“Edwards Grinds out a Win as Reevsie has a Bat”

Club Day.

The date in the FFTMCC fixture list where the club celebrates itself, celebrates another year of cricket, and celebrates all things fun and interactive without the pressures of a [semi] competitive match. It’s a day where the girlfriends and wives can turn out, babies can cry from their prams on the boundary, people get drunk [actually that is no different to any other match], and Kev the groundsman poisons us all with the rubbish he cooks on the barbeque. In short – Club Day is fun, or at least that is the idea. But like any organised fun event, they also require support from all who take part. Last year worked as a combined event with the OU Offices, but previous years had been less successful due to low numbers. How would this year pan out?

The MAD population was rather small on this day.

By 15:30 things were looking pretty grim. Not only had a large bulldozer sat its arse in front of the to-be renovated Pembroke pavilion [thus making surroundings look more like a refuse site], but there was also a distinct scarcity of Mad populace milling about. In fact, due to the shortage of numbers, the barbeque was brought forward to afford people more time to arrive [if indeed they were].

Apologies for non-appearance:

S. Dobner: due to his family being struck down with a nasty cold, our favourite Essex boy stayed put and selfishly refused the 150 mile round trip for some stupid knock about on a college pitch….

G. Littlechild: no communication as far as his absence was concerned, so one can only theorise as to what happened to him. Maybe he was serving a detention at his local school? Maybe an extra delivery of vegetables needed to be sold on his stall? Either way, our run machine failed to show.

G. Carter: poor old Geoff, now he really did have a good excuse. His recently acquired pickup truck was nicked outside his house late Saturday evening and used in a robbery in Bicester. Alas for Geoff, it also contained his cricket kit – though we do wonder where his priorities lie….

R. Hadfield: Scottish wife [his own words].

D. Shorten: we believe his absenteeism was down to involvement in an under-5’s football tournament in his back garden….

T. Smith: Thornton’s relocation to Bridport in Dorset could probably be accepted as a relevant excuse, however he is adept at hitching and two of his team-mates were with him on the Saturday night….

N. Hebbes: The MAD’s very own beer-swigging Cheesite has been labouring us with excuses all year about working in Albania, working in Germany, working in Russia etc etc. We are yet to see any proof of these working trips, so one can only speculate as to where Nick was on this particular Sunday….

S. Parkinson: The MAD’s own Enforcer has been parading a succession of excuses out recently after knackering his knee whilst kicking the shit out of two eleven year old bag-snatchers in London. Not to worry, our second Cheesite still found the fitness levels to manage a charity cycle ride across Poland and half of eastern Europe the week after….

E. Lester: okay so he’s been living in New Zealand these past eighteen months or so, but you’d have thought a former founder of the club would’ve made the effort?

B. Mander: too busy getting ready for the arrival of his first child in St. Ives, Cornwall….

Glorious weather was in evidence for Club Day.

Apologies for late arrival:

I. Howarth: setting less an example, but more of a distinct lack of respect for Club Day, our current Skipper rocked up to the ground over two hours late. He then expunged stories about a car not starting due to seaside damp whilst visiting hobo T. Smith for a weekend on the piss in Bridport. Pathetic….

M. Clarke: hitched a lift with the Skipper for the weekend jaunt in Bridport [though he probably wished he hadn’t], and therefore used the same pathetic excuse as Ian. At least we’re used to Mike’s bullshit.

J. Hotson: a legendary entrance some five minutes shy of 17:00, Jake ambled onto the pitch looking like an extra from Night of the Living Dead without a care in the world. Again, at least we’re accustomed to Mr. Hotson’s poor timekeeping.

Apologies for being crocked:

A. Cavanagh: now at least the QC turned up! Albeit moaning about a one-inch scratch to his torso that he claimed was inflicted by a machete wielding maniac in lawless Grove one evening….

….so, as you can probably surmise from the sarcasm therein, Club Day suffered as per usual from a distinct lack of apathy and another low turnout. Why do we fucking bother? And maybe that is the point… let’s not fucking bother. Let’s actually play a game of competitive cricket in future, huh?

>sigh<

Undeterred, and having arrived at the ground with a game plan of launching the much maligned Single Wicket Competition should numbers be small, the gentlemen of The MAD drew names out a hat and decided on the order with which to bat. A. Cavanagh, crippled as he was, was entrusted with the joint responsibility of both umpiring and scoring, and after getting his head around the myriad of rules and regulations, performed his roles admirably as the day went by.

“He picked the seam.” Lied Billy.

Deciding on the right tactics for the day was obviously paramount to one’s success, but because of the infancy of the competition – those chosen became more of a personal choice. A. Mann would opt to club everything out of Pembroke, but in doing so lost his wicket twice and barely registered a score. M. Clarke would further confuse his team-mates as to how he ever managed to notch a half-century on tour a few years ago with some distinctly average shot selections, whilst J-Mo would nudge and nurdle his way to a respectable score until he was caught.

I. Howarth entertained as he swiped one delivery high over the sightscreen, before limping through his final over. A. Small would chip the ball into space and run like his name was Mr. Steroids, and M. Westmoreland would bat completely out of character and bore everyone to death. A. Morley gave catching practice to a cordon of mid-offs, M. Bullock suffered stage fright without hitting a ball in anger, whilst D. Edwards was cashed in on some suet pudding to splatter onto the nearby train track.

Goose Man plays down the ball tampering row.

So, after all this excitement, the Men of The MAD took stock and surrounded their Top Gun umpire demanding he work out the ramifications of all this bollocks to see who was presently winning the competition. It transpired that Dan had a sizeable advantage due to his hat-trick of wickets, catch, and the runs he accrued whilst depositing Jake and Mr. Bullock in every bush surrounding Pembroke. All that was left was for something special to happen when either J. Hotson or M. Reeves strode out to bat. Jake would entertain yet barely threaten, but Reevsie would give it one hell of a go – in fact he slapped an incredible 44 runs off his 3 overs to rue the fact he’d remained wicketless all day. He also raised an eyebrow in the direction of his Skipper as if to underline the fact he COULD bat, and that to have a BAT would be REALLY JOLLY NICE once in a while – if at all possible.

“And the winner is…. ME!! Did I tell you I topped the averages too?”

And that was that, Dan Edwards was declared the winner of The MAD’s inaugural Single Wicket Competition [with an impressive total of 54]. As the shadows now lengthened across the pitch, the cricket season was officially declared over, at least for the Far from the MCC.

I wish you well in the off season, gentlemen.

‘Late of Bridport’