V&A XI: R. Taylor (C), A. Taylor (returning from Canada to play), M. Terblanche, A. Stewart, A. Jacot, C. Jonkers, L. Nieboer, J. Arnold, A. Pitlarge, C. Kulasingam, D. Pitlarge, 

‘Cricket is better than sex’ (Harold Pinter). I quoted this old chestnut the other week and one V&A stalwart told me – ‘I tried his theory out with the missus after the pub, it being Saturday – a sort of practical. The missus said Pinter was right. And she hates cricket.’ He went on: ‘Cricket is actually like sex. It involves absurd positions. And etiquette, confrontation, argument and disappointment. And recrimination.’

We had all the above on Saturday, to a lesser degree. There was ‘organised loafing’ too (Archbishop Temple), as we hung about for an age before wandering out to play. We batted first in a 35-over game skippered with his customary skill and tact by Rob Taylor. I umpired and was soon embroiled in a minor argument and confrontation with a very reasonable bowler who asked politely why his LBW appeal was rejected when the ball would have hit the wicket. As usual I referred him to ‘Rule 47’. 

David Pitlarge and Jasper Arnold opened, Jasper hitting 11 off the first over. David was more stately. Jasper has a fine drive. David cuts beautifully. Their running between the wickets was marred, perhaps, by David’s good manners. He does not like to shout, or dictate. ‘Go!’ he says. It seems like a polite suggestion. Jasper thought it sounded like ‘No!’ One opening bowler was more threatening than the other, who was a bit wayward (there were lots of extras). Jasper was out to a good catch at square leg (for 20). Their keeper beckoned me over to look at a divot in the pitch, caused by Jasper smiting the turf in frustration. My eyesight was insufficient to spot it. 

Lachlan came in. A cricketer of grace (‘a notch above our class’- Jonkers). His first shot was a 6, then 2, then a 6 and a 4. David was soon given out LBW by Jonkers. For not many (0). David was well forward and a suspicion was voiced that the verdict was prompted by the umpire wanting a bat. Not so, said Christiaan, who unlike Boris cannot tell a lie. Incidentally, a few years ago, Christiaan confronted Boris in a pub about the EU and Boris was in favour. Probably in favour of the barmaid too, and Mrs. Jonkers. Boris is a man of loud integrity. ‘The more he talked of his honour the faster we counted our spoons’ (Emerson).

Christiaan was once hit in the street by a schoolboy. ‘It was class based.’ The boy was ‘disadvantaged’. Jonkers was 12, and presumably wore his cap at a cocky angle and was spouting Ovid and perhaps said something like ‘can I interest you in some fine conkers, young rustic’ and was quite properly struck on the nose. Some chaps would like to smack him when he’s umpiring, or batting. He had a little tiff with an umpire, when bowling on Saturday. A plumb LBW was turned down; because the appeal was ‘too loud’.  

Andy Taylor strode in with the score on 40, and soon showed us what we missed when he emigrated to Canada. He has a sounder defence than his brother Robbie; he’s more classical in style, but no less effective. A real pleasure to watch. Canada, he says, has lots of trees and weather but isn’t as woke as you think. Well, here is a bit from a government edict: ‘Avoid calling your dog him or her: gendering animals serves to normalize bioessentialist conceptions of gender.’

Lachlan and Andy put on 80 before Andy was out after a gem of an innings (38 – eight 4s) on the dot of lunch, just as he was murdering the (rather indifferent) bowling. 

I catered. Fillet of beef – ‘overdone’ (Jonkers) – and manly salads, none of your alfalfa shite. Followed by a Magnum Classic. Not haute cuisine but cold and welcome on a gloriously hot day. I had wonderful assistance from young persons identifying as she/her. They worked at the Wine Society in Oxford. I am a member but stopped using them because they are weak in the £3.99 market. 

