed previously proved to be for such as Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix (and, indeed in many ways your humble editor himself who smoked and ingested much of the milk of human kindness ) Well at least we were in good company then. We stumbled through the sixties like a doomed troop of U.S. soldiers in Vietnam, high on dope, transistors blaring, lost and confused as they crash their way through a Viet Cong infested jungle and gradually, atrociously, lose their young lives.
Yes, we lost all our lives, young and old, and were shot out for 84 and, to make matters worse, hadn’t even got the excuse of being high on dope. We weren’t actually shot, it was more like a sort of abject ritual suicide. Although I would just like to say here that if Tim Baldwin hadn’t got himself out after making a marvellous 54, then the picture might have been different! Just a thought there Tim for the future.
Over post match drinks in yet another bloody pub that thought it was a restaurant, Alex declared Owen and Tim to be joint men of the match, and then it was back to the Railway to drift away on waves of foaming cider to the harmonica-led music of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band (on C.D. not live in the pub as there wouldn’t be enough room for the darts players then).
And so to our midweek daytime fixture against the touring men of Pirbright. This time it was different, our bowling and fielding were not up to the standard of excellence on which we usually pride ourselves. The weather was exceptionally hot and many of us were still suffering from the nightmare exertion of having to move the cast iron New Forest pony defences that seem to get heavier year by year. Nature certainly has a lot to answer for and the price of cricket pitch conservation certainly exacts a huge toll on its human agents. Meanwhile the horses just stare at you with a withering look of contempt.
Eventually, Pirbright reach the daunting total of 183. True to form we soon lose our first wicket but then Mark joins Charlie at the crease and invisible little spaceships of joy begin to descend on Ellingham cricket ground. The little spacemen get out and run around and place little bits of joy in the spaces the spaceships have missed. We become drunk with joy, and Fosters, as our two batsmen take on Pirbright. Charlie is out for 40 odd and Mark carries on to his maiden Toad century ably helped at the end by a few bludgeoning blows by Stuart Wholikesadrink - and we win by about six wickets and get even more drunk and have a barbecue at the Railway and get even more drunk and then go inside and sabotage Quiz Night and get even more drunk and drop glasses on the floor and get even more drunk and go home and straight to bed as the real world re-starts promptly at 7 o clock the next morning , by which time the little silver spaceships will have left for their tiny planet of joy that exists precariously amidst a cold, uncaring universe.

All I wanted was a fucking cheese sandwich (by the way, greetings to all our viewers in far flung parts of what was once the British Empire. I can understand why you all wanted to devolve, leave the mothership in your brand new, re-named pod, as I surely do as well. To pilot your pods into new, uncharted space - although still confined within your well defined, final frontier, some arbitrary line drawn on a map with the blood of dead soldiers. Empire building was once all the rage, but, my friends, if only the consequences could have been foreseen. A world full of people living in countries that suddenly had new names and new oppressors to oppress them, but at least they could make ‘ethnic’ music once more and get to meet Paul Simon and Peter Gabriel and ignorede by Bob Geldof. By the way - who the fuck would want to buy a Charlotte Church CD??)
Anyway back to this fucking cheese sandwich. The Toads had rocked up to some little thatched country pub, conveniently situated right next to the ground, for a pre-match tactical talk and pre-briefing. I was a bit peckish and feeling somewhat delicate after spending the previous evening celebrating the wedding of Dave and Hazel Carter in a sauna somewhere in Ringwood and listening to perhaps the crappest (is that a real word?) disco that has ever dared to call itself a disco. One of those discos where the DJ talks over the records through a P.A. system similar to that used by British Rail, thinking he is being really funny, but in reality he is just a cunt. Sorry Dave, this doesn’t mean my feelings for you are any different, just that the disco failed to bring out the John Travolts that lurks somewhere inside me. In fact there’s plenty of room inside me for quite a few John Travoltas nowadays.
