Colonel Mustard unexpectedly returns with his White-tailed Sea Eagle quill to bring you a report of considerable gravitas and unexpected excitement.
Well my picaninnies (in the old Portuguese sense only, before you dare start on me), I say to you, reaching out in a Neil Diamond sort of way, that I’m back. Yes indeed, just when you thought you’d heard the last of me, you stinkers, I’m definitely here to report on the Bays latest outing (no, again I have to stop you in my first paragraph, not that sort of outing – well really you are too much!).
Rather insalubrious reports of my untimely death, I sternly believe, have been somewhat exaggerated. Unless of course I’ve shuffled off my mortal coil and a stuffed version of me is writing this piffle from the other side. And I don’t mean by that, the opposition you silly goose or geese if I’m addressing the great unwashed masses. Now enough of this nonsense!
To the match without any defamation of any kind, or even the most obscure tiny granule of a mild slur or even the slightest teeny-weeny bit of harmless mischievousness.
But before we embark to Cricket Central and by that, I mean nothing whatsoever to do with the recent Ashes spectacle / debacle or indeed any other team that purports to play ‘The Game’ in such a way so as to win at any cost and thus to fiery hell and damn the whole etiquette mularkey and then onwards to the sad forlorn consequences, dot, dot, dot. No indeed, I’m not getting my dander up dear and patient reader, I’m simply musing on the sad reality of the modern and ruthless world once again. Right, stand up straight you quivering-lipped slacker and I suggest you take a enormously large piece of Kendal Mint Cake and stop your blubbing, like a, well, you know what!
When I saw a recent photograph of a decimated, ivory-white pair of gorgonzola depilated legs on a Bays ‘What’s App chat group,’ I thought the whole of the civilised world had gone to bally hell in a handcart. By jingo and crikey to boot, what in the deuce is going on my friends? The bounder, for surely he must be one, has to be reported to the captain forthwith, wherever that pin-toed Johnny hides himself and he surely must be to made to suffer the heinous water-boarding consequences of such lickspittle behaviours.
Now, I’ll let you into a little secret here and before the nimby-pimby woke brigade tries to assume I’m doing a Prince Andrew, I say at this instant, hold back and simultaneously pin back your lug worms (Annelida Arenicola) or pinnas or ears as I prefer to call them. The vice-capuccino no less informed me in extremely serious tones (just short of his 30th birthday no less) that he was going to forward me the score card, in order I could prevent this report going the way of the scoring system in the Eurovision Song Contest. Well he hasn’t, so here goes and you’re welcome to blame either the writer (wot is I) the vice capucinno, or indeed the long-departed and sadly missed Sir Terence Wogan. You see, as always it’s entirely up to you. There’s no coercion here, no ulterior motive, just a trifle lunacy and hyperbole of the hyperbolic type. (Since the above slur was written, a photogravure of the scorebook has been received, thus any irregularities or fabrications sit with the writer and none other)
From a drone the size of a house fly I espied all of this match hovering (like a hover fly) at about twenty-seven feet, before the elephants* had the final say trumpet. *elements
Stand-in captain and just short of thirty, but still not sensible, Alex Van Dyke commanded his troops with a skill unseen since the last time he was captain. Having picked his openers in the way a wine buff may select a fine Chablis or an unsung Blue Nun, the dirty was done on him. Long-term, but now occasional Bays player AJ decided to usurp the orders of the captain. Yes dear reader, AJ inadvertently removed himself from opening the batting to no batting at all. Furthermore, the batting order was rearranged to promote Angus Guthrie up the order and to hell with the captain!
Sir Norbert Pierce in full armour, hastily knighted on just the one knee, before the game by King Charles who had happened to passing in a 1950’s Bentley, went into bat with Angus for a partnership that was to last 55 balls. Most interestingly, Sir Norbert had deemed that he’d only bat from one end, so the bowlers had to step in line with the new knight.
Norbert, a dapper silver fox of a man in his fifties batted as though fuelled by Northern Soul uppers, downers and wheezers (whatever they are). Amassing seven fours and a six in his knock of 44, he seemed a man possessed against a bowling attack that rivalled Australia’s in the recent Ashes. Angus, took on a ‘Sean I’m the dot king’ or was it ‘Sean the sheep’ role, acupuncturing 25 dots out of the 29 balls faced. Rumours that he had fallen asleep when bowled for six are not confirmed here. J Price cut out all the time-wasting, being bowled after a mere 5 dots for a quacker, to be replaced by Toffee Chris Wayman, who joined in the dotage with five more papillas of his own before the heaven intervened.
The rain was of a distinctly moist nature, filling the ground to the depth of about a medium-sized garden gnome and transforming the outfield into a high level Cotswold water park. Jeremy Clarkson dispensing his own drinks in the clubhouse astounded all present by not offending anyone. After this, a band of Bays players retreated to The Rotunda to digest and dissect damn rain.
Bayshill 60/2 off 12
Pierce A 44 40 7 1
AJ didn’t bat although number 2
Poulton DNB
Match abandoned due to moist conditions