Salutations, plebs.
Poo! Bah! and double bah! The vagaries of the English climate ensured there would be no fixture last weekend, to which the venerable pundit Mister Paul Marse would have doubtless attributed the epithet -‘A bit of a damp squid!’. What an amusing little fellow he is. The Winchbillies claimed ‘wet pitch’, though it was observed there proceeded a full day’s play at The Home of Cricket and also The Gasworks. Personally, a wet pitch was never a hindrance to oneself and Lady B-P, what, what! Ahem.
The week had commenced on an ill tide with distressing pictures in the daily journals of an English sportsman snivelling from defeat on the field of play, one Terrence John, captain of Mister Mosley’s blueshirts. Now look here! South American bandits, whose blatant cheating fails to conceive positive results, blub like babies; sprogs themselves boo-hoo when one deprives them of their favourite toy; fillies of a delicate nature, bless them, turn on the waterworks at the slightest pretext; Australian cricket captains ululate with despair after losing The Ashes to England; the lawn tennis champion Angus McBlub pipes his eyeballs at the slightest mention of his homeland; but has one ever witnessed Messrs. Wright-Herbert and Dangerfield weeping after being downed in a cricket contest? No! So, stiffen one’s upper lip and remember one is English!
Reverting to our latest venture, there transpired a discouraging lapse in the form of one’s Eleven, with a rare reverse against a team of beer swillers and Dutch-African colonials, mainly due to the Tigers being unable to pass muster in the bowling domain. In addition, one has to report a somewhat unsavoury episode from this contest, when The Judge procured a rare duck’s egg, when himself declared pad before sticks by the incumbent artbiter, Mister Renster. Being a gentleman, the batsman immediately retired from the field, but on his return to the outer launched into a fierce tirade, claiming willow on leather and decrying not only the incompetence, eyesight and integrity of the umpire, but his pedigree also! In a frightful wax for some considerable period, His Honour was only placated when permitted to flog a brace of juvenile miscreants who had inadvertantly transgressed the boundary perimeter and trespassed upon the greensward. Sadly, Mr R’s reward for his honesty was a golden egg later in the innings. Kismet!
There proceeded another serious cock-up in the batting department. Master Atkinson-Cruise again disposed of his wicket in an adolescent fashion and requires a measure of self-discipline. One will be liasing with Matron accordingly. The Major ran himself out without assistance and Mister Wright-Herbert appeared bewildered by the whole occasion! At least His Lordship was back in the saddle and appeared in fine fettle before being downed by a pearler. Only Mister Dangerfield, with his usual dash, gave much comfort to the Eleven’s followers.
In advance of one’s Portuguese jaunt some disturbing news has reached Bartington Hall concerning the usually reputable Mister Buttocks, who is seemingly planning to go AWOL for the weekend and attend instead some minor Association fixture, the equivalent of a Sunday morning kickabout with the hoi polloi! Rank bad show, if one wants to know! If this were wartime one would be on the wrong end of a firing squad, but sadly his punishment will be reduced to demotion to number eleven in the batting order and utilisation as fifth-change bowler for the remainder of the summer.
Be warned.
Toodle-pip!
V B-P
Winchmore Hill Tigers 