Anyway, I really fancied a fucking cheese sandwich, but after negotiating a path to the bar past a gaggle of gormless hooray-henrys talking loudly, wearing canvas shoes and cravats with matching blonde trophy wives wearing plastic faces and forced smiles, recently disgorged from all the bloody 4X4’s choking up the rustic car park, the menu proved to be a bit of a disappointment in the fucking cheese sandwich department. So I elected for the Coronation Chicken in a baguette option for slightly less than what I recently paid for my new Charlotte Church CD. I remember wondering what the fuck was Coronation Chicken, but then again you can hardly go wrong with chicken can you? although why they choose to live in stinking barns full of chicken piss and shit and dead chickens which they often eat themselves as they stumble around on feet too small for their chemically enhanced swollen bodies in eternal daylight, I have no idea.
Anyway there we were, sitting in the suffocatingly hot pub garden when our food arrived. I was handed a baguette filled with approximately half a gallon of coloured mayonnaise with the consistency of watered down water and four small cubes of what supposedly was chicken. As if that wasn’t awful enough someone had seen fit to deposit half the contents of a small garden over the whole ensemble and it was all gradually drowning in the coloured mayonnaise which was threatening to take over the world by this time. This is the essence of English pub food, and it was truly shit my friends. How the fuck do you eat something like this? I’ll tell you how, by pouring it all over your bloody clothes without attempting to eat it, cutting out the middleman completely. If I hadn’t been covered in mayonnaise I would have gone into the pub and complained but who would have taken a fat, over middle aged bloke covered in mayonnaise and sweat seriously? I know I certainly wouldn’t.
So we then went and played cricket and Spenser’s dad can once more see his son’s name in the Rivet. Spenser hit a glorious 50 and Alan Corlett played another fine Captain’s innings of 43 until he was given out L.B.W. by umpire Dave Baldwin. Unfortunately for us gossips, there was no controversy to report here. So Dave decided to give Neil out L.B.W. next ball. But again there was no controversy, although, at this stage Dave had taken more Toad wickets than the opposition’s bowlers?
134 for 4 - was a collapse imminent?.......... Read on ................... and on ...............
Alex then came on and smashed a short cameo innings of 29 including a huge six that almost demolished the local mayonnaise factory. Our final score was 182 for 8 after a late flurry by Lorne and your humble narrator who almost had to be hospitalised after running up and down the pitch for what seemed like an eternity. On finishing my record breaking innings, I was covered in sweat, had turned bright red and was seeing little green and purple wiggly things swimming before my eyes. Carol told me that drinking tea was good for someone in my condition as it cools you down by making you sweat even more. If sweat makes you cool then I was the coolest guy around for miles! And I hadn’t even had a cup of tea.
H.P.A. (the team of initials, although what they stood for I have no idea) then replied and after the first 18 overs your humble narrator was not only still completely knackered but also on the verge of terminal loss of joy. Despite excellent bowling by Andy Batch who one day will have that elusive quality known as luck, and Alan Bingham who also bowled beautifully for no reward, no wickets had fallen but not many runs had been scored either due to some gazelle like fielding, by Harvey in particular, and the usual competence behind the stumps of the Silver Fox.
But then those elusive little spaceships of joy appeared from their customary position lurking just behind the clouds, and formed themselves into the shape of Alex who proceeded to take the next 7 wickets. Neil chipped in with two and H.P.A. ended up on 130 for 9. Another mighty victory for the in-form team of the moment. As I looked up into the early evening blood red sky and saw the local farmworkers bringing in the sheaves and than looked back at my perspiring team mates, I felt a tear in the corner of my eye that began to trickle down my face at the thought of the end of another season of cricket with the Toads. Although it might just have been sweat!

THE ROLE OF DRUGS IN AMATEUR CRICKET
(An in depth report)
There has been much spoken and written by commentators and hacks on the use of drugs in sport. However, it seems to me there has not been much spoken or written by the drug takers themselves. So, your intrepid reporter took it upon himself to delve into this murky world and bring you his findings. This report is brought to you by the makers of Clembuterol - the official drug of the Olympic Games, in association with Crazy Crack - the official sponsors of the Lord Toad’s X1, as well as Scrumpy Jack - the official drink of the Editor of the Toad’s mouthpiece, the Daily Rivet. A hell of a combination! But don’t try this at home kids, leave it to the professionals (or amateurs in the case of the Lord Toads).
