Cric

The Twenties in 2006 — an overview.

The Weeping Willow - a tree heavy with the fruits of cricketing defeat

2006 – the shame. THE SHAME.

The Twenty Minuter's 2006 season was another excellent exposition in the dark arts of getting comprehensively shafted. Much like General Von der Marwitz after Cambrai, the Twenties, jaded, survey the rubble of yet another devastating season, peppered liberally with such hideous recurrences as: 

C Redmayne 	st Willis 	b Elwes 101

and with an almost painful inevitability: 

J Elwes 	run out 		10

Nietzsche himself would take comfort in such a display. Had he been the type to invest heavily in lager and sit – radio in hand, tab on – in the boundaries of various cricket grounds of the southern counties to watch the Twenties play, he would have witnessed before him a quite booming endorsement of his much-derided theory of Eternal Recurrence. He would have twisted his moustache in glee at the sight of upper order collapses; would have taken off and twizzled his glasses in delight at the sight of lolloping, cowardly run-outs; and would have dirtied himself heartily with cyclical existential satisfaction at the sight of the shelled catches, the accidental beamers, the hotly-contested umpiring decisions, displays of gross alcoholism and physical and moral cowardice. For indeed, those erratic ways that so stalked the Twenties last season, and that bedeviled them in the seasons even before that one, stalk them still.

A search for revival in the team psyche took the form of moving to a new ground (valiantly and excellently tracked down by the ever-industrious, never to be sniffed at logistical cognoscento that is the Twenty's Fix. Sec. – "ALL HAIL THE FIX. SEC." etc). But, as with so many other apparent positives in this 2006 season (perhaps 'rout'? – ed) the new ground and welcoming deck turned to ashes in the mouth. Opening games revealed a track so dead, and so devoid of any character, charm or vitality, it was at times "rather like playing on the exhumed remains of Martin Bormann". The opening game versus the Corridor Cricketers (of whom more later) was one such meeting – the ball immediately losing half of its speed when coming into contact with the soggy, poorly treated earth and refusing to move much above kneecap height. This complete cowpat of a deck was offset beautifully by the ankle-high, swaying grasslands of the outfield; an outfield maintained by a stoned youth with a tractor who was at best incoherent, and at worst suffering from a sever case of dumb insolence. On reflection it would perhaps have been advisable to administer a sharp bit of justice to said youth, but his ownership of a tractor was enough to make this line of action ill-advised.

After the turgid "splat and pea-roll" of the earlier games, there followed a quite alarming drying process, culminating in the deadly wicket prepared for the game versus Barney's XI, a track so bouncy, so unpredictable, so volatile that medium pace pitched-up balls were fizzing past the batsman's nose and being taken at shoulder height behind. The brutality of this hard-cooked driveway was exacerbated by the pock-marks from previous, damp games that had dried hard to give a corrugated effect. In short, the Bappa disgraced itself this year, and in doing so perhaps – one might say – qualifying as an honourary Twenty itself. Debate is open as to whether inanimate objects can become honorary life members of the greater squad, but seeing as the Bappa was unpredictable, agonisingly frustrating and that it drank up enough water to irrigate Kent, it would seem well set for admission.

In one area, though in which the Bappa would not qualify, is in level of presentation. For whereas that field in Barnes remains a plastic bottle- and can-strewn, duck doo-infested hell pit of shame and disgustingness, the Twenty about town is a dapper individual, and the aesthetic status of the team was cemented in the annals of cricketing fashion this season by the arrival of the team kit. After three years of close consultation, the team colours were agreed and the garments ordered. Blue caps and generously-proportioned shirts were the perfect accompaniment to the also generously-proportioned Twenties. For indeed, this is a fat team; a team consisting mainly of fatties. Fatties and ne'er-do-wells. Who like beer and 'pub treats', preferably those manufactured from the remains of the common pig. This love of pub treats of course translated into some fabulous teas, and the paper plates were stacked generously this year with pork-based products that only narrowly conformed to E.U. descriptions of what strictly qualifies as "food". It is – yes – a shame that this pig-based diet was not altered for the benefit of the visiting Catford team (a side that consists entirely of players to whom pork is strictly forbidden), but the average girth of the Twenty's continues to expand. Horrifically.

