By Hat Rick
Arriving at Bodle Street is for Sunday cricketers what that bit in The Beach where Leonardo DiCaprio sees the mythical beach for the first time is for back-packery types.
Its rural charm is a tranquility-hose pointing its lovestream directly into our mindbags. It’s a hypno-siren slipping seamlessly behind the rope of our brain-clubs, before delicately wafting the goosepimples of our beings, lounging deep in our vision-spheres and stroking our look-balls until we simultaneously spurt the rich nectar of joy-snorting angels liberally over the face of life…
It’s multiple-resplendo-vista capable of temperately massaging away the knuckle-bleeding terror of reality, coaxing us back from the cliff-face of shittery; a life-download able to reinstate many-a weary old Greysplonk’s élan vital to effervescent overflow, its ambrosial serenity-fingers turned up to 11 on the vibration-dial.
As the sensory delights of this balmy emerald pasture nimbly caressed our life-shafts to glorious, elysian climax, the sanctity of nature’s rolf–rooms were once again delivered on time – and without the need for a signature.
Here, was a woozy acreage capable of inhabiting one’s interior paroxysms and crushing self-hatred – gently anesthetizing – Mother Nature’s own verdure-laced vaccine in goddess-like porcelain hand removing the druggery-masks and placidly persuading one’s soul that – no – in fact there really is no pain at all, no reason to doubt one’s self. Where once confusion and faithlessness roamed free to stomp on your dreams like a grubby Mad Max-convoy of joy-crushing malevolence… “Not here!” whispers the warming breeze at the Bodle… No, no, no. Here limitless confidence is untethered and loose to expand into the corners of the minds of even the most talentless, irritating, out-of-shape addlepate.
This – GET ON WITH IT RICK – was the gorgeous demi-meadow on which cricket was to be played, in the midst on a blazing, truly clement Summer’s Sunday.
Yes, Bodle Street with your white horse-emblazoned pub roofs and wild-running annoyo-pack of manicured fatty-ginger housedogs, beaming deck-chaired village hot-flaskery, you are alright with us…
(All of the above was instantly killed when EO tried to dress himself and couldn’t do it, missing his boxer leg hole and trying to mount his trousers with his ankle (psm nom)).
While Bodle Street is as far from being an actual street as is possible to be, nonetheless it is surely the clement epitome of what Sunday cricket really should be about: injuring cows, inappropriately shouting at inopportune moments in order to injure the opposition, injuring the frontal lobes of the opposition batsmen with glacially dull haemorrhage-inducing bovine fact chat, injuring trees with malco underarm dumb-throws, and injuring the eyes of all with a wrinkly crescent of welsh beach-themed middle age partial nudity.
On the plus side, the clement company of the Bodlers and the spirit-lifting, otherworldly, globally confusing charm of chilli-con-carne roasting on an open fire in an English field cancelled out at least some of the above… and booze taking priority over the actual game removed all other issues that anyone had with anything, ever.
The White Horse pub instantly confused all present that this was in fact a mahoosive piss up and not a cricket match at all, with Tel depositing a flem-ridden manky hanky through his trouser leg (psm nom) and all Greysmen present experiencing the whole sorry booze-saga several times over: from tipsy to drunk to hungover and headachy to drunk again to hungover again to one more drunky bit and then back to hangover once more, before one more drunkalisation bit and then back to hangerton once more.
Bodle Street you vile, tongue-flicking alcho-fauna bully.
The toss meant the Greys were given the keys to Battyville.
Jerry and I to open.
Jerry was in for what seemed like bloody ages and managed just four beautiful 1s before being caught by the outstretched clamp of a Bodler close in. Happened pretty fast.
Robor arrived at the strippery, settled in with some big shots, amongst them a clattering of nice fours and a brace of sixers, before prompty advising yours truly that he would be driving his bat-buggy foot-to-the-floor into bicep-fuelled swingytown from then on… but the Bodler’s ground was firmly against him.
