Rightio,
Another Monday, so another chance to sign up for leather chasing on the weekend. Coming up this week we have Oxted & Limpsfield, at one of the better grounds we play on. I've already got 12 guys who've said they're interested, so I need reconfirmations from them, plus anyone else keen for a game let me know. It's a long weekend, so no need to worry about feeling sore & hungover at work on Monday! If we can get to 22, we'll field 2 teams once more. If not, a few guys will have to miss out, and for once this team may actually be picked on strength rather than who signed up first, as Oxted are a good side (they whipped us 2 years ago). Apologies in advance if that is the case.
Below are the 12 I have so far for this weekend - please reconfirm
Osama
Roxy
Collo
Sir Rich
Matt Lindsay
Steve Johnston
Richie Robinson
Alex Robinson
Ads
Pete Brooks
Paul Danbury
Arnie
Cheers,
Roxy
Monday, May 19, 2008
Hat's entertainment as new boys take 'bard back on track
Isambard 274-7 (40 overs) (C.McCutcheon 86 not out, S.Munn 63 not out, Dutchy 44). Hatters 221 all out (?? overs) (R.Firth 2-??). Isambard won by 53 runs (40-over match)
if revenge is a dish best served cold, then the feast of Redemption is surely best dished up beneath crepuscular skies, in twenty-six degree (26*) heat, with a sack-full of booze loitering on the boundary rope. either that, or in the form of a burrito. after last week's calamitous showing, eleven (XI) cream-adorned giants of the game, had the privilege to right a great injustice and get season oh eight ('08) back on track....
after eventually locating a coin (i still don't see why we couldn't have used the bottle cap....), a slightly delayed toss for once fell in favour of the good guys, and Isambard's debutant opening pair (2) of Azza and the Conman strode to the middle in bouyant mood. conno was the first (1st) to go, notching just three (3) in a brief innings that somehow managed to include a sledge directed towards the pitch itself. his dismissal - one (1) of several (5) to miscue an attempted pull - brought Ray Collins to the crease, and with him, what will go down as one (1) of the truly Great knocks in this club's brief, yet illustrious history...
...the crisp WHACK! of willow on leather is an aural delight matched by few, surpassed by but one (1).
that sound?
the hollow clunk of leather on skull.
proffered a sumptuous half volley to get off the mark, Collo accepted with alacrity, WHACK(!)ing five and a half (5.5) ounces of stitched leather
directly back into the path of the petrified bowler's ugly mug.
a cursory raise of the mitts proved fruitless as the fizzing nut cannoned off forehead, flooring its victim instantaneously....
...causing the ball to balloon through the air and land fortuitously in the safe grasp of a bemused mid off.
there was concern all round (in the fielding side) for the bowler's safety.
at least, i assume there was, as it was difficult to decipher anything above the raucous laughter of both (2) umpires....
so, what was Ray Collins - perpetrator of ill will, architect of his own demise - doing throughout the ensuing on-field medical.....?
- assessing the damage to life for which he alone was responsible....?
- offering the token apologetic mutterings of today's modern sportsman.....?
- or possibly striding back to the pavilion, tail betwixt legs....?
no.
Ray Collins was taking guard.
eventually a confused appeal was raised, and so too the umpire's index finger, thus sealing the most memorable duck (0) you could ever wish to witness.
he will not hit another ball that well all summer.
full credit to ...Aswad ....or Aftab ....or PubTab ...or whatever the bowler's name was; dutifully completing the over and his spell with four (4) Isambard scalps to his name (...whatever that may be). full credit must also go to Ric Firth, dutifully querying his concussed opponent as he arrived at the crease, as to how he would explain to everyone at work about the oblong lump protruding from his bonce....
- "...i mean... you can't tell them the truth, can you...? you can't tell them it's because you bowled a sh1t half volley, can ya?!"
bra-vo.