The tea highlight of the year, of course, was that provided by Mrs. Chesty. Mrs. C, all agreed, played a blinder, dazzling the hungry mob with all sorts of splendid, splendid stuff. It is perhaps a shame that the game in question ended in defeat for the boys (boys? BOYS? – Ed.), but if you will eat three kilos of delicious chicken sandwiches and then half a chocolate cake the size of Groom, T's head, then it does tend to take the edge of the fielding. In short, however, the display in the kitchen far outshone anything that went on in the field of play – all hail Mrs Chesty!

Bowling – coming of age and massive marijuana abuse

This is not so say that the season was not without positive aspects cricket-wise. Absolutely not – there were many stellar moments that spring to mind – many incidents laden with inherent cricketing value. The one outstanding element in the Twenties line up, of course, the one major success story in which the entire team took delight in watching and which surprised nobody connected with the club whatsoever, was the blooming of Cannon, P. The Mighty Cannon, Lucky Pierre, the inky-maned attack wolf of the Twenty's bowling lineup chose 2006 as the year to make his own. Whereas last season, the all-rounder of note was Stevens, C, (who sadly missed much of the season holidaying in Cambodia) this time the baton has been well and truly snatched and run with, by Cannon, P.

There are several elements worth noting. The first is that the size of Cannon, P's waistline is inversely proportional to the square of the size of the average waistline measurement of the rest of the team. He is whip thin, and apparently getting thinner, he is athletic and – most importantly of all – damned furious. This fury is the icing on the Cannon, P cake. Without it, Cannon, P would be down among the other Twenties bowlers, for whom the better part of this season, just as the last, was sent wandering about like so many idiot cows, grazing stupefied in the outfield as Cannon, P sent down yet another over of unplayable nose-ticklers at some damp-panted cowerer.

The Cannon, P action is the key. A rapid yet measured run-up translates into a compact and elegantly sideways-on delivery position. The head remains high as the arm comes over – critically – and the wrist breaks smoothly, giving Cannon, P an extra jolt of whippy power that can at times so surprise the unsuspecting and unobservant. It is this wrist-position that helps generate the prodigious swing, demonstrated to quite dizzying effect this season. In short, the lad moves it all over the bloody shop, a technique honed in the nets at the Elephant using, unusually, a smaller ball, and which translated into some superb efforts on the field and to a performance that sets a new standard for Twenty Minuters bowling. It was at Iscoyd Park that Cannon, P, FURIOUS at some perceived sleight, ("I tell you what, I'm just like, going to get on the train right now, you know. Just right FUCKING now, and go home, you know. I just don't need this shit…") produced integers to the effect:

BOWLING		O	M	R	W	Econ.
Cannon, 	7	1	36	5 	5.14

They just couldn't get him off the square, as Cannon, P had the ball ducking and weaving about like Major Mick chasing down some poor sausage-eater, before Swiss-cheesing the bastard with hot lead and sending him – burning – to a hellish, fiery death below. That was Cannon, P alright. He netted the first five-for on record.

Which is not to say that the Cannon, P season consisted entirely of sunshine, roses and Michelles. As has been stated in these pages before, Cannon, P is a man engaged in perpetual internal warfare. Were a doctor to open Cannon, P up and take a look inside, he would no doubt be confronted with a scene very much reminiscent of Passchendaele c. Nov 1917. It is for this reason that Cannon, P on occasion lets slip the discipline that so rewarded him at Iscoyd Park, and as a result returns less flattering figures. Certainly, this is also the case with others of the Twenties bowling line-up, but the spread of performances is, with Cannon, P, the greatest; one day bagging a towering, magnificent Michelle, and the next getting tonked all about the place like some under-arming whoopsie. To complete this section on this most estimable player and front runner for player of the year, a thought – for Cannon, P there is a struggle ahead. It is for calm in the face of punishment.

