The Team

Desperate Nutty Potty Donut Hashgate Poca Glittertits Pissquick Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Utopia TT2 Twanky Blowjob Helen Itsyor Fiddler Old Fart Foghorn Dumper Septic C5 Ms Whiplash Salome Florence Zebedee LoudonTasteless Spex Vertigo Slowsucker Swallow Baldrick JWax Cerberus Kay Fannybag Bogbrush Spot Hitchhiker Hannah Diver Nappyrash PP and dog Barney TinOpener Cheating Mike Horny Fishnet Canoeist Ben Lonely OldDog Caboose Shitshoveller Penny Pitstop SkinnyDipper Motox Whinge TC Fritz Simple Snowballs

When An Old Cricketer…

Since the batteries of my blasted recorder last not much longer than a male England batsman this Gobsheet will be written entirely from memory. So apologies to those I have missed from the above list.

“Aih say.” Said Shitfor. “Shell we mark out the jolly boundary, what?” He wore white flannels and an MCC tie to hold them up and was asking Billy Bullshit, in cricketing parlance, if they should mark out the Trail. His colleague, resplendant in wicket keeper’s pads, gloves and an oversize cricket box that he hoped would delight the ladies (and realising only too well that if it ever came down to a bit of Harry Humping behind the pavilion the lady in question would be heavily disappointed by the size of his middle stump and bails) responded, “Topping good idea old fellah. What say you head off in that bally direction and I shall essay the opposite? Then we can meet in the deshed middle. What say you?” “Spiffing.” Came the reply and the two shook hands like gentlemen, gathered up their bags of flour and ambled on their way, Shitfor fitting a Park Drive to the cigarette holder canted up between his lips.

There were only two problems with this separation: a) they missed each other at the middle b) Billy can’t count. The latter caused most problems with the odd four blobs then a False, a Bar-5 with no obvious ‘5’. Presumably also, one of our pair of daft bats had laid his part of the Trail backwards – an interesting concept.

Many of us gentlemen had pinned our hopes on the ladies this evening, bearing in mind the all-conquering England ladies cricket team. Certainly the youth element: Diver, Hannah, Fishnet on-drove rapidly, hardly putting a foot wrong (and no, I shall not be telling the old joke that goes, “she was only the cricketer’s daughter but she could take a full toss in the crease”. Mainly because I don’t understand cricketing terminology anyway). The middle order of Mrs Blobby and Utopia played a damned good innings, slashing fearlessly at any in-swinging balls that came their way, while night watchmen Ms Whiplash and Salome soldiered on doggedly, the former compiling a formidable selection of runs to the surprise and delight of the rest of the ‘Barmy Army’. For the gentlemen, Iceman dug in early on, deftly dealing with googly Checks since he was on home ground, having played this particular field a number of times in the past. His urgent cries of ‘On On’ forced his many partners to run when caution was their gameplay. He only came a cropper when a particularly nasty off-break caught him prodding around in the wrong direction at a Check. “Howzatttt!!” Roared the opposition and he walked (rather ran) possibly to the pavilion – we saw little of him again. A spot of highly ungentlemanly sledging took place when Canoeist and son Ben indulged in some testosterone-fuelled comparisons of height and chest size. Surprising really, since they both play for the same side. Quite rightly a finger was raised and they were sent off (in the wrong direction). The middle order began to lose its way (no flour) and it took some sensible play by those stalwarts, Septic and Donut to get the team back on the track. Although they took a short cut to do it and almost got bowled over in the process (the bodyline brambles and stinging nettles took their toll).

One of the delights of cricket is that the game stops every now and again for a variety of reasons and Lonely and I took a break from the rigours of or respective creases (no rude comments thankyou) to amble through the pleasant churchyard of the brick and flint church in which we found ourselves. Pretty sure this was St James the Less at Stubbings and very peaceful it was too. Unlike the A404 under which we had just passed. Let me mention here one of tonight’s virgins, Helen. Before the match she had wittered on about being unfit and not having played for a long time but here she was, carving out a damn good innings along with the rest of the team and barely panting. Good show, madam.

A long and enjoyable spell in the almost meadow-like outfield awaited us before we stopped for tea (the Beer Stop) which was manned by Desperate’s Mum and Dad whose unselfish volunteering we really appreciated. Itsyor took this opportunity for some unsportsmanlike conduct when he displayed his boxers to the ladies present and opined that his damp cricket shirt was solely due to ‘bodily fluids’. We turned away. It seems they let almost anybody into the side these days. And then we were off for the last few fast-paced overs with the night watchmen following pink flour ably tossed by Cerberus while the rest of the side opted for some very rapid runs in the darkening covers. The most surreal moment came when the outfielders slipped right along the boundary next to the old Shire Horse Centre. Strange screechings and warblings came from within. Although it was only the hawks and falcons it sounded more like Headingly during the afternoon, the bar having been open for over half a day.

The longest walk is that of a Batsman from his wicket to the pavilion and so it was for the last part of this epic. A lengthy plod alongside the A4 before slipping quietly off the field (well, off the pavement and on to the field actually) followed by a towel down and a thoroughly enjoyable pint in the fine pub beside the pitch.

Shitfor turned to Billy, drawing deeply of the newly slotted Park Drive and expansively tapping off the ash by flicking the holder. “Ebsolutely tophole outing old bean, dontcha agree?” “ M’dear fellow.” Came the reply. “Indubitably. Simply could not hev done it without you. Team did blasted well. Even the wimmin. Umm. Couldn’t possibly help with this dashed box could you? Seems to be a little bit stuck.”

On On. Hashgate.

Down Downs

RA Glittertits presented the following :-

Fannybag won with just a little spillage while Spot ‘choked’.

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