His usual stratospheric sixeyness was given icy shade thanks to the squillions of hyper-blades stood proud in the Bodlers grassy outfield, meaning when said man-thwacking mind-manifesto was put into practice by a giant hench-swipe up towards sky-town it only resulted in one solitary, weepy run (psm nom). Rob stood there frozen and smiling in his own personal pleasure room, whilst eye-shagging the fruits of his plank-muscle, the crick-nugget sailing off cloudwards into the sunset before plopping down to spray its anti-climatic neg-fluid onto his efforts. Soon a dribbly one would remind the stumps what that abundant grass-bed felt like.
Next to fall was a well-holidayed Biffo, the bowler’s seamy nut inviting itself through his open gate twixt pad and bat like a warming bowl of out-soup.
Giant Hovey bum bags followed with a few well-crafted thwacky-doos, including a characteristic rope-bothering dynamo-plonk, before his edge stole the attention from the face and pinged the scarlet attention-sphere high up, preempting gravity’s palm-slapping death knell as a circling Bodler gathered him in.
Incidentally, Robbie – the weapon – shouted about me getting a 50 (somewhere in there was a drive up a hill that I can’t remember playing – psm nom) just as their guy was shaping up to bowl one and caused him to turn his ankle (psm nom), BUT also courting the gurning Fresian audience to come just that little bit closer, before I pummeled one of the front row with a Death From Above cherry-bomb sixer that caused instant swelling to the Fresial milk sackery, whilst the poor recipient was reclining in Cow Corner, sort of not really though (psm nom).
Shadooooow said no-one as Terry ran athletically to spray all over creaseland. Our partnership ended quickly when yours truly bat-farted one up to a young guy who could catch. The wicky told me shortly before that there was a £4000 prize for landing one in the pond – he looked serious. The slip said it would be taken back if I hit his family on the way – he looked seriouser.
The Fentonator and the Shadow shared some love for a weeny bit of time, before a runless Al – drumroll please – played across the line and got out LBW. That never, ever happens. Terry scored a few before being bowled by one of the Jacks, boo. Next Skip fell quickly to a sharp catch from the bleachy-haired guy in the Kiwi cap who wasn’t playing at the start. Then, after a promising start, EO suffered a similar fate caught by the same dude.
It was down to a grandly bearded Postal Daniel and Rob-bot Hoary fingers to bring us home, which they dutifully did with 2 runs apiece.
Greys all out for 155. Hmmm…
Wafts of smoke and chilli, hungry scoffling drunklebilly, drinky more beer fizzys, not much speaky speaky, more beerybobbles, nuther beer or two, wee wees in the sunky bit – then fielding.
We were all a bit drunk again, can’t recall much. So this isn’t in the right order really, nor is it well written. It’s also a little brief from here ’cause I’ve been writing all week and JUST WANT TO STOP NOW OK. Plus bowling is boring from the boundary and I couldn’t really see anything.
Skipply Ben and Dan Hermibeard opened the bowling to their usual high standard, I think, Ben unlucky not to steal one. His later overs of legward jumblers were a joy too as I was a bit closer for those ones. Diamonte ended with a maiden and all was ok with the world.
Robbie H also bowled well, snagging a wick-wick when yours truly managed to catch one on the run (psm nom). EO got two of them, continuing his stellar form this season, with one ACTUALLY CAUGHT this time by Robbles, the slightly cheaty ball fumbler, and one clean bowled – a great spell even though EO’s still intent on throwing balls at nice old trees in the outfield like a brain-removed ape with melted WHAM! bars for arms (psm nom).
I bowled like a complete and utter w&*$%r delivering a brown display of giant bum bum, covered in unwiped poopy slop, with the only one straight one hammered into a field by the good boy.
In contrast, Jerry, listed as ‘Lang’ in the scorebook, not for the first time (groooooooan), bowled like Wonder Woman, tickling the stumps with a gentle loopy throw aimed in the general direction of the good one in white (psm nom) who could quite easily have won it for them had Jezzo’s golden locks stopped flirting with the breeze. A maiden and a wicket – top stuff Jezbo.
Somewhere in amidst all of that bowlery business, Baloony buns bowled some excellent pace and spin and took four – yes four – wickets, three of the Bodlers scutteled on the wick-woods proper spinny stylee (one of them a psm nom) and one that got a Bodler out holdy and bowly.
Excellent cricklechucks Bumboids! You should teach it.
With the overs over, the remaining pair of Bodlers couldn’t quite get over the line, four runs short.
TMGs win. Yip.