Azza and Dutchy steadied the ship before the downfall of the former, for twelve (12), paved the way for a player of instant cult status at Isambard: Brendan "Gary MacGyver" Redwood. once instructed as to which end he had to stand, Gary set about rectifying the team's season tally (0) of sixes (6's), harbouring zero (0) respect for the bowling, Redwood promptly bludgeoned three (3) deliveries to the fence, each time thwarted by but a single (1) bounce in the hunt for that elusive first (1st) six (6).
his quickfire innings of twelve (12) culminated in as befitting a manner possible for this man. an incredulousGary
disgust at the entire concept of non-contact sport....eeeeeaaaaasssssy,gary
at this point, Ric "eye like a dead fish" Firth set about (surprise, surprise) upping the run rate.
unfortunately, another promising knock of twelve (12) was brought to an end via the top edge of Ric's ultra-bat, as he mis-read the bounce attempting an ambitious pull over deep mid-wicket.
from one (1) Isambard Hall Of Famer to a future star of the club, and with what couldn't have been more than half a dozen (5?) strides, John "baby giraffe" Whitehead was facing up in his first (1st) hit for the club. with Dutchy competently forming the early innings backbone for the 'Bard, Whitehead was given license to play his shots - or should that be "shot"? it is a license we may yet have to revoke.
after shocking all (most notably himself) with an audacious and supremely executed late cut, Whitehead's innings consisted of numerous attempts to replicate the aforementioned stroke, each time doing so with ever-lessening degrees of success.
Dutchy's untimely dismissal for forty-four (44) brought a Sunny Munn hell-bent (or possibly just bent) on atoning for last week's shamozzle. charging full-tilt at a first (1st) ball beamer, this was not to be a knock of technical wizardry played out for the purists. at the other end, showing less patience than Harold Shipman (too much?) Whitehead failed to capitalise on a solid platform.
his departure for eighteen (18 - behind square, on the off-side...) allowed the most technically proficient number nine (9) in the club's ranks an opportunity to create history on debut. Casey "insert derogatory nickname here" McCutcheon and Sunny Munn swiftly set about punishing the, by now tired, Hatters attack.
tossed up a vast array of hittable puss, the pair (2) did not hesitate to compound the damage; putting on an unbroken 134 in a new Isambard record for the eighth (8th) wicket. the Super Sixes (6's) competition was finally ignited as the partnership spawned three (3) towering maximums (6's). the pick of the bunch was undoubtedly "why don't i have a derogatory nickname?" McCutcheon's second (2nd) - a Martyn-esque swat, easily clearing the torpid movements of the stench-merchant tottering at the deep cover boundary.
rapped on the knee-roll attempting another reverse sweep, Munn initially feared the worst, mistaking the umpire's howling of "YES! YES!!" as the signal of his own demise. however, as umpire Azzapardi switched the beer from his dominant hand and raised his arm past the perpendicular, it revealed an ulterior motive...his phone.
"YES! YES!! TWO NIL (2-0)! RYAN GIGGS!! YES!!!"
ah. Munn in - Man Utd title winners. cheers, Az.
Casey "seriously, what is with my lack of a derogatory nickname?" McCutcheon's valiant dash for a debut ton (100+) pulled up lame with just fourteen runs left in front of him. but by then, the horse had bolted; his sensational performance with the blade sending the team contentedly into tea. the opportunity to stock up on booze in anticipation of the impending slaughter, was not missed, and was completed by the time Collo had convinced the opposition that salmon is "....just like tuna."
after tea, the indefatigable Ric Firth volunteered to take the (not so) new ball up the hill. the stoic all-rounder's first (1st) over in an unbroken spell of eight (8) yielded the vital early breakthrough.
John "Break His F*cking Jaw!" Conley donned the 'keeper's gloves with aplomb (later rewarded with a swift legside stumping), and the genuine edge was never in doubt.
Sam Barr served as Ric's (not so) new ball partner, bowling - in his own words - "like a little tart".
despite this, he still managed to collect his first (1st) wicket for the club when Munn snaffled a catch close in. it was not to be a common theme....
if only cricket balls were made of venereal disease, as opposed to leather, this eleven (XI) would've caught everything on offer. unfortunately, Sunday's display must go down as season two thousand and great's (2008's) poorest fielding performance to date. between Azza soiling himself in second (2nd) slip at the prospect of clutching a sitter, John Whitehead felled by the sheer weight of his own head, and Sammy Barr's stubborn refusal to hold a catch, Hatters' innings seemingly lasted longer than your average game of Hide & Seek in the Fritzl household.
"Safe Hands Sam" at one (1) point managed to put down a single (1) catch not once, not twice, but thrice (3 times). a comical display of fielding that will only be bettered by drafting in half a dozen (6) cricketers fromChernobyl
- "i can jump puddles...!"
- "yes, sam, very impressive...."
