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Tabard Pilgrims Cricket Club


Sunday, June 15 v Wendover.

By Colonel Juan

Let us pray. Dear God, please keep and preserve our decadent Kommander, lost on Saturday in Soho Square whilst in rehab and believed out there somewhere. (I thought this was a secular organisation – ed.)

On the subject of cricket, the barmy Pilgrims met and went usually mad. Betty retraced Saturday’s steps in time to fork out £125 to unclamp the motor and get to Wendover 12 overs after the start. Meanwhile, knowing that we were but ten, Ul Elvis uncharacteristically won the toss and decided we should field under a blazing sun and a few crackling pylons to the tune of a busy road and railtrack. Ah, the joys of the English countryside!

The same Elvis then spent the next three hours cajoling his sweaty squad to feats that only the mad could perform. One remembers an earth tremor and possibly a crack in the crust as Hansie dived to take his best ever catch. And a Llama-Llama demonstrating two different methods of how to miss a catch, separated by a surprise reverse Meerkat which saw the dismissal of their best batsman. Not to be outdone and convinced he’d spotted a C4 camera in the bushes, Starfish turned two regulation catches into Oscar nominations whilst the Petrol Baron took a wrong turn beneath a steepler and was forced into letting it land in his hands.

This was Gritsville. And with three bowlers sharing the majority of the work we applied the strangulation technique which finally saw the scum oppo all out for 172.

A hint of sadness heralded our reply as Pilco walked to the wicket for the last time this season as a Pilgrim. The man’s in some kind of batsman trance and it was something of a shock to see him sent back with a mere 34 to his name – perishing to that same looping paddle behind square that is the source of most of his runs. 200-plus by mid June, it’s a crime he also has to work for a living.

Meanwhile The Andy Roberts had been and gone, and Daisy had forgotten to shut his barn door although he was heard to claim he’d been beaten for pace. Elvis wanted to clear the mid-on boundary but left the arena 20 yards short – and that’s all the wickets they took. Because during some of these highlights a sozzled Betty, relishing the pain rendered by his previous night’s activities, put together a rather elegant 68 which rightly fell one run short of what he was probably incapable of anyway. Not to forget a chanceless and controlled 30 from the Fish which, together with his other efforts, earned the man of the match jug. In case anyone wonders, we won by six wickets.

Back at Camp Tab, I suspect the Judge’s stand-in succession was settled as Starfish took the wig and gave an excellent impression of the great Devonian.

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