A very trying day. Some might say that taking on a Cherwell League Sunday team is, to put it mildly, a bit of a risk, but there you go. But add to that the requirement that the match be interrupted just before 4 o’clock just so people can watch a very small television set……and, to cap it all, your correspondent discovers that he has his son’s size 7 left boot in his bag instead of his own size 10. Ouch!

Our club Sunday vice-captain, John W, is skipper for the day. He has a refreshingly hands-off approach to the duties: “You don’t actually expect me to do anything, do you?” he asks, adding by way of explanation, “I mean, the Deputy Prime Minister doesn’t do anything.” One of the duties he fails to carry out is ensuring the scorebook is provided: we learn later it goes to Bicester Village for a spot of retail therapy. But he does – sensationally - win the toss, and, for the first time for several years, we get first use of what looks and feels a good, firm pitch. John sends in the vastly-experienced couple of Gerry (“I can’t remember which millennium it was that I last opened”) Shaw and Nigel Gibson. It looks like a good decision to bat first when our Presiedent strokes the first ball through the covers for a delicious four (“the best shot I’ve played this millennium” is his proud boast). But Nigel nicks one to the ‘keeper in the second over, and then Gerry follows to the same bowler (who is distinguished by a thatch of Warne-esque blond hair stuck atop, as it were, his normal colouring). Gerry thinks it is a bump ball, but his new partner John sets him right and off he trudges. 6 for 2 – time for entrenchment. Frank joins John. The bowling is tight, niggardly even. Slowly they rebuild. John crabs forward, Frank plays a neat shot or two off his legs. “Why are the fielders always exactly where I hit the ball?” he asks rather like an irritated primary schoolteacher, as he might well – after all, there are only 10 KB men on the field, so there ought to be the odd gap.

Overs pass; Christian keeps the score dutifully, though the scoreboard numbers are far to small to be visible from the wicket, and the game proceeds as if unrecorded for a while. Then Frank, having accelerated somewhat, gets one a bit too high on the bat, and cover point takes the catch. John now falls too: “Whenever I think it’s time to force the pace a bit, I must Just Say No, because I’m always out straightaway” is his reaction to being caught and bowled, a new dismissal, I fancy, in the Complete John Wilson Book of Freak Dismissals”…………….Macca strikes one glorious four - “What’s he doing hitting it along the ground?” asks a rather disrespectful colleague – but tamely chips the next one into cover’s hands. “I was going to thrash it but I changed my mind at the last minute” is his ingenious excuse. Half the side is out, and not much more than 60 on the board.

Gareth is striking the ball very cleanly now, though there are some mutters about how he watches too much tennis on TV – and Gully is playing sensibly: the pair take us past 100. The pitch is a bit deceptive, so extravagant shots often miss their target. Those who are out say the ball comes through at a reasonable pace, but mostly rather low; but Frank, who earlier gets certain parts of his body “massaged”, shall we say, may not entirely agree. When Gareth is caught, a sudden flurry of wickets (Tom Ford unfortunately and unaccountably run out on his debut), Micky S, miffed at being kept at no. 11 despite two consecutive personal best scores, decides to show the selectors what fools they are. Not bothering with the niceties of playing himself in, he deftly knee-glances his first ball for four, smites the second mightily over square leg for another, and then deceives the outspread field completely with a deliberate top-edge over the ‘keeper’s head for a third. He has to settle for 2 on the fourth ball, but I feel he makes a pretty unanswerable case for promotion up the order, remaining undefeated on 16 as we close on 146.

Kingston Bagpuize have time for a few overs before the enforced break. Their openers appear to be brought up in two very different schools: “If you want to see your son bat like that, send him to Abingdon School”, Frank recommends to me after a particularly perfect forward defensive shot from the younger opener. “And bankrupt myself” is the only suitable response I can think of. The other opener is clearly of the 12-pints-a-day school, and is looking to finish the game before tea; Mick’s figures suffer dreadfully. By the third over, we have a long-off and long-on, plus a couple of others on the boundary. Christian bowls steadily and deservedly bowls 12-pints, but by then KB are halfway to victory. Gerry nearly catches Abingdon Man, but his broad-brimmed hat gets in the way (or something: he displays an impressive bruise, presumably to deflect criticism). It is nearly 4 o’clock……….

We watch telly. The tea is satisfactory but is constantly interrupted by howls of protest when anyone blocks the view by getting up for a second cuppa……After the enforced interval, Macca bowls with great control. He just fails to hold on to a blistering drive off Gully – standing a lot closer than I would at this stage, I might add – but makes up for it with 2 other catches, one off his own bowling.

Your correspondent is called on for a couple of overs near the end, rather surprisingly as he now sports a pair of grubby brown loafers. What comes as no surprise, however, is that skipper Wilson should now miss probably the easiest catch of his distinguished career – I mean, who could possibly live down the ignominy of taking a catch off someone bowling in brown shoes? Tom bowls promisingly before Abingdon Man, clearly impatient to finish off, takes four boundaries off his fourth over and ruins an otherwise perfectly respectable set of figures. The KB boys, generous in victory, produce some cold bottles of Hookey from their fridge, and we sit ruminating over our biggest-yet defeat in the evening sun.

M Hughes