There have been further developments in the bowling attack, most notably in the crop of slow bowlers that reached the harvestable stage. These include Tyers, A, who put in some stunning examples of the so-called 'moon ball', collecting a neat haul against Catford (5-0-14-2) and who comprehensively beat batsman with tricky flight throughout the season. There has been discussion of Tyers, A's becoming more of a medium, or perhaps even fast-medium seamsmith, but the tricky parabola described by his 45m.p.h. lingerer has been nothing but an asset to the side (as have his blue jokes) and long may it stay that way.

Another of the new breed is Lloyd-Baker, H, purveyor of one of the team's more individual bowling actions. Both he and Tyers, A used to great effect in the course of the season, especially in those cases where the quicks were showing signs of leakage. In the first game versus the Corridor Cricketers, Lloyd-Baker, H returned figures of one over, no maidens, ten runs for one wicket, a splendid effort to remove the on-form Davis for 14. Davis danced, the ball bit toothily into the deck, the nut evaded the batsman and went through to the keeper, stranding the hapless Davis. It was the work of an instant for the glovesman to remove the timbers and send the hapless Davis pavilion-wards. This is the formula that nets this energetic twizzler his scalps, and long may he continue to be an occasional part of the Twenty's bowling arsenal.

The slow and medium-pace bowling of Willis, L, remain a solid alternative for the skipper when toying with batsmen. Willis showed his pedigree most of all at Althorp, where he bagged two wickets himself before donning the gloves and stumping both centurions. Back problems have hampered Willis, L somewhat during the season and he was unable to reproduce the quite staggering fizz he displayed during his hat trick during the 2005 fixture in Gloucestershire. Nevertheless, he remains the side's only genuine spinner.

Scott, R has also developed as a bowler, occasionally being tossed the ball for one, perhaps two overs of hearty medium-pacery. Other occasionals include Godsal, B, Nicholas, H (who sadly did not play as much as the selectors would have liked but who still turned in an excellent display on the carpet versus White Lightening, returning two wickets at three point eight), Martineau, H, (shit off a shovel), Scott, W, (ibid.) and Stevens, C (far east enthusiast, and bananaball specialist).

And when the engine runs smoothly, and when all the components run together at the same time, the effect can be quite considerable. To conclude this segment on the minutiae of the Twenty Minuter's bowling attack, here is a quote from the Captain of the Corridor Cricket Club after a severe defeat at their hands.

"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."

Absent so far from this analysis, has been the name of Curtis, A. It has not escaped the team's notice that the Curtis, A radar was in severe need of a fairly invasive M.O.T., in order to return it to the level of performance that seen during previous seasons. Hopes were high and spirits lifted when, at the beginning of the 2006 season, Curtis, A arrived with a re-modeled action. This, it was felt, was the new dawn for the bowler with plenty of talent but a frustrating inability to tap this considerable reserve. The Curtis, A action is an unconventional one. Whereas the right handed bowler normally releases the ball whilst pivoting from the right leg onto his left, Curtis, A releases the ball whilst moving from the left leg to his right. This unusual characteristic is not in itself a problem, and does not interfere with the height of arm, seam position, head position or any other critical technical detail. It certainly gives the run-up an unusual rhythm – not least in the delivery stride – but this has in fact worked in Curtis, A's favour, unsettling the batsman at the most crucial juncture.

The new re-modeled action had in fact removed this Curtis, A eccentricity, so that the ball was released during a conventional right-left pivot. An opening game tally of four overs, one wicket for twenty one runs was not quite a return to the heights of the early career, but it was certainly a return to some form. Curtis, A's performances remained at around this level, that is, until there came Althorp. Althorp – the very name strikes fear into the bowler's heart. A team that had, until very recently, gone for a run of over thirty fixtures without being bettered, and a venue that has proved so often to be the graveyard of the Twenty's bowling attack did for Curtis, A that day. One over, and one over only did he deliver that day, and he did so at a cost of twenty six runs. There was sympathy for this treatment, which, on the face of it, seemed a little over the top. To hit someone for ten in an over is insulting, and fifteen a little off colour. But twenty-six? This crosses the line quite unacceptably, heading off into the downright rude. It was a blow for Curtis, A and from that moment on, the re-modeled action was replaced by the familiar one he had left behind.

