Far From The MCC

~ Est. in 1998 ~

 

“Do Egyptian’s Dream of Electric Camels?”

 

 

Sunday 7th July 2002

Result:  Lost by 83 Runs

Venue:  Pembroke College Sports Ground

35 overs

Bodleian

173 - 5

 

FFTMCCC

91 ao

T. Smith  18

 

 

 

Sitting by the hotel pool, gazing at the ancient Pyramids looming through the heat-haze nothing could seem further away than the hallowed turf of the M.C.C. ground echoing with shouts from the Mad. Yet in a heat induced hypnotism I drift into a world where those Pyramids were built as sight screens enabling the Pharaohs to play in the desert. And where there lies entombed beneath the Pembroke pavilion, an esteemed ascendant of a Mad, not-out batsman.

 

The Gods kept the rains at bay and play proceeded on time, fifteen minutes late, with the Mad Captain (A. Mann) correctly predicting the scarab toss and electing to field. Such was the enthusiasm of playing under a new Captain, the team were still practicing padding up when they realised the opposing batsmen were at the crease, ready to go into battle.

 

 

Apparently, the pyramids were intended to be sight screens.

 

Opening bowlers kept the initial run rate low - A. Mann showed his usual economy status taking one wicket for 15 runs off 5 overs, backed up by an equally economic J. Hoskins (0 for 7, off 4) But the fallen wicket from the openers unleashed the fury of a determined left-handed Bod, who set about the bowlers with a desire for runs not unlike the insatiable hunger of a plague of locusts. Two further minor wickets were picked up slowly – noticeably from Mad debutants Jay (1 for 20, off 7), and Sharky (1 for 15 off 3), while the Welsh Whirlwind D. Jones tried to slow the run rate with a respectable 0 for 16 off 5. But still the Lefty notched up run after run with batting prowess not witnessed since the days of the week before, when the Mad were slaughtered by the Lemmings.

 

However, as Rameses himself once hieroglyphed – all great leaders are born to topple – and like a Phoenix from the Ashes, to the fore stepped stalwart E. Lester. Organising his field tactically on the boundaries his bowling arm swung for what seemed like the first time this season. The lefty soon connected with a certain six. Diving instinctively to his right, our Captain plucked the ball from the air at full stretch as if a magic carpet had swept beneath him, sending lefty, mummified, back to the Pavilion. The damage was done however, and the Bods marched on relentlessly to a challenging target.

 

 

Some Egyptian art – to flesh out the report.

 

Centuries ago the builders of Giza carried THREE MILLION huge boulders from miles around to build one Pyramid on the banks of the Nile. This must have seemed an insurmountable task yet still they laboured on in searing temperatures to reach their goal. Likewise, the Mad batsmen readied themselves and prepared to labour towards the target of 173, which was reached by the Bod at the expense of just five wickets.

 

However, the Mad got off to a bad start. Cursed by the tea of Mint Tikka Camel sandwiches, our normal rock, A. Mander took his eye off the ball and was bowled early. This was quickly followed by a suicidal run-out and a Golden Duck, the likes of which not seen since the opening of Tutankamun’s tomb.

 

 

The middle order steadied the Felucca, and for a while T. Smith (18 top score) and A. Mann (11) raised the hopes of the onlooking crowd with some masterful strokes. Sadly this promising partnership was cut in its prime. Smith no doubt tiring from his debut Wicket Keeping duties passed the responsibility of required runs down to J. Hotson (10 n.o.), who yet again had managed to arrive at the ground well before tea. Excitement arose once more when Mander the Younger decided enough was enough, and opened his shoulders to the Bod bowlers, notching up a fast 13 before being dismissed, unlucky for some. The tail end seemed to buckle in the heat with a pair of Quacks, one Golden, but hey, at least the club’s coffers will be bulging.

 

So be it - the Scorer’s Papyrus was inscribed “Mad all out for 90”, yet as the battered tribes limped to the Mad HQ there were indeed mutterings in the ranks….And remembrance came forth that life in front of the Wicket never really dies, and like a true Pharaoh, One shall rise again the following Sunday in the form of a Trescothick, striking out to hit an immense Century worthy of King Rameses himself.

 

 

‘Hoskers’

 

 

 

 

 

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