With our politically incorrect man-about-town and good egg Vyvyan Bartington-Phypps
Please accept one’s profuse apologies for the long impediment since one’s previous exposition, but one has been away visiting the old family seat in Bengal shooting tigers (on second thoughts, better leave that bit out). On return, one has been somewhat nonplussed to hear of the poor fettle of the Tiger Eleven during the summer, relieved only by some improved exhibitions in the latter end of the season.
Some plausibility exists that the team may have been somewhat distracted on occasion by contests ensuing on the adjoining wicket at the Wynchgate, where a plethora of pretty young fillies have been attempting to play cricket. Now, let there be no misunderstanding, I have nothing but admiration for the fairer sex: they bear our children, arrange our dinner parties and, if the wind is in the right direction. may be ripe for a spot of ‘how fares one’s pater’ as the common folk are apt to declare. They are of course entitled to their pastimes, the likes of kittens and embroidery being ideal for their gentle nature. But playing the sovran king of sports, goodness me, no! It is against all force of nature, akin to a fish up a tree. Let us put a stop to this nonsense before the poor dears do themselves a mischief. W.G would be turning in his grave. Next thing they’ll be demanding the vote!
As for one’s Eleven, the improvement in performance during August and September was most encouraging, mainly due, one suspects, to the Reverend and his cronies getting their sniffers out of the jazz salt long enough to play some competitive cricket. The return to the Eleven of Messrs. Wright-Herbert, Dangerfield and Sgt.Buttocks, not to mention a rejuvenated Laird, most certainly contributed to the renaissance. As for the new recruits, Mister Ward-Prowse, on loan from the Wynchgate Hillbillies, undoubtedly enriched the Eleven with his enthusiasm and professionalism, but sadly Mister McWhirter was rarely observed, preferring instead, when not engaged in deporting undesirable aliens, to spend his time quaffing ale, smoking cigarettes and utilizing his Woolwich stadium chit.
The absence of some members of the Eleven has been worrying. Doctor Proton has obviously been over-employed on his superhero duties, whilst His Lordship is now overrun with sprogs and is likely to be subject to paternal duties for the near future. The Major, when not busy running himself out, has also been busy sprogging, which may occasion a vacancy at 2-i-c level. Professor Bigglesworth is now so lame and decrepit he can only be employed as furniture butler, though he did engage in an heroic, if ultimately unsuccessful, last wicket collaboration with Sgt.Buttocks against the country bumpkins. The Judge also latterly pulled up lame, though remains as indefatigable as ever, whilst his partner (though not in the biblical sense, one should add) Senor Albanian continues to demonstrate his Latin flair and dash at the top of the innings. Tragically, Phileas Hillbilly is so bewildered these days he is incapable of transporting himself to the match venue on the correct railway train! Master Atkinson-Cruise annoyingly remains promise unfulfilled.
In other sporting news, one was most distressed at the poor showing of the England rugger Fifteen at the recent world championships. One was prepared to get one’s boots out again for the cause, but no invitation came, on the feeble premise one was employed abroad for a brief spell! However, one was pleased to receive a telegram from the Woolwich secretary-manager Mnsr.Wonga, enquiring as to one’s availability for the Association code – on a purely amateur basis of course – due to most of his Eleven currently languishing under the trainer’s sponge. This is currently under consideration.
Nevertheless, it was heartwarming to observe the Woolwich fanatics assisting in the dismantling of the old Middlesex Rovers stadium, before the local pyromaniacs and builders move in, during the recent Midweek League cup tie. Unfortunately, such benevolence could not be reciprocated by the Middlesex followers (‘Glory, glory be – the only team in Middlesex are we!’) in the return fixture at the Woolwich stadium where, being unfamiliar as they are with indoor plumbing, the ruffians initiated much destruction to the superbly appointed gentlemen’s conveniences!
BRISK UP, GELS. WE’LL SHOW THESE CHAUVINIST ROTTERS A THING OR TWO!