And with no little effect. It was at the same time a great thing to see, but also a cruel irony that Curtis, A – grimly determined, trademark cap pulled low over brooding eyes – hit form in the last game of the season. "If I don't get a fucking wicket this game I'm going to kill myself," he noted at the Chesham Bois game, before promptly charging in and removing two of the opposition. In the same over. A third wicket fell soon thereafter. It was one of the highlights of the season, watching the smiling comeback kid being hoisted aloft by his team mates, that distinctive smile enlightening a face that for so long had been darkened by the brim of his cap.

Editor's note – Elwes, J – often known as Gary Eels, especially in the courts and to his parents - continues to provide the military-medium trundle for which he is justly famed. His opening figures for the season, 5-1-10-1, were a wonderful starter to the season, better even than soup of the day or a glass of orange juice, and included the first of many maidens bowled for the season. When you consider that maidens in a 20s match are as rare as maidens – or, indeed, any skirt – watching a 20s match, you can appreciate the significance of this. Further tidy figures in the first Corridors fixture were followed by the man-of-the-match award at Althorp, where figures of 8-3-46-3 are the 20s equivalent of a five-for and a double ton on debut for England at Lord's against Australia followed by inventing a cure for chafing. Figures of 7-3-10-2 versus Barney's possibly owed a fair amount to the wretched condition of the pitch and might have raised confidence a little too high as both next performances resulted in seven overs being spanked about the place for a princely 46 runs. Mind you, both involved a consolation wicket, and with the season ending much as it had begun, with a tidy 3-1-12-1 against the mighty Corridors, Elwes, J can hold his head up high and count himself forgiven for the wides he gave away in the Class A matches at Cottesmore, which really were stinkers despite the valiant efforts of stand-in keeper Maxwell Scott, M.

The bat – willow weep for me

A popular topic discussed amongst the jock-straps this season has concerned the development of the team in terms of capability. Indeed, a popular refrain to be heard during the changing room preparations before yet another utter, utter pasting has been that the Twenties team of 2003 is not a patch on the 2006 vintage. "If we could go back in time and have a go at us then, we'd absolutely have us," went one astute – yet perhaps somewhat other-worldly – observation. And in some aspects, though this remark pays no heed whatsoever to the fundamentals of physics, our commentator has a point. For whereas the bowling fortunes of the Twenties have ebbed and flowed, with a quick lost to Bristol here, a swinger lost to the yips there, the trajectory of the team's fortunes with the bat has been, to all i. and p., an upward one.

And what better example of this heightened capacity when administering justice to bowlers that club skipper, Groom, T? Here is a fine example of one who has come on a treat; a man who, during the first season, required cartographic assistance in tracking down his own posterior, Groom, T spent the greater part of this 2006 season fretting over what variety of stance to use when at the wicket. Such fine-tuning – such detail! Who would have thought that such fractions would ever come into consideration for Groom, T? But come into consideration they have. The question for the head man was this – ought he to adopt the received posture when at the crease, standing erect, feet together, elbow high, head level, or should he remain with his own favoured manner of address? In short, the choice for Groom, T was between the aesthetic on one hand and the practical on the other. Each held its own allure, and the fighty history wonk vacillated between the two. The Groom, T season started, however, by favouring the aesthetic. And so it was that on the 20th May 2006 in the opening fixture versus Catford, Groom, T strode to the crease, proud, brave, plump of thigh and full to bursting with highly idiosyncratic insights concerning the finer points and lesser-discussed elements of the Battle of Austerlitz, and took guard. He then settled down to a posture taken straight from the front cover of that great handbook marked "Correct Cricket for Captains of Cricket sides – English edition", with high elbow, feet together, body held high, such that simply everything about him screamed "correct". He was bowled for two.

