Profuse apologies for the tardy rendition of the latest exposition, but one has been dans le chenil, so to speak, since last weekend’s memorable conquest of the Potters Field colonials. Having quaffed a quaff too many in celebration at the bar, one arrived back at Bartington Manor somewhat over-refreshed, vocalising excerpts from one’s old school song in stentorian tones, thus alerting Lady B-P to one’s condition. Consequently, the covers were immediately placed upon the wicket, as it were, and there has been no play subsequently, HL pleading off-season for fillies, or some such tosh! One’s only recourse has therefore been a spot of gentleman’s relaxation which, though mildly invigorating, is merely akin to a brisk net as opposed to a topping knock out in the middle.
However, one digresses. At one aspect, the denouement to last Sunday’s encounter appeared to be so premature that all and sundry would have been required to retire to the clubhouse and observe the Association championship tie between the Slavetraders and Lord Mosley’s blueshirts on Mister Baird’s wonderful new invention – a contest that allegedly involved considerable positioning of horseless carriages on the field of play and a degree of gamesmanship that would have had W.G. purring in approbation.
Thankfully, one was spared such tedium by a Lazarus-like revival from the colonials that extended the battle well past vespers. There then followed a minor cock-up on the Tiger batting front, which included yet another nonessential run out of the (not so galloping) Major. A waste of a good wicket, if you want to know, and it really is time his batting partners comprehended that he will never be the fastest out of the traps and adjust their tactical running in accordance. Thank heavens therefore for the intrepid Mister Wright-Herbert and the ever phlegmatic Mister Bodeeno, who steered the ship into harbour without further alarums.
Nevertheless, star of the show was indubitably Mister Buttocks. What a resplendent sight he is, bustling to the wicket like the village blacksmith, whiskers bristling, biceps rippling, cheeks flapping in the wind as he bemuses his opponents with accuracy, swerve and artful trundling. In addition, two hips and a hooray to Professor Proton, who ably deputised as gauntlet butler when the luckless Mister Clinton was once again forced to retire from the battlefield. A mention in despatches also for The Laird, who acquitted himself admirably on his full debut as head honcho, despite the fact he was not present for the spinning of the penny twixt King George and Britannia.
In conclusion, a brief mention herewith for the splendid victory of the Lordsters over the provincials from Grimupnorthshire, though one was a trifle peeved to have to travel home with the riff-raff on an overcrowded omnibus due to the lack of Hackney Carriages and the closedown of the underground railway by these union oiks. They really should align their views to the 20th century, and if I had my way they would all be in receipt of a damn good thrashing! A score of 472-3 was a princely total of runs for a fourth innings, though sadly not one of them was scored by an Englishman. Such is the state of our nation.