At lunch we discussed Boris’s disgrace – ‘Not news, just a given’ (Lachlan) – and whether Jonkers looked Dutch – ‘he does’ (Lachlan) – and whether ‘loo’ was non-U and the advantages of having a posh name like Adam Jacot de Boinod (not French but Huguenot). Annette, Adam’s crossword-solving mum, said: ‘Adam got the sack from his first job where he was known as Jacot, but rejoined as de Boinod and they didn’t realise he was the same bloke who’d quite rightly got the boot.’  Adam, who wrote for Easyjet’s inflight magazine, mocked me for being reduced to writing for the Henley Standard. He now writes for the Cork Advertiser or Irish Times. 

Joining Lachlan after lunch was Mark Terblanche, who has emigrated to Welwyn Garden City. ‘Where’s that?’ asked Jonkers. Mark is a superb batsman, reminding me of Peter May, or indeed Adam Jacot 40 years ago. Mark and Lachlan made hay, with Lachlan farming the bowling skilfully. I sat with Christy, watching in awe: two masters, with dissimilar styles. Lachlan is like Barrington, I thought, with his punch to leg. More D’Oliviera, opined Christy, minimal backlift. Annette seemed more interested in 14 down (Q: Pick of the bunch? 3,6. A: top banana).

Lachlan’s superb knock only ended when he passed 100, and retired. He’d been dropped but his ton was deserved. The Bacchus XI are delightful company, helpful and tolerant, but lack perhaps a bowler of Niebour’s class, or even Jonkers’. Their catching could be surprisingly good, or bad. Jonkers (26*) came in to partner Terblanche, and whacked a succession of boundaries off his legs, and to all points. When he connects, he is masterful. Terblanche sacrificed his wicket when on 58 and Alex Pitlarge came in at the end for a nimble 8*. We reached a hefty total of 297. ‘Challenging’ I said to the Bacchus skip. He seemed to think the total slightly beyond their reach, a couple of hundred or so. He invited me to their BBQ later. Although Bacchus had no old gits like me, just yoof, they did not appear to have quite the right type of yoof. The type – like the Taylor bros. – who can sort of bat and bowl. The gear gave it away. Black shoes indicate a chap who is not an habitué of the cricket field.   

Tea, the stuff you drink, was Tetley because Lapsang befuddles our riff-raff; gateaux were courtesy Mr. Kipling. Scones were ‘hand-crafted’ by myself with strawberry jam made from real strawberry concentrate. David, the lawyer, talked about the art of cross examination and Prince Harry’s woeful unpreparedness in the witness box. The implication of his whine was in essence – ‘The Daily Mirror ruined my relationship with the lovely Chelsy, so I ended up with the ratbag Meghan.’ 

I mentioned to Christiaan that Vin Grantham played less because he felt frustrated that his batting was not what it was. ‘I feel the same about my bowling’ said Jonkers. And then promptly got the first two wickets. Alex Pilarge opened the other end and was mean, going for a mere 2 an over. Then Lachlan ran out their No. 2, with the best long throw to hit the one stump visible I’ve seen. There was a short stand before Adam Jacot bowled their no. 4, and Christy bowled their Nos. 5 and 7. There was another run-out (fantastic ping by Rob Taylor) and Alex Stewart removed their last man. They were out for 87. 

My nephew Tom Bird turned up and my great niece Ottalie, aged 4, called me a ‘poo-head’ or ‘toilet-brain’ or something and her mother, Stephanie, said it was all my fault for being vulgar and I should watch my fucking language. Speaking of toilets, in Canada they have banned the verb ‘to pan’ (as in ‘the critic panned the show’) because it is too like ‘toilet pan’ or ‘bedpan’. ‘Lame duck’ is also a no-no: a vile slur on ducks. 

A lovely day, never mind about the lack of competitive edge. Someone opined that if Pinter was right about cricket, then Johnny Rotten was apposite with his comment that sex was ‘two minutes of squelching’. Cricket on a hot day is just the same but takes longer. 

Nicky Bird