Sam "greyhound" Barr soon gave cause for more noodle scratching on the part of his team-mates. sporting the campest of sailor's caps (tautology?), he swiftly covered the ground to his right, before launching himself into what would be the infield save of the day, a fraction behind square, made all the more enigmatic by his hitherto innumerable fumblings. the lit cigarette never once dislodged from his parted lips. James F*cking Dean.
in what may serve as Barr's last game in Isambard colours, he left us with a staunch reminder of the club's deep-seeded ethos: firing in the return before sucking back a draw on his fag & calling for another can. after grassing half a dozen (at least 6) dollies and not contributing with the bat; it is safe to say Samuel Barr is the epitome of a true Isambard cricketer.
the "little tart"'s brief spell with the ball now complete, the scene was set for the much-hyped introduction of firebrand Ponton. he did not disappoint. already incensed at having to score, with an opposition line-up resembling the left over tablets from a Scrabble tournament
- "bowler's name....? huh.....? what...? how do you spell that.....? what......? ...what?!"
- "A.Q.I.B"
- "oh... rrright..."
Ponton's mood was about to go from Bruce Banner to Hulk in no (0) time flat, much to the general amusement of his (by now half-pissed) team-mates.
in one (1) of the unluckiest spells of aggressive fast bowling this scribe has been privy to witness; Ponton had their star batsman dropped twice (Azza & Whitehead) before yorking him with a wicked inswinger that somehow passed between middle and off stump, nicking the latter, but failing to dislodge either bail. this was his first (1st) over for the club. in total, Ponton would be robbed of seven (7) wickets, before deservedly scalping his sole (1) victim. a cacophonous hum of vitriol filled the air as the venomous sledging grew more vociferous with each fleeting chance.
if revenge is a dish best served cold, then the feast of Redemption is surely best dished up beneath crepuscular skies, in twenty-six degree (26*) heat, with a sack-full of booze loitering on the boundary rope. either that, or in the form of a burrito. after last week's calamitous showing, eleven (XI) cream-adorned giants of the game, had the privilege to right a great injustice and get season oh eight ('08) back on track....
after eventually locating a coin (i still don't see why we couldn't have used the bottle cap....), a slightly delayed toss for once fell in favour of the good guys, and Isambard's debutant opening pair (2) of Azza and the Conman strode to the middle in bouyant mood. conno was the first (1st) to go, notching just three (3) in a brief innings that somehow managed to include a sledge directed towards the pitch itself. his dismissal - one (1) of several (5) to miscue an attempted pull - brought Ray Collins to the crease, and with him, what will go down as one (1) of the truly Great knocks in this club's brief, yet illustrious history...
...the crisp WHACK! of willow on leather is an aural delight matched by few, surpassed by but one (1).
that sound?
the hollow clunk of leather on skull.
proffered a sumptuous half volley to get off the mark, Collo accepted with alacrity, WHACK(!)ing five and a half (5.5) ounces of stitched leather
directly back into the path of the petrified bowler's ugly mug.
a cursory raise of the mitts proved fruitless as the fizzing nut cannoned off forehead, flooring its victim instantaneously....
...causing the ball to balloon through the air and land fortuitously in the safe grasp of a bemused mid off.
there was concern all round (in the fielding side) for the bowler's safety.
at least, i assume there was, as it was difficult to decipher anything above the raucous laughter of both (2) umpires....
so, what was Ray Collins - perpetrator of ill will, architect of his own demise - doing throughout the ensuing on-field medical.....?
- assessing the damage to life for which he alone was responsible....?
- offering the token apologetic mutterings of today's modern sportsman.....?
- or possibly striding back to the pavilion, tail betwixt legs....?
no.
Ray Collins was taking guard.
eventually a confused appeal was raised, and so too the umpire's index finger, thus sealing the most memorable duck (0) you could ever wish to witness.
he will not hit another ball that well all summer.
full credit to ...Aswad ....or Aftab ....or PubTab ...or whatever the bowler's name was; dutifully completing the over and his spell with four (4) Isambard scalps to his name (...whatever that may be). full credit must also go to Ric Firth, dutifully querying his concussed opponent as he arrived at the crease, as to how he would explain to everyone at work about the oblong lump protruding from his bonce....
- "...i mean... you can't tell them the truth, can you...? you can't tell them it's because you bowled a sh1t half volley, can ya?!"
bra-vo.