So, for today’s match I will be largely experimenting with mind altering substances in order to see if they really can improve performance. Deciding against the Viagra option, I head for the bathroom to begin my quest. A quick search of the cabinet reveals no Clembuterol, indeed it doesn’t reveal very much at all. I don’t fancy getting high on Smokers Toothpaste, but try a bit anyway before settling for half a bottle of Oraldene (the only mouthwash for consenting adults). Next, a handful of milk of magnesia tabs washed down with a few mouthfuls of Kaolin and Morphine, and a couple of very generous lines of Andrews Liver Salts taken intra nasally via a handy tampon applicator. Pausing momentarily for a quick dab of Haemorrhoid ointment on the nose to avoid sunburn and a quick swallow of Tesco Active Toilet Gel to make me more active (and reduce limescale), I stumble, eyes watering madly, out of the bathroom to collect my kit.. There is just enough time to knock back half a bottle of red wine left over from some long forgotten party and it’s time to head off for the match.
It isn’t a very long walk to our home ground, but tonight it is a very strange one. A few passers by stare at me, but I put this down to being recognised as a member of local heroes, the Lord Toad’s X1. I am feelin’ good, free as a bird now, gettin’ my kicks on Route 66, filled with all the confidence a fresh tasting mouth can give you.
It is a beautiful summer evening, wildebeest in nearby fields are quietly grazing and half naked nuns armed with Kalashnikovs lurk somehow comfortingly behind the hedgerows. ‘Let them lurk if they like’, I think, ‘It’s a free country, yeah, a FREE country’. Acting on impulse, I suddenly find myself cramming all the money I have on me into the hands of a startled little bird-like old lady passer by. I don’t need it, and I am sure Mother Teresa (for that’s who it was) could find a far better use for it.
I carry on, feeling strangely strange (but oddly normal), and then suddenly experience the giddy feeling of flight - or am I having a drug-induced out of body experience? Sadly, I am not. I find myself lying spread-eagled in the gutter - I seem to have fallen off the pavement which towers above me like Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings. I just hope it doesn’t take as long to scale it as the eternity it took Frodo and his mate (played in the film by Mathew Hoggard, I think). I have the presence of mind to inform a couple of concerned passers-by that I am merely practising Synchronised Swimming. They nod and continue to pass by.
By the time I reach the ground I am half a million strong, the Andrews Liver Salts are coursing through my blood stream (I make a mental note that I must try their pepper as well next time) and I feel as high as Withnail and I. I embrace a couple of startled team mates, tell them I love them (not in a gay way you understand, but more in the way of being part of a universal brotherhood, oh, and sisterhood as well). Their reply turns into steam and rises slowly into the evening sky. Colours and sounds are creating little soft fluffy clouds that go on forever within my mind I listen to a bird whistling “In the Attics of my Life” by the Grateful Dead (the live version from Winterland 1974, not the studio version on ‘American Beauty’).
Perhaps I have taken this dedication to my sport too seriously and am in danger of peaking far too early, before the game even begins. But no worries there, I have managed to arrive two hours late - but suddenly plunged back into what is commonly termed reality by the news that I am just in time to bat and that we need six to win off the last over and where have you been you fucking idiot. This information overload paralyses all the little connector things in my head that make it work like a brain instead of just a lump of organic stuff that prevents your head from caving in.
With two hastily fitted left pads flapping round my legs, I glide to the wicket. My super-sensitive hearing picking up the sound of the grass growing, and a faint echo of Jimi Hendrix final guitar solo at the Isle of Wight festival. All the fielders are staring at me. I feel a touch of paranoia. All they want to do is get me out, not to know me as a person, it’s not fair. I walk unsteadily to the crease, take guard, and am felled by a full toss that hurtles straight into my crutch. As I lie crumpled on the ground, feeling more pain than the baby Jesus who died to save all our sins and then watched on from above as we turned into a load of murdering wankers, I see the umpire raise his finger to signify lbw! Then BLACKNESS.

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.