Kentisbeare Revisited/The Interrogation 

Like poor old in Chazzer in Brideshead Revisited, having to write this Tour Report has forced me to reflect through the gauzy curtain of intervening time on my joyous, sun-drenched memories of youthful foolishness and love. 

Now a misanthropic, reserved and unhappy individual, I am disillusioned with the life I once relished. I will not be turning to Catholicism but I have to question my former ideals and ask myself why do I still keep up the pretence and put myself through Tour after Tour, when I now realise that something within me, long sickening, has quietly died, and I feel as a husband might feel, who, in the fourth year of his marriage, suddenly knows that he has no longer any desire, or tenderness, or esteem, for a once-beloved wife; no pleasure in her company, no wish to please, no curiosity about anything she might ever do or say or think; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster. I know it all, the whole drab compass of marital disillusion; we have been through it together, the Greys Tour and I. 

* * * 

And now the memories came flooding back like a meteor storm 

Not as depicted in newspapers but as a real-life meteor shower; with half-arsed recollected piss streaks every 12½ minutes. 

I chuckled again at Dead Ben and Adam’s existential spat. My heart swelled anew at mine and Chief’s incredible comeback from 20-10 in the Wif-Waf final. I savoured again Ben’s winning pork ragù. And nodded quietly as Biff told us that England’s bowling attack was shite and we’d lose the series 5-0. 

And so, I was brought back across the months once more to that remote country house. But even as these precious jewels graced my vision, I heard my own guttural, slightly incredulous voice dismissing or belittling any fondness I could still feel. 

  I found myself seated unable to move on a hard wooden chair scraping uncomfortably on the dirty stone-flagged floor. Again I was blinded by the harsh blue glare of the Temu multi-program disco light machine. My stomach involuntarily tightened as the insistent voice harried me. 

Vie did you agree to go!? You swore never again after the previous year! And you ended up driving. Wie cant you stand up for yourself? 

I know. I know! I don’t like saying, ‘No!’ to people. Dave was particularly threatening. I’m sure they’d cope without me, but I’d hate to be responsible if it folded. Plus Louise wanted to tag a little work trip to Cornwall on to it. 

Pathetic!  You shouldn’t even have been driving, and zen you went on zer A Drei Null Fucking Drei, mit your knee? und whose idea vos dat??

It was a decent run – beautiful weather, no traffic – until we tried to catch up with Chief, Dave and Ded Ben for a pub lunch! It was quite amusing; pub after pub not doing food, kitchens closing, Chief losing his rag. Poor old Alex was trying his hardest to keep up on his field telephone and his crumpled OS map.. 

You lie! Ze last thing you needed vas driving around in circles like a cunt, for an extra hour und a haff! In ze 30°C heat mit zer air-conditioning not verking!! And for what? A warmed up supermarket smoked mackerel fillet! £18.95! Ah ze Englisch humour, nein? 

It was fun! I enjoyed catching Ricky ordering his sneaky second pint after downing his first in 30 seconds. I knew how he felt! Lovely ale and friendly people; a great pit-stop. Chief headed off first, in the wrong direction, trailing a cloud of white powder down the country lane 

At long-last came zer welcoming familiarity of that godforsaken road from Honiton. Is it 15 mins or is it 40 minutes?  

Never mind. A sunny midsummer garden was waiting, the trees loaded with fruit, polypins pregnant with Otter Ale and new sun-loungers a welcome addition. If only someone could have puzzled out how they worked. Old Ma Newland was there waiting proudly for her brood having tidied round. 

I’ll admit the house felt a bit large for just eight of us but the time-honoured traditions were upheld. In a kaleidoscopic carousel of gin and tonic, Spotify, Table-Tennis, shuffled feet and blue spirals the friends easily rubbed along til the small hours. 

You lie! Zat is not friendship you use each other only as a captive backdrop against which to indulge in your own little worlds of excess? 

That’s unfair! There is a bond and a trust between us forged over years of playing together that is quite special and I don’t think most people are lucky enough to know.  

Pah! Did you have one meaningful conversation in six hours? 

* * * 

I am intrigued ! vot does zer Englishmann wear under his white terry-towel robe while he floats around the kitchen cooking zer Frühstück? Is it like ze Scottish man und his kilt? 

