“More Notes from a TFC Spotter”

Match: 07 / 138

Won by 10 wkts

Team	Total
Bodleian	101
M. Westmoreland 2 - 11, D. Shorten 2 - 14
FFTMCC	102 - 0
I. Howarth 59*, M. Westmoreland 38*

Nearly a year had passed since my last visit to the idyllic Oxfordshire countryside, and my curiousity would once again lead me to freeing up a couple of Sunday’s to indulge in one of my most favourite pastimes – the art of “TFC Spotting” at cricket matches.

“Haha – I wouldn’t bother padding up mate. You’ve fuck all chance of batting today.”

Having been so richly rewarded by following the exploits of one Far from the MCC in the summer of 2006, I once again chose to afford them a portion of my time to see if things had changed during my time away. My first adventure took me to the rather charming area of Woodstock, whereby a game was underway against a rather ramshackle Wootton & Bladon team. The opposition had been dismissed for a rather miserly total, and as such the majority of The Mad players were sitting or lying about in a state of exaggerated boredom, watching one of their most solid batsmen grind his way inexorably towards the total. This he managed with a little Essex boy for company; but not before the rest of his team had either fallen asleep in a gazebo, padded and unpadded on numerous occasions, or simply disengaged from the match altogether and instead taken to phoning their partners on their mobiles to divulge what a complete waste of time it all as. Marvellous stuff! I counted at least 3 or 4 TFCers, with a couple of minor-TFCers* to boot. My favourite example was some authoritative, bespectacled gentleman who had vanished for six years and done absolutely nothing since his return. He was famous I think; I believe Lord Lucan to be his name – although his teammates would always refer to him as “whoever you are”.

“What a waste of fucking time, eh?”

My second instalment of cricketing fare took me to Stratfield Brake – a windswept and rather featureless expanse of Kiddlington where ‘proper’ cricketing types played on a field adjacent to my loveable rogues. A recently developed pavilion allowed spectators and players a balcony view, and it was from this vantage point I gathered my notes. The encounter progressed in a very similar manner to the game of a few weeks ago, whereby the opposition were skittled for a rather demeaning total, and The Mad merrily chased it down in the time it took me to drink my cup of Earl Grey. I did amuse myself watching the bulk of the team lose interest after 3 overs, and instead occupy their time playing with babies, or funnelling into the pavilion to appropriate themselves with pints of cold lager and food left over from the mid-innings luncheon. TFC’s were liberally handed out, and my favourite was the one afforded to a skinny and shabby individual with a thick face of growth; his day bottoming out when he spilled a few catches in the field and trod on his sunglasses. His day really did amount to nothing, with the Skipper refusing him a bowl and his equally bored team mates pilfering his private supply of Stella Artois.

(tap tap tap) “This games fackin’ bollacks, gal.”

My life is busy, but I shall return; but I leave you with an epitaph made use of by most skippers at the conclusion of many these games:

“Thanks for coming, mate – I know you did fuck all, but thanks for coming all the same.”

* - A minor-TFCer is an individual who did something on the day to get a small mention in the scorebook; be it a catch or a run out. But his day would still be largely unfulfilled.

‘The TFC Spotter’