My first ever memory in life, is of a blinding white light as the waters broke. My second was being forcibly slapped down on a sterilized table and beaten cruelly by a man dressed in white. I am not ashamed to say that I cried.

Thirty-something years later, a confirmed meat eater and living in the heart of London, my traumatic start in life seemed a distant memory as I, along with the rest of the Tabard Pilgrims prepared ourselves lavishly with creams and ointments for our first ever meeting with Shere.

This, you see, is my Uncle’s place of cricketing worship, and I had my first and only colts practice on this pitch when I was nine. It was a mildly unpleasant experience.

Suspicion

My uncle, as chairman of the club, had decided to take me up one summer’s morning, to watch the colts practice. Well at least that is what he told me. When we arrived, I was paraded in front of 20 or so kids who regarded me with suspicion as my uncle grinned on.

No one likes a hangman’s jury, so I was glad this court was over but as I turned to leave, the coach suggested I join the session – the look of suspicion increased between the perfectly turned-out colts as they looked me up and down in my “rural Irish get-up.”

I was thinking it couldn’t get any worse when the coach put the ball in my hand and insisted I bowled! All this despite the fact I had I explained, in a thick Irish brogue, that I had never really played before (as we much prefer Hurling where I came from), and if there was one thing I knew in life it was that I definitely couldn’t bowl. But my uncle’s gaoler insisted.

Grinning

Full of determination, I ran as fast as I could, released the ball and watched as it bounced once, then twice and almost, I say almost, reached the stumps. The colts were amused, and I, crestfallen, wanted to kill my uncle who still stood there grinning like an idiot!

Fortunately, I redeemed myself somewhat in the field as I managed to take two catches, and as incredible as it may sound, was equal top bat on the day, hitting a six and being finally caught on the boundary. Something that Penthouse will find out one day to his great financial loss! The storm is coming...THE STORM IS COMING!

So, here we are again, 28 years later, the Pilgrims are about to take on Shere for the first time ever and all I know is that we have to wipe that grin off my uncle’s face.

Unnerved

Penthouse wins the toss, comes over and gives me a vigorous rub, saying something about a rabbit’s foot, and puts Shere into bat. The Pilgrims, fired up and moist after the great deployment of sun block, take to the field. Though I must confess that I had been slightly unnerved by Penthouse’s attention.

Juggs and Farmer open the bowling and quickly settle into their stride, keeping the runs to a minimum and rattling their openers. It is the latter who has the breakthrough, taking the first wicket while smiling inanely. Juggs continues to put the wind up ’em but again it’s the Farmer, fresh from his last success, who dismisses the second, clean bowled. Juggs, keen not to be outdone by these “rural types” stepped up a gear, but again, it was the Farmer who took the third wicket, caught off his own delivery to wild choruses of “old McDonald had a farm, ee aye ee aye ohhhh Juggs, ee aye ee aye ohhhh...”

Shere, were definitely unsettled but were still scoring steadily. Tickle and Hansie replaced our two valiant openers and Shere started to settle as some slack fielding saw a few big hits reach the boundary off Hansie’s bowling. Penthouse had that dark cloud and looked gravely around the field. I retreated in fear as I thought he was looking to do that “rabbit’s foot” thing again.

But it was ticklin’ time down at Shere as Brett tore into ’em taking two quick wickets, the choicest of which was the outstanding catch by Juggs: “like a bird in flight he was” as he clearly had a lot of energy left over from his bowling spell, taking the catch full stretch with both hands off a very powerful strike. Catch of the season, surely! Tickle’s economy should be noted here as well... he conceded just nine runs in five overs for three wickets. I think Penhouse will be rubbing him for luck in the not-too-distant future, poor sod.

Idiot

Hansie bowls out one and then finally manages to get their long-standing bat with a lovely tempting delivery struck right into the hands of the ever spry Cus Cus. Things were looking up once again; Shere may be restricted to a total well below 150. “Come on the Grims, there’s a grinning idiot on the boundary, isn’t it time he left?”

Gussie, Xero and Cus Cus come in to finish ’em all off. However, the runs creep up and Shere are finally all out for 164 when Gussie takes the final wicket with his customary look of evil.

Tea which was very nice indeed – we ate heartily on the boundary overlooking the lovely old town of Shere.

But now it was the Pilgrims’ turn to step up to the plate and finish the job I had set out to do some 28 years earlier.

Ridiculous

Clint and Cus Cus opened the stand. It must be noted here that Clint had earlier gashed his hand on a piece of class as he attempted to stop a ball going for four. Pretty nasty it was, pretty nasty, but it didn’t stop him from hitting 37 before being caught going for the boundary himself. Good show old fellow. Cus Cus knocked up 19 runs nice and steadily. Penthouse would have been proud but for the fact that he was bowled trying to play a “ridiculous shot,” according to the Kommander.

Gussie and Penthouse (cloud and all) took to the wicket and continued the good work. Gussie hit 33 before being caught and was replaced by Tickle. I began to congratulate him on his performance, but the look of pure evil he wore as he left the field made me stop for some reason.

We were catching Shere very quickly as Tickle let rip. God in heaven, he was having the game of his life! Fours and sixes with gay abandon – I’m not saying that he likes the gentlemen, but refer to the ease in which he made Shere run all over the place.

Inanely

And there it was! 165 in 38 overs for three wickets. Shere were beaten soundly. The joy I felt could not be contained – what a victory and nothing to take the pleasure away from me... until I turned to see my uncle, beer in hand, smiling inanely! Maybe he’s been stuffed all those years? Either that or his brain has finally gone.

So 28 years of hurt were redeemed, and the Pilgrims recorded their best ever winning streak in this, our tenth year. Here’s to the next ten.

Viva La Revolution!