Andy Taylor, who with his elder brother Rob plays for the V&A when available, suggested he could get a team to play us and he was right. He warned that they would be young and fit and butch but he added that not all would be useful. He was right but those who were useful were very useful indeed, like Man of the Match, Rob Taylor, who batted with élan. I mentioned this to a lady spectator and she said was élan the man with the cap. I think she thought I was referring to his batting partner. I said she was a fucking moron and for some reason this caused offence. Rob also bowled nicely crafted off-breaks, one of which got me so he must be good.

The pitch was uncut, unrolled and wet. The outfield was long and slow, so I pulled the boundary ropes in which Adam thought was babyish. Andy won the toss and decided to field. Rupert [V&A skip] had agreed a 30 over game as showers threatened. We both batted 10 men, the difference being that theirs were real men.

We started rather poorly. Adam called for a single. Rupert did not budge. Adam was run out for 0. Rupert felt badly because convention dictates he should have run, but Adam was placid resignation back in the pavilion, testament to a life without the pressure of a nagging partner, or deadlines. I was due in next and walked out, but halfway there someone pointed out that I had forgotten to put on pads, which are always helpful. So Dennis went in and soon smacked some errant bowling. Both sides incidentally bowled a record number of wides, the slippery run up being partly to blame, as well as incompetence.

Rupert and Dennis swashed and buckled and added a good 40 or so before Rupert was out for 27 (three 4s, one 6). Enter Bird N who scored a brisk 15 (three 4s) before holing out to Rob Taylor. Dennis kept the score ticking along (32, three 4s and 6s), at over 6 an over and when Tony Bloom came in things were looking good. He made them even better with a superlative innings of 61* (seven 4s, two 6s). At lunch Rupert had hoped to make 200. We actually managed 195. It should have been enough.

Lunch was a BBQ orchestrated as always by Ernie. Rupert was provider and Kitty and Lizzie were the sweated labour in the kitchen. It rained at one point and some of us on the long table outside decided to take refuge on the porch. But Martin and Dennis and Tony sat in the rain, possibly discussing Duckworth Lewis or something. They are true Englishmen. When we were fielding it rained heavily and everyone loped off to the pavilion, except Adam who sped like a bullet. How strange that a man who can barely waddle to stop a ball hitting the boundary can be a Bolt of lightening when his coiffeur is threatened.

At lunch we discussed briefly the lack of practical vocational instruction in schools (strange but true). I mentioned that I had been taught the Latin for ramparts and how to strip a Bren gun, neither of which has proved useful in later life, or useful socially. I would have been better off learning how to get drink, sex and money without hard work. Someone said, after the match was over, that it was a pity that school did not teach Rupert to catch, but this was unkind if fair. Also over lunch there was a quick cricket quiz for Kitty and Lizzie. What were the blokes called in white coats who officiate in the field. Referees? No, but close. What is the bloke called who crouches behind the stumps (those three wooden things) with big gloves on? Kitty said she knew but was not telling. A bluff, I suspect.

Their innings also started badly. Andy Taylor, a good bat, was caught behind off Dennis. But the next man in was an equally good batsman and, with Rob, they gradually upped the rate to the 6 or so needed. Our fielding, it has to be said, was woeful. Dreadful. In sharp contrast to the opposition who moved like athletes rather than Douglas Bader. Of those who did not distinguish themselves in the field it would be cruel to single out Rupert, but a couple of misfields, and one dropped catch which David Blunkett would have caught, were such that even the phlegmatic Martin spluttered in disbelief. But not to be outdone, and in the interests of solidarity, Sunil dropped Rob when he was on 8 (he went on to make 48) and then dropped a skier at mid off. Alex dropped a chance at cover, Tony decided not to attempt two catches at mid-on that might have hurt, and there was a fluffed chance behind the wicket that Knott in his prime might have snapped up, but an elderly keeper is unlikely to get. I should perhaps explain what went wrong with that skier from Rob that I failed to attempt. Rob edged a ball to the heavens, off Dennis. I thought he was going for it but he has a damaged hand so hesitated. Rupert at point shouted YOURS! I calculated that this could refer to nine other players but, after debating his meaning, I decided it must on balance refer to me as the man with the big gloves, but in darting forward, and avoiding the stumps and Rupert, I did not make it. I may possibly have looked a wally, but you get used to that.

The two young batsmen rode their luck but continued to smack the boundaries off some occasionally wayward bowling. We gave away 13 wides. Interestingly only Alex had a maiden. But just as it looked as though the target would be reached with some ease, Martin came on and trapped Rob LBW (Hawkeye showed it would have hit middle and leg), Adam bowled a beauty to dismiss their high-scoring (41) no. 3, and Dennis did what others had failed to do, caught a catch (off Martin).

But in a topsy turvy game, just as we seemed on top a flurry of runs off an over changed things completely. With two overs left they needed 11 runs to win with three wickets in hand. Dennis came back and bowled either a full toss or Yorker. It matters not, it was on the wicket and hit middle stump. Their No. 8 then hit a 4 and a single.

So 6 was needed off the last over with two wickets in hand. The first ball was a dot ball. The next was hit to Adam at mid-wicket. He had not been at his best in the field, so it was no surprise when he seemed interminably slow to pick it up and throw it gently underarm towards the bowlers end. But it hit the wicket and the man was run out! From zero to hero. Unfortunately the batsmen had crossed so the last man was not on strike, leaving a fine hitter, now on 31, to face the third ball. It was hit high to Tony Bloom fielding at deep mid-on, where he had enjoyed a mixed afternoon, eschewing a couple of chances. He appeared to misjudge the trigonometry and from where I was the ball seemed to sail over him. But he kept his eye on the ball and twisted at the last minute to catch the thing! We had won.

If we had lost it would have been down to our wretched fielding, and countless missed chances and unnecessary boundaries. If we had lost no doubt there would have been grumbling about our captain, his batting order, field placing or bowling changes. But we did not lose, so the talk in the dressing room, quite rightly, was of brilliant field placing, inspirational bowling changes, each bringing immediate results. We had won an unlikely victory through Churchillian leadership. Cricket, bloody hell.