Far From The MCC

~ Est. in 1998 ~

“2007 Lords Trip: Twenty20”

Friday 6^th July 2007

Result: Drunk and disorderly

Venue: Oxford, London and Lords

Midday – early morning….

Finally!

Yes, finally – a Mad Social Secretary stepped upto the oche and delivered. After years of underachievement in this most maligned of roles, and with a history of sackings, walkouts and social disaster stories, the 6^th of July 2007 marked a real success story and a day to finally remember for the far From The MCC.

Spot the Essex Boy.

N. Hebbes, better known for his athletic displays in the field and irritatingly good spirits, had come good on his promise and organisation of a fun-filled trip to the home of cricket – Lords – for a Twenty20 slog-fest between the barrow boys of Essex and the stiff upper-lip of Middlesex. The day would allow the participants to indulge in large amounts of banter, even more copious amounts of drinking, and the opportunity to experience the home of cricket, whilst finally heading home in the evening after a seat head-butting competition and coin throwing contest on the intercity train….

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The journey to London was uneventful for the simple reason that it was well organised, and the party of Mad weren’t pissed. A. Mann failed to make the trip as he contracted his fourteenth bout of influenza in as many weeks, and stayed at home to sulk and harbour dark-thoughts. The remainder of the posse felt for Ant, but only as long as it took to pronounce his nickname.

There is only so much excitement you can handle at Lords.

Arriving in London, Hebbes guided his entourage to two differing drinking establishments prior to going to the ground itself. Both were simplistic in nature, with the small populace of city folk within them of similar intelligence (afternoon regulars are usually to be found spending their giros or pensions after all….) Pub entertainment was provided by wall-mounted LCD’s with Venus Williams destroying her Wimbledon semi-final opponent in close to 7.4 minutes and fully justifying the decision to award women the same prize money as the men (who are on court for something like 27 times longer) – ahem….

Following the failed terrorist attacks of previous weeks, security at Lords was tighter than Linford Christie’s lycra running shorts. Most unfortunate then for party member T. Smith, who was detained and interrogated at the entrance to the ground after a quick search of his satchel recovered a heavy beer glass and various other borrowed items from a pub. “Expecting any trouble are we?” Were the sarcastic barbs from the stewards. Smith was quick to assert that his predicament was as a result of a really funny jape by his friends, and that he was truly sorry and wasn’t looking to glass any of the chinless cockney tossers who sit under the new media stand. He was subsequently allowed in, but only after bending over in the nearby toilets.

Shame Steve doesn’t bat with a pair of these.

Finding the allocated seating for the game proved quite a task. In fact, it proved such a difficult task, that club poet, A. Morley, arrived some 50 minutes late for the start of the match. Nevertheless, such was the excitement and splendour of the view afforded from the grandstand, Morlers soon slipped into a drink-induced coma once he arrived.

The ill-effects of daytime drinking had obviously tarnished northerner I. Howarth’s ability to keep his swearing down to a modicum, and he was soon involved in a heated spat with some righteous London tosser who protested his understanding of knowing good cricket when he saw it. The guy probably supported Leyton Orient as well – wanker. D. Shorten quickly defused the situation by allowing his telescopic binoculars to be passed about and allow everyone a proper view of the action; so opinions on whether people were pissing about and not getting on with it could be better substantiated.

The weather also played it’s part in making it a memorable day – no small thing considering most of England had drowned in the dreadful month of June. And as the sun descended over the east stand, the finale of the Twenty20 was played out on a beautifully cut pitch, with the dying ambers of the day lengthening the shadows of the players as they ran about in their pink and brown pyjamas.

Photography was much more exciting than the game itself….

Someone ended up winning the game of cricket – in the end, and it did go to the last few balls, but then the talk and interest had now turned to where the Mad could pour more lager down their throats and possibly even eat; so no-one really gave a damn, apart from J. Hoskins who squawked in everyone’s ears as the game came to it’s inevitable conclusion like a child with too many colourings in his sweets.

S. Dobner would satisfy his expanding belly with a king-size burger on the way to the pub, and later would queue with everyone else for a large portion of fish and chips to boot. J. Hotson and T. Smith wouldn’t queue, as they had satisfied their hunger on some flowers from a plant trough outside the pub’s entrance. It would be about this time of the day that memories slide into the mists of drunken confusion, and recalling the exact who-did-whats at the pub(s) becomes a little sketchy…. What we do know is that D. Shorten was once again lampooned for his non-publication of a 2 month old match report; S. Parkinson professed Lincoln to being the greatest place on Mother Earth and Cholsey a boil on the cock of humanity; D. Edwards would become slightly cold due to wearing only fifteen layers of clothing for the day; M. Clarke would spout drunken bollocks as per usual; and N. Hebbes would try his utmost to try and keep some degree of control over proceedings….

Having a good ole cockney knees-up, my son.

The train journey home was lurid to say the least, with other travelling passengers deciding to abandon the Mad carriage as the party got in full sway. Singing, shouting, coin throwing, paper plane throwing, head slapping, and head-butting of the seats was all part of the attractions on offer; so it was with no small relief that the Social Secretary hurriedly declared his day complete when the train rocked into Oxford station around 11pm. Alas, his day would later be compounded by the jobsworth of a station guard refusing him a journey home to Cholsey because Nick was a trifling 38 seconds late for the platform…. after a quick visit to the local….

Looking good, Billy-Boy….

* * *

In summation, a great day enjoyed by everyone. And we thoroughly look forward to burdening Nick in the near future with the task of organising us another event to display our all-round maturity and propensity for consuming alcohol.

‘Headbanger’

More Photos from the day:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

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Bonus: "Smoking Inspector's Report"

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