UMPIRE: Nicky Bird CATERER: Steph Bird As we waited for the RASCALS to arrive discussion turned to etiquette, and what is the form when a player croaks. Should the match be abandoned? Or would it be a case of carrying on ‘because Dennis would have wanted us to’? Someone imagined my getting an umpiring decision right and being so surprised I immediately keel over. A phone call to my missus ensues: Adam (for it is he): ‘Dr. Bird?’ Dr. Bird: ‘Yes.’ Adam: ‘It’s Adam Jacot here, you may have heard of me.’ Dr. Bird: ‘Yes, nothing good.’ Adam: ‘I have news of your hubby, good news and bad news. I’m afraid he may be away for a long time.’ Dr. Bird: ‘What’s the bad news.’ In the Sherlock Holmes story, the key thing is the dog that didn’t bark in the night. It means the dog knew the intruder. Or […]

Raedarii means ‘Coachmen’ in Latin. My dictionary gives this ancient example – ‘Raedarii Itali insani sunt.’ Italian drivers are barking. It was ever thus. Drive along the Amalfi Coast and you will see, at the bottom of the cliff, a dead Fiat Uno or two. But this does not deter other Fiat Unos, who are the new lemming. But while a British lemming forms a queue the Neapolitan variant just eats lunch and dashes for the edge, no method, just madness. RAEDARII C.C. are not barking, just polite and helpful. They clear up, they wash up, they (sort of) laugh at my ‘joke(s)’ which was very nice of them as it involved an old wine guru called Hugh Johnson, in the mistaken belief these Oxbridge types were all in the wine trade. They weren’t (that’s Bacchus, silly me) but one or two could play cricket and that’s all you need. […]

At 9.0 am the decision was made to play (the rain actually ceased around 11.00). Although this was conveyed to The RASCALS only two turned up on time because the others looked at what was pissing down and thought, naturally, ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen’ go out in the midday rain. But after a late lunch they ambled in and a very nice team they were (mostly friends from schooldays), one of whom was Jasper’s younger brother. Jasper played for the opposition. Rob Taylor took the gloves and looked the part, even taking a nifty catch. Jasper’s mum, Sue, catered and as before produced a sumptuous spread. I was on my best behaviour and was grovelling in my appreciation with just a hint of oiliness. Annette Jacot also graced our ground so I cut out the filth. They batted first. Very slowly. This was partly down to the tight bowling […]

RAJ SINGH brought his team all the way from Hackney, a 2-hour drive and – barring one car that was late after breaking down – was bang on time. We were not.  But we were 11 men thanks, as usual, to Adam Jacot’s recruitment policy, which is a sort of persistent nagging. In the nicest way. We had Cassius Bird and Alex Pitlarge representing yoof.  Cassius was applauded every time he picked up the ball without falling over or his trousers falling down. He thought this a bit patronising. Alex had a jaunty Keble College cap which I coveted. I have a lot of ties and caps I’m not entitled to (IZ, Free Foresters, Greenjackets, MCC…). Senior Pros included Adam and Nick Scott-Ram, chums from Cambridge. Niam Scott-Jam once showed me an embarrassing photo of them (c1973), looking dopey or stoned, which has since been suppressed. I umpired. Christiaan captained, […]

SIMON BARNES, late of The Times and doyen of sports writers, used to play for the V&A and was a good hater. His heroes were Homer Simpson (‘I don’t know much about art but I know what I hate’) and W.C. Fields (‘I like children – fried’). Apart from split infinitives he also hated the languid school of cricketer, the Plum Warners and Douglas Jardines(‘MCC at its worst’), the sort who loaf in cravats and wear a striped tie as a belt. I once accused Simon of being a bit chippy. ‘Jesus was a chippy,’ he replied which I thought a non-sequitur. Christiaan Jonkers, who I revere, is the Plum Warner de nos jours and commanded our team in mufti, deigning to change into trad whites only when taking the field. Apparently, he wears a tie as a belt to keep his trousers up. Good reason. But he lacks a cravat, […]

    The ALL SORTS are named after a box of liquorice sweeties. Like Bassetts Liquorice Allsorts they’re a mixed bag. Some are butch and young, others not. David Pitlarge suggested, by the way, that I have a Manichean view of cricketers, they are either butch or effete. But there are exceptions and skipper Adam Jacot falls in between: his feminine side is dominant in the kitchen but his virility is apparent in his bowling and robust batting. His manliness was evident when a ball smacked him in the mouth. He retired reluctantly from the field, was patched up by the wonderful Emma and returned to his bowler’s mark, bloodied but uncomplaining. His captaincy was typically tactful, with late-order batsmen bowling and everyone getting a chance to do something, however badly. Adam’s fielding was as always languid, and generous to the batsmen. Christiaan and I had a chat about the […]

  V&A v RAEDARII CC, STONOR, AUGUST 19, 2023   When Colin Cowdrey faced the Aussie paceman Jeff Thomson in his last innings, the conversation went like this – Cowdrey: Good morning. Mr. Thomson, I believe. My name is Cowdrey, pleased to make your acquaintance. Thommo: That shit cuts no ice with me, Fatso. Now piss off. I mentioned this exchange at lunch because – apart from it being exactly as old as our club – it typifies two cultures, that of the venerable MCC, patrician and courteous, and that of the Brave New World of sledging and swearing. Faded flannels v lurex. Raedarii CC (‘coachmen’ in Latin) are very much old school, polite and helpful. They cleared their dishes. Said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and called me ‘Sir’. Their charming skipper, Rupert Baddock, even emailed to ask whether it was true that our dress code demanded jackets and cravats […]

There are two Coningtons near Peterborough, and I found the wrong one. I gave Joe and Nick Constantine a lift and they weren’t too impressed. We drove around the lanes of a scrubby village and asked yokels for the cricket pitch. ‘No idea’ was the stock answer and I thought them moronic not to know their most picturesque spot. ‘It’s by the church. Opposite the manor house,’ I said. Blank, stupid looks. ‘Mark Braid is the owner.’ Who? Then a bloke said – ‘You might mean the other Conington.’ Fuck. So we were late. We were 13 for 0 when we arrived with Jasper and Marc looking comfortable against goodish bowling on a flat pitch. But Marc, a very good batsman indeed, contrived to nick a fastish ball to the armpit of a bemused first slip. Out. Enter Lachlan who looked set for a good score but played back to […]

‘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 […]