Far From The MCC
~ Est. in 1998 ~
“Mad Opt For Foreign Guidance”
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Friday 17th
August 2007 |
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Result: Won by 7 Wkts |
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Venue: Sidley |
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40 overs |
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Sidley CC |
151 ao |
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J. Hoskins 3 - 14,
S. Parkinson 2 - 7, A. Mann
2 - 12 |
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FFTMCC |
152 - 3 |
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A Changing of the
Guard; a process
involving a new guard exchanging duty with the old guard. And in the case of
the Far From The MCC, the first Friday of tour would mark the Mad’s skipper
I. Howarth standing aside for Lincolnshire’s favourite France-adoring son,
one S. Parkinson. True northern grit and endeavour making way for European flair
and panache (or so we were led to believe). If it were football – it could be
likened to Neil Warnock leaving office for the entrance of Michel Platini….
S. Parkinson (left) was keen to promote the “tea-drinking
culture” within the * * * Many would regard the
first official day of tour as the
day the team embark on the drive to the tour destination. Not me, I’ve always
regarded the first official day of
tour as the day you wake up with a hangover (usually the day after the drive).
And so would be the case in Eastbourne on Friday – that dreadful realisation
as you open your eyes that your head is spinning, you feel a little woozy,
and the alien surroundings stink of empty bottles of beer and the repugnant
smell of flatulence. Every year, same old same old same old…. I was chastised into
mobility by my room mate Mr. Smith, who on appearance seemed to have slept
rather better than myself. The fact he didn’t look like an extra from one of
George A. Romero’s zombie flicks ticked that box. It wasn’t so much that After dragging my dishevelled
corpse into the lounge area below, I was quickly reunited with tales of the
previous night by members of the team already seated for breakfast. Some
appeared quite fresh-faced, others less so, and a tall Australian I
recognised to be Ant smirked at me from behind his mound of sausages and
beans. “Enjoy the kebab last night, mate? – haha.” Kebab? It all came
flooding back to me – we’d hit upon this dingy little kebab shop a few
streets away from the final bar we had hit on; and after swallowing the pub’s
copious supply of Sambuca and Yeigermeister it must have seemed like a palace.
Clearly it wasn’t, and after being reminded that the “kebab meat looked like shit”,
I now realised what that awkward knotted feeling was in my stomach. Today was
going to be a long day….
J. Hoskins impresses the Sidley batsman with his savoury snacks. * * * Whilst being a relatively large ground and home to an adjoining football
pitch, actually finding Sidley Cricket Club proved rather difficult. Matters
weren’t helped by a dense splurge of orange brick houses and tall prison-like
surrounding wall that encircled the place. Things were further hindered by a
137 year old lady we stopped to ask for directions, nor a pair of chavs we
hit upon at a nearby bus stop who struggled with even the most basic concept
of spoken English…. But find the ground we did, and once there, as is usually the case, I
found myself hauling the fucking kit-bag all the way from the grass car park
to the pavilion but 27 miles away. I don’t suppose I’d mind too much, but I never
use any of the kit therein, and the uncooked leg of Giraffe I had eaten the
previous evening was now starting to strangle the insides of my stomach!
“Pouvez-vous transférer s'il vous
plaît à la droite, le chéri?” One thing I have now come to love about tour – especially whilst
being the incumbent skipper of the FFTMCC - is the fact that you are not
expected to captain any games. In fact, not a lot is expected
of you – save a good thirst and deep pockets whilst a close proximity from
the bar. The responsibility of marshalling the troops is awarded to someone
foolish enough to volunteer after a vote is carried in their favour.
Saturday’s idiot-in-making would be none other than our
Europe-commuting mincer, S. Parkinson. After making my 3rd, 4th and 5th pit-stops
of the day in the changing room toilets - I strode out to join my team mates
warming up under dulled grey skies. Our appointed skipper for the day was
already fraternising with the enemy; strutting around with all the airs and
graces of a Field-Marshall, whilst regaling stories of the night he drank
David Boon under the table whilst travelling back from I believe he won the toss and invited the hosts to bat – not
so much a decision based on his expansive cricketing knowledge of how
helpful the pitch may or may not have been to our bowlers, but a decision
based on “doing the right thing” and “staying chummy with our hosts” (groan).