Similar results made for a disconsolate captain, and the last thing in the world one needs is a brooding, half cut skipper, mooching about the place like a cunt, and being all miserable because his batting average has dived headfirst down the pan. No sir. That's the last thing you need, want or deserve. Realising that he and the aesthetic were never to be reconciled, Groom, T, in a move concocted in concert with others of the team, eschewed the pretensions of the early season and switched back to his traditional stance. And what a stance it is. A crab-like hunch, feet a good metre apart, the skipper stands like a man torn between engaging in a swift bit of limbo dancing, and attempting the splits. The bat is whumped into the ground behind the right foot like a man taking geo-soundings, and the movements are swift and crisp. It was heartening to see the old Groom, T posture on the field of play once more, and even though this return to the comforting bosom of his mother guard did not in fact lead to any scores in the upper reaches of acceptability, more significant than this was a renewed buoyancy pervading the captain's attitude, which in turn was transmitted to the rest of the team. They say that, after all, when the Captain is playing well, the Twenties are playing well. The incident of the Groom, T method of taking guard is a convoluted one and, on the face of it, interminably dull. But the diamond amongst the ashes of this story glimmers unmistakably, and is representative of the distance traveled by the whole of the Twenty Minuters team in their seasons since 2003. For the fact that these simple, brave, upright (occasionally) players have got to the point where they are tinkering with stances at the crease, fretting over manners of address when in the middle, worrying about elbow height and the width of their feet while taking guard, shows a massive progression in the technical advancement and know-how of, not only the Captain, but also of this team as a whole. Such a long way they have come – and such a dizzyingly long way they have to go.

The performance of Lloyd-Baker, H this season was another case in point. Here is a player who has come on in leaps and bounds since the inaugural season 2003 as a fielder, bowler, and as an opening batsman of such awesome constipating capabilities that it has, on occasion, required the bowling equivalent of a pickled egg and mutton vindaloo to flush him from the crease. The apotheosis of this stickability was reached by Lloyd-Baker, H on the carpet against White Lightening, as he gave a quite awesome display of dead bat-tastic, bloody minded resistance against a not un-fiery bowling attack operating on an unpredictable, warped astroturf surface coated generously with mud and stout tufts of grass. (Before pursuing the detail of this innings further, it is perhaps worth while recording, for the sake of posterity, the conditions that prevailed in the White Lightening fixture (neé Becks). This fixture, normally carried out on a stunning Chelsea ground was this year moved, on account of an idiot groundsman water logging said ground by omitting to cover it appropriately during heavy showers. Hence the Chelsea ground was surrendered to the forces of idiocy, and replaced by a hideous arena located within the unpurged bowels of west London. The track was a disgrace, the outfield was infested with footballers, and the leg-side boundary was over 90 yards long. Never again.)

But it was perhaps these inclement conditions, so like the Twenty's own ground, that made Lloyd-Baker, H quite so comfortable in the middle, and that encouraged him to hang about there for quite so long. And "quite so long" just about nails it, as the big man with the defensive game stood guard for two hours and ten minutes for his forty runs; a nudge here, a tickle round the corner there – a crafty pat back past the bowler for one, followed by an outside edge for two. It was splendid stuff and Lloyd-Baker, H quite deserved the huge round of applause when his wicket finally fell. He had withstood over eighty deliveries, and was instrumental in anchoring the side as it negotiated its way to a solid one hundred and seventy eight runs – how far he has come in the past three seasons! Like his Captain, Lloyd-Baker, H has found his niche – he is "the immovable one" – and has made it his own; which is all the more valuable when one considers the ratio of middle order tonkers to steady-as-she-goes openers currently on the Twenties books. To give some indication of the fundamental imbalance at play in the team, consider the following. Middle order tonkers include:

whilst those with even the slightest pretension towards opening include:

