V&A PLAYERS: Adam Jacot (Captain), Rob Taylor, Nick Emley, Lachlan Nieboer, Christiaan Jonkers, Henry Turpie, Jago Poynter, Ross Ashcroft, Dennis de Caires, Tom Ayling, Nicky Bird

‘For when the One Great Scorer comes
To mark against your name,
He writes – not that you won or lost –
But How you played the Game.

 – Alumnus Football, Grantland Rice

I’m afraid the Great Scorer would have written ‘badly’ against my name. I did fuck all apart from drop two slip catches, bring Sarah’s contribution to lunch (the usual filthy paté, but goodish salads), and distract Emley in the slips with talk of cheap wine and Harold Pinter. Eventually he told me to shut it. I had been to France last week, battlefield touring and buying supermarket wine. Average price 3.50 euros. To Emley, cheap wine is a second growth.

Last week the 39ers, a Sri Lankan team, cancelled us because they had ‘succumbed to the heat’. However, ACME, our oppo this week, told me the 39ers are struggling this season and look like a team of the past. We nearly lost ACME too, who on Wednesday said they were only 5. I replied that we could not cancel two games in a row and they responded brilliantly by bringing 9, with Tom P-G heroically dusting off his mandatory hangover to play for them – and claim 3 of our wickets!

ACME are Bowden’s old team and had some good young players who could catch; a few could bat too. I was impressed by their cars (including an Aston Martin) and wives. They must be doing very well (some are film producers). At their age I was driving a Ford Popular which was a misnomer because it wasn’t popular it was shite. Looking at our jalopies in the car park this year it seems that our professions – the arts, wine, antiquarian books, writing, acting, publishing – are bummers. Only Martin Bowden and Nick Emley made proper money. Nick’s claret habit did for his stash, although he’s had a lease of life by selling his Mapplethorpe photos of gay men. By the way, looking at Ross’s aging Passat you might not guess that he was a major stand-up comic before making recondite films. You do not attract top totty like Megan by being a sit-down boor like me.

Adam, sporting his unshaven roué look, won the toss and elected to bat. Adam was adamant that in our 40 overs we a) score briskly at the start and b) reach 250. We did. We opened not with specialists like Emley (No. 8) or Ross (No. 4) but with swashbucklers Henry Turpie and Jago Poynter. The bowling was good, but not excessively so (wides proliferated). Henry and Jago swashed and buckled and were soon scoring at 6 an over. The pitch had been rolled (after complaints from Rupert) and was dry. The weather was fine – and in the afternoon glorious. We had reached 60 when Jago was caught in the deep (31). Lachlan came in. As this butch athlete walked to the wicket Jane, Emley’s saintly girlfriend, said something mildly lascivious about Nieboer’s sinewy rear, but I won’t mention it.  The rear and its owner soon returned, adjudged LBW (‘plumb’ admitted Lachlan). Enter Ross who looked in good form. Henry was caught (46 elegant runs) off T P-G, which brought in Rob Taylor. He hit two successive 4s, and looked set to do his next party piece, the Blind Swipe. This usually leads to a trudge back to the pavilion. But Rob temporarily mastered his rush of blood and hit some shots along the ground. Rob told Ross – ‘the Blind Swipe stays in the locker’. The next ball he succumbed to the Swipe… but it just missed off stump. ‘The Blind Swipe goes back to the locker’ he told Ross. It did. Unfortunately, Ross – who was looking fluent – was given out LBW when the ball had hit his arm. Jonkers thinks one should accept an umpire’s decision, however myopic. I’m for courteous discourse. If you’re not out caught behind because you were nowhere near it, I see no reason not to (politely) tell the umpire. The way to do this is not ‘Fuck off you deaf twat!’ but ‘I didn’t hit it, would you perchance reconsider?’ If the ump tells you to sod off back to the pavilion, so be it.

