The V&A CC is in rude health.

We were oversubscribed for nearly every game, and sometimes had 12 or even 14 to rotate on the day. This was partly due to bungling or weakness on my part: players clambered eagerly aboard and I thought, what the fuck, someone is bound to die or get banged up before Saturday but it didn’t happen. Some, like Adam, feel that playing 12 or more is wallyish. Personally I like the luxury of sitting out a few overs and chatting to the old biddies on the boundary.

Speaking of which they created the most exotic and delectable lunches, better than ever. Teas too, with memorable cakes and scones. My own efforts are industrial by comparison. I regret bringing the wrong sort of tea bags, Lapsang Suchong or Orange Pekoe, forget which, but the oiks that I am forced to spend my days with at Stonor merely thought it ‘tasted funny’. It is meant to taste that way. But the dogsbody, or tea lady-in-chief is still Sarah Jenkins, that empress of the urn, who can be relied upon to produce entirely adequate fayre without poncey flourishes. Her randy dog still shags my leg but he is a bit gaga now, and I don’t know how long the relationship will last. I haven’t much else in the locker, Helena Bonham-Carter shows no interest, and I am reduced to trawling Phyllis Court (that genteel old peoples’ club in Henley) for nooky, along with Steffen’s dad, which is depressing as the average age is 108, but such is life (or in their case death).

If a V&A Lifetime Achievement award for spectating was offered it would go to Annette Jacot, who texted me after the last game to say she has been coming for 20 years. Amazing stamina. She is the most loyal of mothers. She comes down week after week to watch Adam’s cameo. Pity that when he caught a catch her nose was buried in the Telegraph brainy crossword. I try to be on my best behaviour when I am with her, and fail. It is ok for a bit, I am mindful that she taught at that poshest of girls’ schools Heathfield, but then I forgot myself and say something inappropriate. But one can be too couth.

We were buggered by the weather too often this year. After a blistering week, Saturday was invariably wet or cold, and we froze on the porch, with the ladies’ covered in car rugs. In April we were graced, on a miserable day, by the distinguished England cricketer (and equally distinguished journalist) Mike Atherton. To see a master at work, once he had attuned to the soggy pitch and Noddy bowling, was instructive. Apparently one must move one’s feet and watch the ball. He did not take a blind swipe at his first ball, unlike some V&A players who shall remain nameless (Rob Taylor).

Mention should be made of Ross and Megan Ashcroft, who created and manage our brilliant new website. The febrile atmosphere at Stonor has led to Megan being pregnant again. I regret asking her who the father is, it was rude and insensitive, it is entirely her business.

Much mockery was made of my round robin about etiquette. The note followed a spate of whinges from oppositions concerning our alleged mouthiness. Christiaan, that shy and reticent second-hand book dealer, thought bowlers were unfairly pilloried for alleged naughtiness when batsmen can be provocative. He asked who was singled out as a miscreant, was it him? No, no-one can pronounce his foreign name. Speaking of foreigners, Brexit caused a minor flurry, with Nick Emley and others alarmed to find Brexiters among us (my current wife was one). Christiaan had predicted a sizeable Remain vote, so had I and bet real money on it. I have bet on Hillary, despite my Trump hat (‘Make America Great Again’). Trump is thus a shoe-in.

About the actual cricket I recall memorable innings by Andy and Rob T, Lachlan, Dennis, Nick P-G, C M-T and Ross and great cameos from Tom Bird, Louis, Adam, Rupert and CJ. Ross and Lachlan hit the biggest sixes ever seen at Stonor. Nick Emley scored a fifty and yet this technical master is unfairly compared with Boycott. There are huge differences. Nick speaks French, Boycott doesn’t. Nick, as far as I know, doesn’t smack women.

Bowling stars have been the usual stalwarts but Tom P-G has matured into a very economical spinner, rare at our level. In the field Rob Taylor is outstanding. Some others are not. Our catching has been dire. I have umpired more than played (partly due to a wholly deserved modesty which allows better men to wicket-keep and play when we are too many). But osteo-arthritis is whacking the knees, although my doctor said I was also fat which doesn’t help (I resent personal remarks like that, I don’t call him a bald git which he is). Martin Bowden’s knees are a real worry and we missed him for much of the season. As we did Sunil, but for different reasons (new wife). My umpiring, incidentally, has caused controversy, with one bowler calling me a myopic geriatric imbecile (his actual words were ‘blind old c*nt’). I thought ‘old’ a bit harsh.

Roger Smith retired after feeling dissed when he wasn’t chosen for the first game – and because he felt the team had become too rude. We miss this chap whose method of turning down appeals for LBW when umpiring was a firm ‘fuck off!’ I miss Andy Fraser, not just for his erudition but for his elegant batting, if not fielding. As his batting soared to Hobbsian heights so his fielding descended to Tufnellesque depths. We miss too Simon Foster and his lovely wife whom I never interfered with, and saw too little of Jago and his jolly and helpful parents. John Langley’s uplifting conversation and refusal to talk footy (or smut) in the cricket season has kept me on my toes behind the sticks. Tom Bird wed this year and his missus Steph contributed to much culinary pleasure. She puts up with Tom’s dreadful cross-bat shot so must be a saint. They have moved from Henley to suburban, respectable Cholsey so Tom will have to watch his behaviour and pretend to be sober when he walks home from the commuter train. The Bird family have long been in the wine trade, many of us dying from drink. It is a noble lineage.

The pitch at Stonor played well, despite the crows digging great holes in the outfield to gobble larvae. Pitch covers would be nice. Sight screens too. But we cannot carp when we have such a beautiful ground and a pavilion with a ladies lav, which I prefer to the men’s toilets because you find more salubrious types there.

There will be a Committee Meeting at the RCA shortly and on the agenda will be whether to drop some oppositions. Almost all are delightful, however. We are off to the South of France in a couple of weeks so there is room for more runs and malarkey. We are one or two short, if Octavia Ashcroft cannot play. But she is out of nappies which makes her eligible.

So, to summarise the End of Term Report: Could do better (especially in the field); but thanks to the Hon Treasurer and Fixtures Sec we are solvent and have nice people to play with. And thanks to Nigel Allsop and his groundsman we have a wonderful pitch. And thanks to Sarah Jenkins’ dog I still have a sex life (of sorts). And thanks to Sarah, Annette, Estelle, Jane, Jessica, Steph, Lucinda, Kitty and Cath we have excellent lunches (more important than cricket) and Radio Bird has a (captive) audience.

Nicky Bird