Viewed thusly, the fundamental import of the Lloyd-Baker, H role comes sharply into focus, as does that of Greayer, J, the lithe, always fashionably attired doyenne of the upper order. An oft-suit-jacketed celebration of cricket made man and Twenties stalwart, Greayer, J also chose the White Lightening match to demonstrate his not-inconsiderable spunk. Partnering Lloyd-Baker, H in the partnership that was to see that match run so close but sadly end in defeat, Greayer, J was one half of that crucial, face-saving, eighty-plus partnership that stymied the aggressive, and not unchallenging bowling referred to above, on a shamefully-dented wicket-cum-mattress which was, frankly, barely suitable for a Dago's dancing class (is this racist? – Ed? Yes – dep.ed.) let alone a game of cricket. But Greayer, J stuck with it, demonstrating a considerable technical deftness in the process. For this is not a demonstrative batsman. There has, this season, been some "throwing of the toys". The frustration of being removed in the same old way for the umpteenth time has riled several of the Twenties, leading to disgraceful pitch-side scenes; to the unforgivable sight of willow being cast about the place like so much detritus; and to some quite preternatural feats of sorrow-drowning booze consumption. But not Greayer, J. Oh no. This man operates surrounded by an aura of calm denied to other men, an admirable trait that infused the knock that he produced that day – a well executed twenty nine, with the minimum of fuss. That Greayer, J's innings ended in a run out was an unforgivable stain on the day, the club's reputation and on every man on the team. Greayer, J emerged without blemish. Like others in the upper batting echelons, he continues to improve.

Willis, L is a curious case. The antipodean thumper is, without doubt, the most gifted performer the team has known. An eye for the ball, talent, being Australian – all signs point to a lad who should, with unerring monotony, be belting the pill into the middle of next week. And so it was in the 2004 season that Willis, L took out his scythe and set about making copious quantities of hay, hammering the hell out of a procession of pie-casting unfortunates and clocking in with a series of mighty scores. But the 2006 season proved a fallow period for Willis, L, who one felt never really got into his stride with the bat. Which is of course not to imply that he was fussed about it – not in the slightest. The generous bonhomie and apparently never ending supply of cider flowed apace from season's start to season's finish. Willis, L remains an integral part of the Twenty's line up. Were it not for him, the upper order options would we decidedly on the thin side ("thin" in the metaphorical sense of course). Next season will no doubt see "Tugger" return to form, and we look forward to more steepling sixes, and weeping opposition bowlers.

The Stevens family were, sadly, not much in evidence this year; C was tucked away in Indochina, and A also indisposed. This was a shame, as the Twenties suffered from the lack of the former's wild aggression with the bat and contribution with the ball, and the latter's athletic commitment in the field and stout efforts with the willow. Stevens, C did surface however, for one splendid cameo performance that puts him squarely in the running for man of the season. The performance in q. was at Iscoyd Park, and involved Stevens, his trusty Slazenger blade, some spectacular timing and a pace bowler who, at least as far as Stevens, C was concerned, simply had to go. He came in at number nine, and at a crucial juncture in the Twenty's innings. The run rate had been slipping – some serious salt and pepper were required. Stevens, C obliged, with a display of power hitting the like of which has never emanated from the Twenties ranks before. It came down to the final over. Stevens C, hammered back to back sixes. The small but highly-inebriated crowd was wild. He was on fifty two from no more than thirty balls, and was seeing it like a regulation-sized gymnasium medicine ball. Some of the shots verged on the preposterous for their verve and vim. But, like so many others before him, Stevens, C knew there was only one way that the story could end. Bravely – bravely and with thoughts of the greater good coursing through his unselfish and devil-may-care being, Stevens, C did what any of the team would have done, and danced to one on a length. After all, there were required nine to win off two balls. One of them simply had to go, and Stevens, C knew this in his very marrow. As if in horrific slow motion, he Astaired down the wicket to Bell (who finished with figures of four wickets for nineteen) and swung, connecting with thin air. Enemy keeper Dunpace removed the timbers, and the game was at an end. Stevens, C, crestfallen, fell on his bat, dead. He was buried with full honours in the first XI pitch at Arundel with a valedictory speech from Dale Benkenstein who, curiously, had not been invited.