I have wondered. I always leave my sausage. I introduced sauteéd potatoes as a small refinement this year. Alex provided the usual hash browns as insurance. Comments were generally favourable.  

You lie! Didn’t zat schweinhund Chiefy complain that there wasn’t enough potatoes. Und that was after he had arrived late while Alex was modestly attempting to eat his own breakfast, and grumpily complained, “What? Is it fucking self-service now?” 

True! How does he get away with it? We had the luxury of an hour and a half in the sun before we had to leave for the first match where we would meet with the re-inforcements; Del from Brighton! Jim from Plymouth!  and Adam Drinkwater From Sidmouth. Hurrah! 

Zeez so-called matches! Ve know you ver not expected by Upottery! 

They seemed glad to see us. 

You lie!  Zey put your game on a triangular patch of cow-field. 

It was quite picturesque! 

Vot? An empty shipping container ten minutes walk from running water und No Bar!! You cant have travelled for 6½hour for zis!! 

I actually enjoyed the game. And we could see the proper match in the background. 

Nein, you lie! Ze other team was made up of kinder and teenagers in der shwarz-trainers. 

They knew what they were doing! There was an extremely short boundary one side but It felt like a proper game. They limited us to 189 off 30 overs and completed a couple of sharp run outs. Biff got an important 57. They dismissed our star batter Delbert for 13.  

Vasn’t zat you viz der LBW? 

I don’t remember. He was probably fatigued from travelling down by train from Brighton that morning. 

Gott in Himmel! Vot was he thinking! Does he not know about zer English train network? 

I think he just loves being with us guys.  I wish I could feel that kind of pure emotion. It’s admirable. 

Pathetic, more like! It makes no sense. Vot is in it for you all. Tell me or it will be ze vorse for you! 

Well I did take four wickets that is worth something. Two caught and bowled as well. One low at my ankles the other high to my left. I felt a bit like a dancer holding a pose in flight. That won PSM. 

Pah. It vos ein cow-field, if you bowled you got wickets. Ze Chief got four as well, Der Rickster got two and he couldn’t hardly walk. All out for 63. Scheisse! 

It wasn’t so bad! We were allowed in the clubhouse at the end and got to visit the Sidmouth Arms, home of the finest Otter Ales. 

Vot use was that?? You had to drive back to der house! Und Alex got you lost for another hour cos he can’t use Google Maps either! 

* * * 

The Sunday match was a back at Sidbury against our beloved old foe and grill-chef, Bish. The main topic of conversation before the game was Adam’s dramatic withdrawal. He felt his presence was untenable after a row with Dead Ben at Upottery. Already in a foul mood after opening the batting and scoring zero, he was asked to umpire. Dead Ben who was going well, struggled to make his ground going for two. There was a close shout. Adam gave it out and Ben stormed off angrily. Adam informed Ben that swearing and grunting was not cricket and made the Umpire “ look like a twat!” Ben retorted ”You made yourself look like a twat!” Although Ben reportedly later apologised, Upottery was the last we saw of Adam. 

I vill admit, zat sounds quite humourous ! 

It was unfortunate. However, just as we’d finished discussing the hardship of playing without Adam, the sky was rent open and descending in a cloud of dry ice, with screwed-up eyes and screw-down hairdo, the Greys’ own Ziggy Stardust arrived. Not only that but he had with him long-time collaborator Wig Ronson! – who had brought his kit!  

Nein?! Wunderbar! 

Sidbury are wonderful hosts, friendly and chatty with a range of local bottled ales and ciders and barbeque to follow! The match was a two x 15 overs innings format, which everyone likes. It gives the captains a chance to change things up and make sure that they bat and bowl themselves in both innings.  For bowlers it’s an easy game. You bowl three overs in the ‘semi-serious’ first innings and that’s your lot. You sit there with your pads on in the ‘funned-up’ second innings until, suprisingly, after 14 overs there are only 5 wickets down and you realise you’ve been done. 

Zat sounds like a complete dog’s breakfast! Why don’t you play a proper game? 

It was alright. Biff and Dead Ben laid a the foundation with an opening stand of 46 until Biff was run-out for the second day on the trot. Sidbury finished their first innings 12 behind. Del and D.D. batted us to victory with a Masterclass of aggressive  batting, 69 and 80* respectively. Hugely watchable.  