I say I believe he won the toss, as I was otherwise occupied with yet
another enforced pit-stop… maybe that Giraffe I had devoured had actually
been an anthrax-infected Elk…?
Fielding at “deep cow” (right). This theme of me wandering on and off the field in some discomfort
would be repeated as the match progressed, much to the amusement of all
concerned and in particular our very own skipper. In firm knowledge of my
plight, you would have thought it sensible to alternate my position from deep
slip to long on depending on which end we were bowling from – both areas of
the field where the toilets were quickly accessible. But no – I was instructed to “sod off to deepest cow
corner” before the commencement of each over and told to “stop whinging”.
These European managers can be so uncompassionate. I had hoped to get an over or so under my belt – this was tour after
all, but I was starved of this grain of pleasure and thus forced to watch the
Sidley batsmen cart our free-range buffet into the surrounding housing
estates. The skipper of course afforded himself a few overs – skipping in off
his mincing run-up, shirt ruffling in the breeze, and proceeded to bag a
couple of Bug’s Bunnies mates whilst telling anyone who would listen that he
used to “tear through county–standard opposition for fun” whilst he plied his
trade in Lincolnshire. And totally in keeping, he subsequently retired from
the attack as soon as a batsman of note strode to the wicket, and instead
positioned himself next to the bowler where he could offer his sagely advice (and
of course all done without a bead of sweat having appeared on his forehead
during his lengthy exertions). * * *
A. Mann (2-12) goes through his
in-swinging repertoire. A fine spread of food greeted the teams midway through the match, but
my participation in eating any was limited due to the leg of rotting Leopard
still working its way through my anatomy. Mr. Parkinson scoffed at a cheeky
beer, and instead sipped from a small dainty cup of tea which was summarily
balanced on a saucer he held. During the interval he made sure his team
fully understood they were “under great guidance today”, and that they were
“learning valuable lessons” under his stewardship not normally garnered
during the regular season (under the other skipper). Eventually our captain asked whether or not I wanted a bat. I took
this as meaning it would be “appreciated” if I stepped aside so that “the
team” (his team) could score the required runs for victory. I replied
that I would be happy to accommodate his team and that I merely be
allowed to bat a position above him. This Mr. Parkinson conceded and duly
scribbled himself in the book to bat at number 11…. * * * The second half of the match largely passed me by, as I divided my
time between picking my nose, drinking cider, and circling the pitch whilst
chatting to any prospective parties who maybe interested (not many). I
watched Nick Hebbes finally notch a long overdue fifty – clearly a result of
Mr. Parkinson’s inspiring half-time team talk, and maybe the skipper’s
superior leadership also accounted for M. Westmoreland using the right
end of his bat for once in swatting a healthy unbeaten 44 in chasing down the
target? Maybe….
S. Parkinson (centre) perfected this
stance whilst living in The Mad eventually cantered home to win by 7 wickets, a good outing
for a first day of tour. But rather than getting carried away by the Mad’s
new foreign style of leadership, it is perhaps worth noting that the Sidley
team we played on that Friday were the soft underbelly of the regular team’s
they put out on a Saturday. Still, a win is a win is a win, but I would liken
the result – in footballing terms (again) as an away win for I had already retired to the bar long before Mr. Parkinson had hosed
himself down and put on his makeup for the cameras. When he did eventually
appear, he shunned a regular pint in favour of a Tia Maria and a stool by the
bar, and then held court with the Sidley locals as tales of a new regime were
trotted out and “the end of a backward tenure”. When it came to fines however, our new skipper found out the harsh
reality of captaining the Mad, as he subsequently got battered for a record
total. I leaned across, smug in my contempt, and quietly informed him that
whoever it is that steers the ship through turbulent waters, the crew will
most likely congratulate themselves on any successes and consider you a prick
in failure. Steve rubbished my thoughts instantly, before slipping an
American Express card from his dandy new wallet and tossing it dismissively
on the table (for fines).
Sidley’s fitness regime was almost as
good as the Mad’s. * * * Steve and Ian were last seen on the How ironic. ‘Number 10’ |
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MOTM: N. Hebbes’ fifty
Champagne Moment: M.
Westmoreland’s catch on the boundary
Buffet Award: D.
Shorten’s lego soup