The fortunes of the middle order tonkers are less intricate. Elwes made the mistake of attempting to bat with a re-enforced plank of Kashmiri hardwood and as a result spent the entire season fuming away in the back of the pav. feeling very much the fifth wheel. Godsal, B had a pretty good season overall, and divided his time three ways, between bat, ball and gloves. This proved tricky at times, requiring rapid on-field changes of equipment – donning of the sweaty box and so forth – as he and Willis divided the sticksman's duties. These were, it must be said, prosecuted with no little verve this season, and it is a testimony to the development of this duo as glovesmen that there is really very little to report on the keeping front from this year. Suffice it to say, the extras column has been kept down this year, considerably south of past seasons in fact. One hideous and misguided journey to a preparatory school in the home counties (which shall remain nameless) notwithstanding, the gloves have been in – or rather on – all season. (Editors note – the glovesman in question, Maxwell Scott, M, has been vindicated in a hearing and is now being tipped for an England academy berth.)

But back to Godsal, B who has, rather unassumingly one feels, returned some excellent totals this season with the minimum of fuss. The home fixture at Iscoyd Park was a case in point. The lusty biffer hit sixty three not out in an exquisite display of bi-polar batting; sometimes defensive, sometimes slamming the thing as hard as possible back over a gawping bowler's head. It was an excellent knock, without which the Twenties wouldn't have even had a sniff at it. Other performances were equally satisfying to watch, but for this correspondent, the highlight of the Godsal, B season came at the Chesham Bois fixture. On a lively and green deck, one of the Corridor bowlers tried to stick one on Godsal, B by banging it in short. Whereas other batsmen would have stepped to leg and attempted the slash through the covers, Godsal, B – a student of the old school – had other ideas. Instead, the stepped inside the line and, keeping eye firmly on the ball, pulled it off his eyebrows for six. But this was not just any six. The leg side boundary at the Chesham ground was in the fifty to sixty yard bracket, and yet Godsal, B connected so well and timed the shot to such perfection that the cherry was still rising as it crossed the boundary and disappeared into abutting woodland. It was the shot of the day and possibly even of the season. It would have cleared the boundary at any ground in the land. No question.

Other middle order pyrotechnics came this year – perhaps unsurprisingly – from the Cannon, P corner. It is always vital to remember when dealing with this individual that, aside from all the bluster, the smoke, the BURNING hatred and propensity to stand on the boundary rope behind fieldsmen to whom he has taken exception and murmur: "you know what you are mate? Hmm? You know what you are? You're a cunt. Know that? A big fucking cunt. How d'you like that then? Hmm? Cunt", Cannon, P is an excellent athlete and has a quite stunning eye for the ball. An opening innings of three spelled the usual scowls and invective, but a clearing of the skies led to a sturdy thirty-five in the second fixture, and by the time Cannon, P got to Althorp, one sensed that the stage was set for something special. And indeed, the dangerous internet loner did not disappoint. Having received something of a doing from the Althorp batsmen, Cannon, P managed to return the favour in kind with a very serious demonstration of power hitting indeed. Before anyone knew what had happened, Cannon, P had flogged the attack for forty-eight runs and been bowled out, all in the blink of an eye. Memories of the innings are sketchy due to members of the team suffering from weakness after an insufficient tea, but when one considers the quality of the bowling attack and the score that Cannon, P put together in what was a very short space of time indeed, one can only marvel. (What can be recalled, with horrid vividness however, was the sight of a small child aged twelve, knocking over four Twenties batsmen. That he was the son of an England test cricketer and later went on to receive an award from Shane Warne is neither here nor there. The shame shall outlive us all.)