Azza and Dutchy steadied the ship before the downfall of the former, for twelve (12), paved the way for a player of instant cult status at Isambard: Brendan "Gary MacGyver" Redwood. once instructed as to which end he had to stand, Gary set about rectifying the team's season tally (0) of sixes (6's), harbouring zero (0) respect for the bowling, Redwood promptly bludgeoned three (3) deliveries to the fence, each time thwarted by but a single (1) bounce in the hunt for that elusive first (1st) six (6).
his quickfire innings of twelve (12) culminated in as befitting a manner possible for this man. an incredulous
disgust at the entire concept of non-contact sport....eeeeeaaaaasssssy,
at this point, Ric "eye like a dead fish" Firth set about (surprise, surprise) upping the run rate.
unfortunately, another promising knock of twelve (12) was brought to an end via the top edge of Ric's ultra-bat, as he mis-read the bounce attempting an ambitious pull over deep mid-wicket.
from one (1) Isambard Hall Of Famer to a future star of the club, and with what couldn't have been more than half a dozen (5?) strides, John "baby giraffe" Whitehead was facing up in his first (1st) hit for the club. with Dutchy competently forming the early innings backbone for the 'Bard, Whitehead was given license to play his shots - or should that be "shot"? it is a license we may yet have to revoke.
after shocking all (most notably himself) with an audacious and supremely executed late cut, Whitehead's innings consisted of numerous attempts to replicate the aforementioned stroke, each time doing so with ever-lessening degrees of success.
Dutchy's untimely dismissal for forty-four (44) brought a Sunny Munn hell-bent (or possibly just bent) on atoning for last week's shamozzle. charging full-tilt at a first (1st) ball beamer, this was not to be a knock of technical wizardry played out for the purists. at the other end, showing less patience than Harold Shipman (too much?) Whitehead failed to capitalise on a solid platform.
his departure for eighteen (18 - behind square, on the off-side...) allowed the most technically proficient number nine (9) in the club's ranks an opportunity to create history on debut. Casey "insert derogatory nickname here" McCutcheon and Sunny Munn swiftly set about punishing the, by now tired, Hatters attack.
tossed up a vast array of hittable puss, the pair (2) did not hesitate to compound the damage; putting on an unbroken 134 in a new Isambard record for the eighth (8th) wicket. the Super Sixes (6's) competition was finally ignited as the partnership spawned three (3) towering maximums (6's). the pick of the bunch was undoubtedly "why don't i have a derogatory nickname?" McCutcheon's second (2nd) - a Martyn-esque swat, easily clearing the torpid movements of the stench-merchant tottering at the deep cover boundary.
rapped on the knee-roll attempting another reverse sweep, Munn initially feared the worst, mistaking the umpire's howling of "YES! YES!!" as the signal of his own demise. however, as umpire Azzapardi switched the beer from his dominant hand and raised his arm past the perpendicular, it revealed an ulterior motive...his phone.
"YES! YES!! TWO NIL (2-0)! RYAN GIGGS!! YES!!!"
ah. Munn in - Man Utd title winners. cheers, Az.
Casey "seriously, what is with my lack of a derogatory nickname?" McCutcheon's valiant dash for a debut ton (100+) pulled up lame with just fourteen runs left in front of him. but by then, the horse had bolted; his sensational performance with the blade sending the team contentedly into tea. the opportunity to stock up on booze in anticipation of the impending slaughter, was not missed, and was completed by the time Collo had convinced the opposition that salmon is "....just like tuna."
after tea, the indefatigable Ric Firth volunteered to take the (not so) new ball up the hill. the stoic all-rounder's first (1st) over in an unbroken spell of eight (8) yielded the vital early breakthrough.
John "Break His F*cking Jaw!" Conley donned the 'keeper's gloves with aplomb (later rewarded with a swift legside stumping), and the genuine edge was never in doubt.
Sam Barr served as Ric's (not so) new ball partner, bowling - in his own words - "like a little tart".
despite this, he still managed to collect his first (1st) wicket for the club when Munn snaffled a catch close in. it was not to be a common theme....
if only cricket balls were made of venereal disease, as opposed to leather, this eleven (XI) would've caught everything on offer. unfortunately, Sunday's display must go down as season two thousand and great's (2008's) poorest fielding performance to date. between Azza soiling himself in second (2nd) slip at the prospect of clutching a sitter, John Whitehead felled by the sheer weight of his own head, and Sammy Barr's stubborn refusal to hold a catch, Hatters' innings seemingly lasted longer than your average game of Hide & Seek in the Fritzl household.
"Safe Hands Sam" at one (1) point managed to put down a single (1) catch not once, not twice, but thrice (3 times). a comical display of fielding that will only be bettered by drafting in half a dozen (6) cricketers from
- "i can jump puddles...!"
- "yes, sam, very impressive...."