Dennis smacked a quick 19 before being caught off T P-G, Tom Ayling showed his class in a nice innings of 14 (bowled by T P-G who was enjoying himself at our expense), Emley showed that he is a natural No. 8, Jacot hit some big whacks before being caught for 9, and Jonkers looked his powerful self for a lively 17. All this time Rob Taylor was pounding the bowling. At one time, after tea, he knuckled down with 10 successive singles; after which he walloped anything wallopable. In the end I joined him. The field closed in, as jackals do when smelling a crippled warthog. They left a gap through which a late cut was steered. Rob faced the last ball and with nowt to lose exercised his right to enjoy the Blind Swipe. He was caught. He had scored 68 invaluable runs (see the Man of the Match photo above). Our total was 264.

Lunch and tea were communal efforts, with cakes provided by all the ladies and Estelle doing the meaty stuff for lunch. I had tickets for Henley Regatta on Sunday which Ross and Megan – now living in Henley – could use. I explained the etiquette. My attire on Thursday, when I went, consisted of: bright yellow trousers, vivid scarlet jacket, garish striped tie, bright blue shoes. If I had worn such things in a public lavatory I would have been arrested. But it is OK to dress like a pederast at Henley. I discussed with Estelle her new major arts project. The trouble is that with overheads – paint, staff, VAT etc. – there’s little profit. Michelangelo also made zilch out of the Sistine Ceiling. After paying for assistants, pigments (ultramarine is pricey stuff) and scaffolding there was only a ducat or two in it. Apparently, the reason many figures are stark bollock naked is that he tried to cut corners. Clothes are expensive things to paint. The best business model with maximum margins is still people trafficking.

Their batting was a curate’s egg. James, their skip, was effective, a big hitter. For some reason Christiaan, who opened with Lachlan, objects to being smacked by batsmen who are unsound technically. It might seem nebulous who clatters you, a yeoman or an artist. A six is a six. But Jonkers thinks otherwise. ‘Try playing a cricket stroke’ he will say. But the effect of a heave and a drive is often the same, the distinction merely aesthetic.

Their best batsman was their No. 1. I thought he and James could knock off our huge total by themselves. But Nieboer got one to lift which Ross, back behind the stumps, palmed expertly. Then Tom Ayling came on for Jonkers, with his medium-paced seam. Tom’s lovely girlfriend (who had chauffeured him to the pitch, what a paragon) and parents were watching. He didn’t disappoint them. He had James caught for 41, and bowled their No. 3. Thereafter wickets fell quickly. Aying bowled another. Lachlan was too quick and good for their middle order, whose stumps went a-tumbling; Turpie, a fine offie, bowled their No. 6 with a beaut, Dennis got his revenge and bowled T P-G, Adam bowled their No. 9; and Jago had their last man caught. As they were short, a batsman batted twice. Tradition has it that it should be the lowest scorer but they chose to bat their best batsman. And when he was out another chap came in, their second-best batsman. To Dennis’s surprise. When this bloke was out it seemed all over but Dennis looked to the pavilion, saying ‘it’s not over till the next 9 batsmen bat again’. Actually, it was over. They were out for 94. We had won rather easily.

We went to the Golden Ball. I explained why my brother-in-law got the ‘ump with a recent Match Report, which he thought rude. I wrote that he was a ‘fuck-up merchant until he made a mint in the water business’. Personally, I would have been flattered by such a comment. There lies the crux of his ‘ump: to be called a ‘fuck-up merchant’ by a cock-up king who lives in Acton with a woman from Birmingham is rich. My record of fuck-ups is a proud one. An indiscretion ended my career at the V&A, drink rather did for my job at Christie’s, and I forgot to turn up for consecutive ‘A’ Levels (was in William Hill). I have been booted out of a Spectator party (difficult, but I managed it) and a Royal Academy private view (fondled Princess Margaret’s bottom for a bet, ‘uninvited’ as she put it).

When I picked up the lunch from Sarah on Saturday morning it was clear that, despite my affair with Helena Bonham-Carter being stillborn, Sarah’s dog is still keen, if the evidence of my trousers is to go by. She said the brute has no taste. As he also fancies her paté she may be right.