V&A PLAYERS: C JONKERS [SKIP], T P-G, N P-G, D DE CAIRES, N EMLEY, T BIRD, N BIRD, R ASHCROFT, E NICOLI, L NIEBOER, C M-T, D SIMPSON

It was nice to be back. The pavilion boasted new floorboards on the porch but otherwise all was the same; same rabbit holes in the outfield, same kites in the sky, same track with its variable bounce. Not as good as Turville said Christiaan, our skip, but he is a curmudgeon so take no notice. He got walloped for three successive boundaries which always puts him in a bad mood. He suggested that the offending batsman ‘might try playing a cricket stroke’ implying that the fellow was a bit agricultural.  Christiaan may be John Inman in his second-hand bookshop but is John Wayne on the pitch.

We batted first, opening with Ashcroft and Nick P-G. Ross whacked a four off his first ball and looked set for 50 when he was plumb LBW (for 10), knew it and walked as the finger went up. Enter Chris Mounsey-Thear who immediately set about the bowling with four 4s and a 6 off his first six scoring shots. Sunil was one of their opener bowlers and was pretty piss poor with a succession of wides and long hops. It looked like the ‘yips’. He wisely took himself off after conceding 25 runs in three overs. Some bowlers never come back from this dread affliction but Sunil had an over later and actually got N P-G caught – for 20 useful runs having anchored an end playing the Nick Emley limpet role. When Emley came in – after some quick runs from Niebour (20, including an enormous 6 that hit the tree by the nets) and de Caires (11) – he played a wholly uncharacteristic (and unwise) blind swipe and was stumped by their lithe if ancient keeper, Andy Lycett, the distinguished biographer of Ian Fleming.

Tom Bird walked in, and out, guilty of the same wally cross-bat shot he’s prone to playing when his missus is watching, which must demean him in her eyes. I sat with her during his short innings; she fretted that she might miss his stunning range of offensive shots which she is wont to do, being easily distracted by alternative attractions like the grass growing, but she need not have worried. Our collapse – from 143 for 2 at lunch off 23 overs – to 160 for 8 came about for one reason. Lunch. It was beyond excellent, the creation of the saintly Megan Ashcroft, mother of the angelic sisters Octavia and Alexa. Alexa spent some time playing with my nose which she thought either gruesome or awesome, I couldn’t quite tell from her gurgles. Lunch was roast chicken and exotic salads; tea was equally scrumptious in an Enid Blyton way. My own culinary efforts, I was reminded, were pedestrian in comparison. Actually, I have two types of lunch in my repertoire, No. 2 and No. 2A (LUXURY). No. 2A is the same as No. 2 but with a sprinkling of parsley. Conversation down my end of the luncheon table ranged from the vulgar to the coarse, with but brief respite for politics and gossip. Topics ranged from the state of Martin Bowden’s knees (not good), to Corbyn’s chances (not good), to my chances with Helena Bonham-Carter (not good) to Trump’s sanity (not good) and to the chances of men being truthful to the doctor about their drinking habits (not good). My objection to doctors asking questions about your stool or what you drink is that it is appallingly personal – we don’t ask them about their motions or drinking habits. Dennis and I discussed Michelangelo and Sabastiano and the nature of genius. I thought our new player Dario, Tom P-G’s mate, might be interested in these Renaissance giants being presumably Italian in origin, but he was unfamiliar with Sabastiano’s oeuvre as he is from Wargrave and about as Italian as Marmite.

Lunch was so delectable that it led to a collapse of concentration. Not helped by Chris M-T being caught just before the interval for a potentially match-winning 67 (with 12 boundaries!).

At the end of our (ultimately) disappointing innings Jonkers and N. Bird got a few but probably not enough. I hit a boundary off my first ball thanks to dozy fielding by Sunil but then huffed and puffed for a few singles which others would have made into 3s. Jonkers hit 9 singles. Our innings ended on 178, having at one time seemed to be cantering to 220 or more.

The day was blissful in the sun but a bit chilly elsewhere. There was a good spattering of support, Steph, Estelle (fresh from her exhibition in Munchen) and Cath P-G… but no Sarah Jenkins or her randy dog so no nooky for me.

We opened our bowling attack with Lachlan and Dennis. Both were accurate with Lachlan in particular getting lift from an erratic wicket. He soon bowled Peter Kirkham (2) and Dennis enticed a snick from their other opener which the keeper (Nick P-G, Ross having buggered his back) gloved. But I’d noticed that when fielding they had 4 butch youths who threw the ball lustily and I feared that these same titans might wallop the bowling a bit, and so it proved. Jonkers went for 32 in his 4 overs, mostly the victim of their No. 3, Tom. But he did grab his wicket in the end – caught nicely by Enzo Nicoli for 44. Enzo proved crucial. Just as they were looking to creep up to our total Enzo (3 for 21 off 7 overs) bowled three successive batsmen and they were reeling. But their No. 8, Mark, a diminutive if muscular figure of no technical merit but with an eye, bombarded the boundaries. Tom P-G (0 for 29 off 7) could make no headway but in an inspired change of bowling Christiaan brought on the young spinner Dario. He bowled Rick, their No. 7, lured Sunil into holing out to Tom P-G and then bowled Andy Lycett (a good batsman). Their only hope was Mark. But Dario (4 overs, 4 for 14) bowled him with an offie that Laker would have been proud of.  And that was that. They were all out for 125. Well short of the total but it had been nicely poised at tea.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention in passing Nick P-G’s efforts behind the stumps. He caught a catch it is true but then, off his boy Tom, missed another catch and a couple of stumpings. One was tricky but the other was not. Mark, the batsman, was stranded so far out of his crease that he made no effort to get back. The ball was in Nick’s gloves. If he moved his hands towards the stumps the bails would come off and the batsman would be ‘out’. The stumps were so close that he decided to throw the ball at the wicket. The batsman remained marooned. It seemed impossible to miss. But Nick managed the impossible.

We were in the Golden Ball by 6 and very agreeable it was with the sun shining and chips on the tables and Christiaan’s lovely girls and wife joining us from his new house next door. The GTs have several authors in their team apart from Andy Lycett (currently working on a book on Paris in the 60s) including Max Arthur who wrote ‘Forgotten Voices of the Great War’ which my brother and I shamelessly plagiarised for our ‘Voices from the Front Line’. I had introduced him to my father, almost the last surviving Desert Rat, earlier in the afternoon. But my father was more interested in Megan’s clotted-cream scone than talking about Alamein. Max’s new book is about the Paras. ‘What is it called?’ I asked. ‘The Paras’, he said. Stupid question.