You lie! You must have been twitching having to drive sitting next to all zat lovely ale. 

Nein, I did ok. I managed a swifty in The Red Lion, which is doing very  well as a locals drinking, chatting and card games pub. They have an original nine-pin bowling alley at the back. Note to self for next year ! 

Nein, nein! You dumbkopf! 

Zis confusing game was it worth the trouble? 

Even with an unbeaten fifty from Bish, Sidbury got nowhere near, but by that time the barbie was fired up and the ladies had arrived! 

* * * 

In a game dripping with sumptuous shots all around the ground, top catching from Ziggy, outstanding ground fielding from Alex and Quiet Ben, the PSM centre of attention inevitably drifted onto yours truly who admittedly had been victim of comic circumstances you would not have thought possible. After years of bogus aspersions cast on my propriety, hygiene and consideration for others  I was immune to the feeble weekly attempts to exaggerate nothing into something.  

Jӓ! Boring. 

This time, however, there was no doubt! This had been seen by all fielders, umpires, batsmen and spectators; peals of laughter had rung around the enclosed Sidbury ground. I glanced across at Louise; would she stand by me? Thank God, she’s not easily shocked. 

You lie. Vot could be so bad? 

I had been forced earlier, to borrow Biff’s spare cricket trousers. I must have lost mine at the Plumpton T20. As people rounded up to go, farewells being made, the conversation went thus. “ You playing next week? I’ll wash ‘em and give them to you then.” “No mate, Ill take them now.” “ You sure?”. “ Yes mate, I’ve got me other washing here.” And so it was. Having to leave his kit bag behind this was the logical thing to do. 

And so, trapped on that wooden farmhouse chair, I saw again with horror the shit stains on the back of his cricket trousers as I handed them back to him. The same horror that was mirrored fleetingly in Biff’s eyes before he slowly took the offending bundle, knowing he’d have to sit with it on his lap in Chief’s overcrowded Sambuca, all the way back to Brighton.  

Zat is too much information! 

At least I was shot of them. I also knew at that moment, as much I have ever known anything, that he would not breathe a word of this to another soul, That is the measure of the man! 

Vot, Zis makes no sense – how could zis be zer Party Sevem. This was later, Nein?? 

Oh Fuck!, Nein, Sheisse! I’m confused, that was supposed to be secret. That wasn’t the PSM!  

Vot the fuck vas??  

Haunted Boots! 

Vot zer actual fuck? Spukschuhe?? 

* * * 

In early Summer, Sir Robert Bobbin was trawling the charity shops of Uckfield with the House Mistress, when he spied a brand new pair of haunted cricket boots for £3. This is someone who knows a bargain and he snapped them up. On their first outing together Rob was out for an embarrassing duck as The Greys were all out for 39 against Poynings in the Sussex Slam. He couldn’t have known that the boots were haunted and would only bring misfortune and humiliation to any owner, but he may have had an inkling, as he passed them on magnanimously to yours truly, saying they were too big and that I would get more use out of them. Poynings was the last we saw of him. However the curse carried on. After three overs using the boots I could barely walk and developed a completely black big toe, which I still have. Unfortunately I had binned my beloved green-taped classics, so had no choice but to persevere. I disposed of my £20 support insoles and for a while the boots seemed comfortable. Except they would deliberately trip me up. Playfully at first, jogging between fielding positions and then sometimes as I ran up to bowl. The spikes are able to elongate at will, catch themselves in the turf and upset my balance. 

Get zer fuck on mit zer PSM! 

Sorry, its relevant. So at Sidbury, I turned to chase a ball behind the wicket. The haunted boots struck, dug their extended toe spikes into the turf causing me to topple forward. They refused  to withdraw and allow me to regain my stride pattern. Defeated, I fell onto my knees. Then incredibly my forward momentum, shiny thighs and loose trouser cord combined to allow me to slide on the grass in an Islamic prayer postion, out of the trousers, which may also be haunted, to leave my complete bare arse, stringy jock-strap notwithstanding, on show to all all and sundry. I kid you not! Understandably it was more than a second or two before I could pull up the trousers, which were now rumpled up under my knees. You couldn’t make it up! 

Donner und Blitzen! Zat is beyond belief! Do you think that these two separate incidents could be in some way connected? 

I don’t know. I don’t know. Tour, eh? Why would anyone miss it?