In the end, even God realised enough was enough.

It was all very well flooding much of the Cotswolds, heaping misery on tens, nay, hundreds of thousands of souls, but interfering with the Pilgrims’ annual jamboree to Aldworth? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

Fish

And so, with heavenly sanity restored, Sunday dawned bright and dry. The ill-assorted bunch that were to contest the match under the Pilgrims’ banner gathered to The Bell from the far-flung corners of the empire. Well, Chiswick, Devon and Cornwall to be precise.

At this point, it is worth noting that had the team heeded the doom-laden warnings of one member, it is quite possible half would not have pitched up. Only Michael Fish could sympathise with Egon’s howlingly inaccurate forecast as posted on the bulletin board. Anyone else and we might have believed them.

Ganja

The first arrivals had travelled the furthest. Bully & the Judge arrived at The Bell on the very dot of ‘bolts drawn’ and piled out of the former’s newly acquired mobile hairdressing centre of excellence & got stuck into a pint of Kingsdown, then some B’s, some mild, some legendary hot rolls, some more mild etc, etc, etc...

The rest of the team arrived and followed a similar pattern. Pilco had clearly been indulging in something stronger as he regaled us with a ‘true’ account of his exploits in Lagos. Something to do with a ‘Snoop Dogg,’ sub-standard ganja, limbless locals and his gleeful exhortations to his driver to ‘Run them down! Run them down!’ Hmmm.

Gut-full

The match was due to start at 2pm so 2.45 was pretty good going given the history of the fixture. “We’ll start when we think you’re drunk enough to give us a chance of beating you” was oppo Julian’s cunning plan – he clearly fancied his chances.

The ‘Grims were inserted and Julian’s scheming seemed to be working out quite nicely by the second ball of the innings as the Judge, displaying his customary tour touch, was clean-bowled by what he described as “surely the best ball ever bowled at Aldworth” – a decent forward defensive would have put the lie to this, but with age, dodgy eyesight and a gut-full of the best beer Berkshire could offer added to the mix, his demise was inevitable.

Oaf

Penthouse was none to happy to find himself de-facto opener especially given his beer-befuddled and newly helmeted partner (yours truly) grinning like an amiable oaf at the other end. You could read his mind: “It’s going to be another one of those days. Sigh.”

But, miraculously, it was not to be. When Bully was sawn-off on 44 courtesy of a truly appalling LBW decision the pair had put on just shy of a 100 runs for the second wicket. With batting a-plenty to come a big score seemed inevitable.

So, of course, it wasn’t.

The wickets fell and, like an electricity sub-station engulfed by floodwater, the ‘Grims lost all power. Gussie, Penthouse, Egon, Bumpy, Moggie, Clarence... all departed, with only the captain’s resolute 37 worth noting. It took a spirited knock of 31 n.o. from Pilco (whom, it would seem, had clearly kept all the best stuff for himself – don’t tell Snoop) ably supported by Younger Jnr to drag the team’s total to a defensible 147.

Tea was taken. All of it.

Lush

The Aldworth reply started cautiously. Gussie and Clarence bowled tightly and runs were hard to come by. Soon both opening bowlers produced breakthroughs – Gussie on a hat-trick at one point – and Aldworth were reeling on 30-3. However, they had a secret weapon – someone who knew how to play cricket. Curses! Why hadn’t we thought of that? Having taken a hatful of ‘Grims wickets already the chap was clearly useful. Turned out he was really a batsman and played for Oxford University. Oh.

However, his attempt to play ‘proper’ cricket on the lush pasture that the recent climatic conditions had produced was ill-conceived. His was a cultural approach: what was required was something with the agri-prefix. Sumptuous cover drives that would have sped to the boundary on the billiard-table greenswards of Oxford were unceremoniously arrested by the molasses-like outfield we were playing on.

His frustration was apparent and, in the best moment of the game, Hanse – bowling a great spell that was to bring him a Michelle – induced the batsman to cut at one too close to his body. A faint nick and a sharp caught behind was taken by none other than Junior. To say the crowd went wild would be imprecise. There was no crowd. The ‘Grims made up for this by celebrating manically – the oppo’s best bat (and surely their only chance of winning) back in his hutch and, more importantly, evidence that the ‘Grims’ envied youth policy was beginning to pay big dividends.

Hapless

The game was all but up. Julian played a cameo innings that included a couple of towering maximums but was undone by Bumpy’s ‘guile’ (“It moved in the air and off the pitch!” he said. Reader, we fined him.). Egon was given a couple of overs and mixed in a couple of surprise straight ones with a selection of more interesting deliveries with no luck. However, Hanse whipped through the tail and the game was comfortably won.

Comedy was provided by the Judge’s performance at slip that saw its apogee in a quite bizarre incident. Hanse bowls and the batsman has a heave which results in a top edge that spins almost straight up in the air just behind the wicket. Later claiming the sun was in his eyes, the Judge performs a series of pirouettes that Darcy Bussell would have been proud of whilst exclaiming: “Where is it? Where is it?” “It’s behind you,” chorused his teammates as panto season came early to Berkshire. A direct hit on the bonce would have been the icing on the cake – alas, the ball dropped harmlessly just inches from the hapless wig-wearer.

Pants

What to do now? Well, repair to the pub garden, order lashings of all varieties of beer and hot rolls (Penthouse claiming any that were being served by a comely Eastern European filly) and generally frighten the locals seemed a good idea. It’s a strategy that’s worked for years and paid off once more.

So to court. Since the Judge’s decamp to Devon, the Aldworth sessions are a special assizes in that it is the only one at which he presides. Much was expected and the Judge delivered. He started in a self-immolatory fashion by fining himself £10 for being drunk in charge of a cricket bat. The rest of the sessions I can only faintly glean from the scribblings on the judicial napkin of doom:

Pilco – Not enough ganga for Snoop Dogg; being Lord Jim. Penthouse – Sending drunks in to open the batting. Egon – Meteorological doom-mongering; advocating the shooting of children; a duck. Moggie – Beer filching; not running. Gussie – Batting like pants. Bully – Batting like Boycott after the drinks break; ostentatious parking of new car. Hanse – Shirt violation; being a competitive dad. Junior – Batting for his average; having a competitive dad. Bumpy – Reading Hello! whilst scoring; scoring with a hairy back. Clarence – A golden duck!

So that was that. A few more beers were sunk before the London-bound element left the scene and another glorious Aldworth day had finished. Roll on next year.

Those of us with more foresight had taken Monday as holiday and booked into Harold’s B&B opposite the ground. We were able to quaff deep into the night at the Bell’s altar and the following morning enjoy a marvellous breakfast, a bracing and glorious stroll on the downs, then lunch at another top-class local hostelry. Bliss.

What other sport in the world could offer you as much?