Sam "greyhound" Barr soon gave cause for more noodle scratching on the part of his team-mates. sporting the campest of sailor's caps (tautology?), he swiftly covered the ground to his right, before launching himself into what would be the infield save of the day, a fraction behind square, made all the more enigmatic by his hitherto innumerable fumblings. the lit cigarette never once dislodged from his parted lips. James F*cking Dean.
in what may serve as Barr's last game in Isambard colours, he left us with a staunch reminder of the club's deep-seeded ethos: firing in the return before sucking back a draw on his fag & calling for another can. after grassing half a dozen (at least 6) dollies and not contributing with the bat; it is safe to say Samuel Barr is the epitome of a true Isambard cricketer.
the "little tart"'s brief spell with the ball now complete, the scene was set for the much-hyped introduction of firebrand Ponton. he did not disappoint. already incensed at having to score, with an opposition line-up resembling the left over tablets from a Scrabble tournament
- "bowler's name....? huh.....? what...? how do you spell that.....? what......? ...what?!"
- "A.Q.I.B"
- "oh... rrright..."
Ponton's mood was about to go from Bruce Banner to Hulk in no (0) time flat, much to the general amusement of his (by now half-pissed) team-mates.
in one (1) of the unluckiest spells of aggressive fast bowling this scribe has been privy to witness; Ponton had their star batsman dropped twice (Azza & Whitehead) before yorking him with a wicked inswinger that somehow passed between middle and off stump, nicking the latter, but failing to dislodge either bail. this was his first (1st) over for the club. in total, Ponton would be robbed of seven (7) wickets, before deservedly scalping his sole (1) victim. a cacophonous hum of vitriol filled the air as the venomous sledging grew more vociferous with each fleeting chance.
- "You. Are. Rubbish!"
- "What the f*ck was that?!"
- "Couldn't catch a cold, this team! Bunch of F*cking Drips!"
- "Have a look at your own ability!"
unfortunately, the majority of these frustrated fulminations were imparted by, and directed towards, fellow team-mates. with the opposition [bar one (1) petulant piss-ant] not rising to the bait, Isambard turned on their own in a short, abuse-filled period of play; serving only to highlight which players are in dire need of a root (evidently, all XI).
Dutchy patrolled the boundary like a citizen in
with the "Baby Giraffe" steaming in off a shortened run (4.2km) and keeping the ball to just the one (1) bounce, he began generating good shape, and it wasn't long before Mr Whitehead joined those with a tick in the wicket column. at the other end,
enticing Qwijebo-Aftab-Anykey [double (2) word score, bonus for using all letters] to drive,
of us will never hear the end of. caught Whitehead, bowled Redwood. there is no God.
rushing in to congratulate both men, there was one (1) notable absentee. Ponton could be found trudging in from the boundary, kicking the turf, and philosophically musing on what might have been....
- "F*ck! Typical. Ya f*cking catch it when your boyfriend's bowling, don't ya?! F*ck!"
in a disgraceful piece of captaincy, Barr was placed at first (1st) slip where he promptly dropped two (2) catches off Munn's bowling. Sunny then spilt a return catch in his third (3rd) over, the ensuing ricochet finding its way to a half cut Casey "for f*ck's sake - give me a derogatory
nickname!" McCutcheon, whose languid throw failed to remove the bails, and consequently the non-striker, stranded well short of his crease. of the ten (10) bowlers used, Munn was the only player to remain wicketless (0). thank you, Sam Barr.
Casey "this is getting ridiculous! everyone else has a f*cking nickname!" McCutcheon was harshly penalised for putting too much turn on the ball, but picked up a tail-ender once correcting his line. even Azzapardi got in on the act, the bombastic Alpha-male drawing a mis-timed heave out of his counterpart, to a reluctant (& still fuming) Ponton in the deep. safe catch taken. "see how f*ckin' easy it is, Azza?!"
the Dutch-man was brought on to wrap up proceedings and did so with panache, ripping down the final delivery of the day to pick up their number eleven (11), as he sliced one (1) straight to a four (4)-can-arrogant Ric, who proceeded to juggle the ball before securing both it, and another rousing victory for the mighty Isambard Cricket Club.
in an action-packed day where debutants flourished and records tumbled; this was one (1) of the most outstanding team performances to be seen in recent years. this Redemption burrito is delicious - but it is filling....
the Isambard juggernaut rolls on. come get a taste.
Sunny Munn [as if you hadn't guessed - KW]
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