This year I have decided to forsake my customary sermon. In no way is this due to various stories flying about the ecumenical community – I can assure my diocese that any inappropriate ball fondling over the years has been entirely kept on the cricket pitch, as the Lady Bishop will readily testify to. However, I came across this in an ancient manuscript and thought it appropriate to share. I have made a few clarifying notes for ease of passage... through the text.

In the far off city of Tabard, in the land of Chiswick there stood a once mighty Fortress. Ravaged by years of debauchery and debasement, the previous year it had almost been completely destroyed by a legendary race of warriors known as the Raiders. The Kommander of the Fortress, himself ravaged by years of (here the text becomes hard to read) knew that the day would come that the Raiders would return to once more assault the Fortress and attempt to lay further waste to the crumbling edifice. Kommander knew that beneath this ancient semi-ruin, there lay an indomitable spirit that refused to die. He gathered his mightiest warriors, some of whom still bore the scars of the last attack – like Boris the Not so Dextrous, who thanks to the tricksy wiles of the traitor Juggs (he was literally a brother to Kommander) and his ability to appear three time in the batting order, cost him a hand. Over the months they began to train, rebuild the Fortress and lay in wait for the coming of the Raiders.

Several pints later (pints appears to be an ancient word for the passage of time) the Raiders staggered to the field of battle and probably lost the toss. With mighty scimitars (or bats) the first two attackers approached the Fortress: Peggy the Pub Landlord and a foreign chap. The Fortress responded with The Bishop and Tipple (his last stand before deserting to the Kings town). They hurled their missiles and the foreign chap dropped like an impotent lion. This so enraged the captain of the Raiders that he sent himself to strike terror into the hearts of those who defended the Fortress. Said captain, eldest brother of the Phillips clan, as short as he was wide; quick to temper and renowned for wielding a weapon almost as big as him; came to do his worst. Ironically his worst is what he did. He was felled by a double whammy of wit and bowling by two wizards from the Land Down Under. He was carried from the field with rage and bile spewing from his every pore. A strange period of calm followed as Peggy and Simon Callaghan went on the defense, before Kommander unleashed another torrent of bowlers that decimated the once legendary Raiders: Whippet, Henry Everett (Slogger?), Moggie, Junior (Hamster?), Xero and even Juggs. Kommander himself dealt the final blows with 3 for 7 in one over.

However the battle was only half done as the Raiders switched to bowling, making the Fortress bring out their bats. The early exchanges saw Edgar and One-Handed Boris swipe effortlessly at feeble efforts to penetrate their defences. But the Raiders did not get their reputation by accident, and played on Frodo’s desire to get into the fray as he took out one from his own side (Boris) with a finger. Edgar pined for the loss of his friend and never fully recovered, Frodo went as quickly as he had come, but hope remained as the gleaming helmet of Kommander entered the fray and the tide began to turn, until Tipple found himself unmanned.

Tea didn’t matter that day. (not to say it wasn’t lovely but in the light of the conflict I fear it paled in comparison).

The outcome hinged on a knife edge as The Bishop and his captain began to fight their way out of trouble. The battle seemed won until Xero (who many suspect was carved from granite) took out the Bishop and brought in Sven the Unwilling. Time stood still (for a bloody long time); Kommander retired from the field which lost Tom Everett and Hansie, but cost the Raiders more. The magically-resurrected Bishop darted a quick one with Sven and struck the winning shot.

The ever-merciful Kommander allowed the Raiders to depart to lick their wounds and tend to the fallen. Perhaps it was a mistake, as the last words heard floating on the wind from the incandescent Raiders captain were: “One year’s time from hence we shall return and revenge will be ours.” (or words to that effect). The Fortress had risen like a Phoenix from the ashes and stood proud and triumphant once more.

At least until next year...