Match Summary

Forthcoming....

View from the Away dressing room

By Duncan Mallard

Revenge is a dish best served cold they say. It also helps if it's overcast and a bit damp...epecially if you win the toss and bowl first, but more of that anon. This the return fixture then after a hard fought scrap on the goose-shit stained plains of Barnes, ultimately ending in defeat and ignominy for the mighty Doors. Wounds licked and egos revived however the C.C.C. met on the killing fields of Chesham Bois in deepest, darkest Bucks and awaited the enemy. Slowly the Twenties emerged through the morning gloom, marching solemnly through the trees and across the field, weapons to hand in No Man's Land. The pallid youthful faces told of fear...or a hard night on the turps. Perhaps expecting the monstrous anger of our guns they approached, cautiously at first, sending out the expendable Australian in the vanguard. When no danger threatened the rest piled in behind and the teams were met, handshakes all round. Standards were raised in the form of new shirts for the Doors bearing the crossed exclamation and question marks argent on an azure field, and shirts plus caps for the Twenties with a nice little red biplane. The home side's motto, Infitialis Idoneus, or Negative Capability, spoke volumes for their approach to the forthcoming tourney. On first inspection it seemed a throwaway line but, as keen students of the poetry of Keats, each Corriodore was only too aware of it's true sense: 'when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.' How true. The Twenties, by contrast, parried with Alius Cadit, Another One Has Fallen; although a Latin translation engine gave a slightly different meaning: Deceased Rotting Bird Corpse. Foul play? Not a bit of it! No seam lifters here, and a more relaxed approach to umpiring, but more of that also anon.

The Captains took to the field and spun silver under a lowering sky. The call of 'tails' drew first blood for the Twenties whose wily commander chose to insert the opposition. Was it the nimbic cover that prompted this? Perhaps the verdant sward with a brush of glossy dew gained sway? Or maybe the late arrival of some spectators who had 'come to see them bat not bowl' delayed their decision to swish the willow? Whatever. The tilt was begun.

The Swiss guard, Tony Campbell, and the Corridor Captain Mallard took to the fray...and marched into ruin. The Four Bowlers of the Apocalypse, Martineau (War), Elwes (Famine), Scott (Pestilence) and Cannon (Death) were a revelation. Never before had the Corries faced such a relentless attack as wave after wave of deliveries pounded the lines. Martineau swung and swung at Mallard, until the Skip was felled, lofting an easy catch to Scott at mid on. Campbell was laid low soon after, the deathly digit of the ump coming twixt him and certain glory. Was the fickle finger flawed? Fatally certainly. Erroneously? Who knows? Even the 'keeper was unsure. Junior returned to the fold soon after, the same verdict served upon his batsmanship and a rout seemed the likely outcome until a hero emerged in the form of the Tiger. With a cry of anguish he grasped his weapon and marched, head held skywards, toward the enemy. With gusto and vigour he set about the attack never wavering in concentration, smiting the best efforts with disdain to all parts culminating in an effortless maximum over the leafy glade. What a shame his damsel was communing with porcelain at the time. He eventually succumbed to the Inferno, Curtis forcing a chance from the little Champion which was well taken indeed. Had the colours fallen? Not so! For even though Pogo, Wilson and The Hulk left nary a trace of their existence in the Great Book, there was Sergeant-Major Armstrong-Bunker exhorting himself to new heights. He could not match the Striped One's valiant 28, but his boundary heavy 19 served notice that the ship would go down with all guns blazing. All seemed lost when the Towering Inferno finally split the timbers (since Gentleman Jim was disinclined to pouch catches in the deep), but the Lump and Lord Mallard held firm to steer the score to a raffishly respectable 107.

Tea.

After restorative ales and vittles, the sides were enjoined in battle once again. Elwes and Lloyd-Baker faced Armstrong-Bunker and Thomson in four way combat and came out the better. The boundaries shrunk at the Twenties' assault as fours and sixes blazed from their bats. On this occasion the players were like terriers, retrieving the orb when it seemed certain to be lost. And still the little red biplane soared. Fired by his impending nuptials Lloyd-Baker blasted the Corridor attack from the field with three fours and a six in his 35, while Elwes alternately bludgeoned and caressed his way through eight fours and towering six for his 49. The only respite for the troops of the Uncertain Corridor were the wickets of the opening pair. Skipper Mallard hurled himself into the attack with an aggresive spell of bowling. Emboldened by this example the Crab stood up at the wicket and from nothing fashioned a heroic stumping. Elwes finally departing the field one shy of a deserved half ton...there was much rejoicing. And from a small victory came a new hope. Pogo and Swiss Tony launched a fresh assault on enemy lines but to no avail. The winning post hove into view and then, like a light in the darkness, Junior raised his voice and said: 'Can I have a bowl Skip?' And bowl he did. The ball of the righteous felling the Stag in his tracks, a spear through the heart of his defence. The result was never an issue from then on but the Lump, now in his accustomed role of 'Death' bowler, played the Grim Reaper to the opposition's cataclysmic quartet. Yet again he was denied the scalp he so richly deserved when slovenly hands let chances go a-begging. The bell tolled for the Doors as Godsal and Scott put the home side to the sword.

And then both teams squared up again in a 10 over thrash. The Doors batted with numbers from the Lump and The Hulk, as well as Wilson and Crab Man. To their immense credit the Twenties bowled deep but proved difficult to get away with the C.C.C. posting eighty odd, Good Effort That. There was to be no saving of face as the Twenties eased their way to victory, knocking off the required runs and then pushing on past the hundred in good humour. No revenge then for the Corridors. And could there be any better way to set up a Stag night than with back to back victories? I doubt it. The day was surely destined to be the Twenties when first a Spitfire and then a Magister roared overhead. If you squinted and looked very carefully, you might have imagined a little red biplane trailing in their wake.

Duncan Mallard - 01/09/2006