The Maxwell-Scott, M twenty two versus Barney's XI was the highlight of his season. And what a season it was for the boozy, Aussie/Jock slasher – a season of tins, sun glasses, tabs, in fact, quite a lot of tabs, and of twenty two runs scored on a glorious and very hot day (a total only equaled by the extras column). Maxwell-Scott's fortunes have fluctuated over the past seasons. He has been an opener and appeared to settle into this role, only to beg the skipper to move him south, where he ended up at number five, seemed happy, but then insisted on having himself penciled in as "specialist umpire", which raised a number of eyebrows. But it seems now that this quandary has now been solved. Versus Barney's XI, an innings of panache, heart and brutality was called for, which Maxwell-Scott, M coming in at five, delivered. This was doubly impressive when one considers the state of the pitch (pock-marked, dry – a right bugger) and that he was hit flush on the foot by a searing yorker second ball, resulting in a limp that lasted for several weeks and some fascinating bruising. Everyone suffered that day – the next highest score was seventeen – and yet firm he stood, like an oak, as he sprayed the ball far and wide off that trusty outside edge of his and, at point, clubbed a lofted cover drive that brought a small and ill-placed cheer from 'neutral' square leg umpire Gosal, B.

The Scott, R season was another of solid biffing. Scores of nine, thirteen and eight hardly seem fair. "If you no sleep the now," children are still warned in parts of Scotland as they go to bed, "then Chesty Boab tha' smacked a ton thirty doon west'll come 'n get youze."

It's true.

The season was a busy one for Scott, R and unfortunately his appearances were curtailed by non-cricketing duties – happily the most joyful and excellent of non-cricketing duties, and we of course wish him all the very best, and can she please come and make us tea again next season? (During off season, might be possible to simply have Mrs. Chesty teas, but without the game either side? – ed. )

Other appearances of note this year were from Nicholas, H, the only Twenties batsman to whom it occurred to hit the offending twelve-year-old (see above) at Althorp back over his head for six, and who put in some excellent bowling performances, not least versus White Lightening, where he amassed two wickets for thirty-one runs. Scott, W, an exiled member of the Twenties also turned up for the last game of the season to terrify the denizens of Chesham Bois with his really rather unfriendly bowling and his new bat, a lovely, lovely thing given to him as a gift, and which, immediately after the game, he proceeded to feed to a pack of wild dogs. Martineau, H also made his appearance at that game, and effected a bowling display similar to that of Scott, W (see quote above from Corridor's capt.) and snaffled the man-of-the-match award on debut. Jenkins, R also turned out for the Twenties this year, arriving at the Althorp game very swishly in a Porsche sports car (German), though he sadly fell prey to the tiny child's bowling. Nethercot, J also turned out this season, at one game only – versus White Lightening, during which he gave one of the most generous run out decisions ever witnessed in Twenties games. Godsal, T also managed an appearance on the team sheet at Iscoyd Park. The yips that have made themselves so central a part of his game in recent seasons seem to be lessening their grip, and although there were one or two seventy m.p.h. beamers aimed at several of the porky opposition's fat faces, the Godsal, T figures of two wickets at six point six are a clear sign of sunshine on the horizon.

And at the going down of the sun…

And so, another season has passed. One feels, on reflection, that this has been very much the Cannon, P season. It remains a shame Stevens, C could not play a greater role – he looked in very tasty form on the few occasions when he did surface, but there we are. Regrets aside, the crucial thing has been the upward trajectory of the team as a whole. Yes, the season consisted exclusively of defeats, save the two victories at either end (both against the same outfit) but this is to overlook the increasing fortunes of Greayer, J, and Lloyd-Baker, H, the excellent glovesmanship of Godsal, B, and Willis, L and the reduction in the number of extras this has meant, the gradual increase in the number of those prepared to take a turn with the ball (Scott, R, Lloyd-Baker, H again, and Groom, T) and the fact that Maxwell-Scott, M top-scored in the Barney's XI game. Top-scored. There is some talk of a winter program of nets, but as is the way of things, this talk has mostly been down to booze, which, one might say, is therefore very much in keeping with the ethos of this team. But whatever happens, nets or otherwise, one can be sure of one thing – there will be more next season, and until then, in the words of the old man, the Twenty Minuters remain, "like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start" waiting for that moment when, once more, that most great game's afoot.

Alius cadit.