Sunday 1s vs Captain Scott Invitational XI
Author: Unit
Match Report |
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Putney Sundays’ Team arrived characteristically fresh faced and clear-eyed, for their latest test in pursuit of achieving the season’s aim, of making Sundays great again. This followed their anti-climactic victory over the Saturday 2s team the day before (recorded as a Walkover win, due to the Saturdays’ Team’s disqualification for fielding an ineligible player - looking at you Ebersohn!). Well, a few arrived fresh faced and clear-eyed. It has been said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. If this is true, then many of the Putney Sundays’ Team are irrevocably doomed. The Captain rocked up having decided upon a tactical chunder before bed, to ensure his freshness for the big game (even Sarab ‘Hero’ ‘surely time to get a job’ Sethi doesn’t do that). He failed. The eyes were redder than Hoggy’s face, when Wibbers informed him that he was batting 9 the week before. Hangovers 1 - Putney 0. The Captain was soon joined by Hannaprod, who, fresh from almost falling off his bike cycling home the night before - this despite the bike having stabilisers a trailer, had eyes that appeared to have been pepper-sprayed. By a Trump supporting Creationist Texan Cop, who had heard Hannaprod was a Bernie man. For the entire night. Rumours abounded that this close shave with death (for the hundreds of thousands who would have been in the path of the inevitable tsunami on the other side of the globe) was caused by the imbibing of 11 pints of London Pride. The author can categorically confirm this is untrue. It was one pint of London Pride. At least that’s what the receipts show. Hangovers 2 - Putney 0. Next was Pork. Pork had not played the day before, as he was busy preparing the day’s Tea (a dedication that can only be saluted - and more on this later). As such the expectation was that at least he would be in fine fettle. Expectation is a cruel mistress. Just ask Sethi, the day after he’s been out on the pull. Once again. Or Hoggy, when he FINALLY realises that Mrs. Kidson was definitely not looking at him in that video. Pork had spent the night with his uni mates. Rugby players the lot of them. The eyes, when they obeyed Pork’s brain and opened to a degree that allowed sunlight to enter, were simply broken. Not George Best’s First Liver broken. Not even George Best’s Second Liver broken. Michael Barrymore Pool Party broken. Hangovers 3 - Putney 0. At least we couldn’t go any lower, having plumbed previously unknown depths. Wrong. When Alex arrived nobody knew what to say. The usual words, amongst others, associated with Alex include: (i) handsome; (ii) erudite; (iii) witty; (iv) good company; (v) great batsman. Even Hannaprod was once heard to say that he, on one very brief occasion, in a moment of MDMA induced euphoria, thought he was occasionally ok. The word and phrases that are not associated with Alex include: (i) “WHY THE FUCK IS JIMMY KRANKIE’S IDENTICAL TWIN BROTHER HERE, PRETENDING TO BE ALEX.” Surveying this apparition claiming to be Alex was surreal. When it was finally established that it was indeed Alex (thanks Hoggy for the field fingerprint kit), the entire Team finally realised the true essence of broken. It was this. Fred West Moral Compass broken. Hangovers 4 - Putney 0. Anyway, enough of the Team, there was a game to be played and more greatness to be established. The opposition was The Captain Scott Invitational XI, famous (in the sense of a really low-budget Channel 5 reality programme) for the excellent book, Penguins Stopped Play (on the advised Putney Sundays’ Team reading list with Rain Men, Zimmer Men and Fatty Batter). If you haven’t read it, do. Captain Scott Invitational XI won the toss and batted first in a reduced 32 overs per-side game. Some quiet mumbles of discontent that we weren’t getting our full 40 over compliment. Thankfully Brooksey was back in charge, there would have undoubtedly been mutiny if it had been Wibbers ……… They were woeful. As those who have read the book had anticipated. A late order 27* from their number 8 ensured that Putney Sundays restricted them to 108 all out, which included 26 extras. Of which 25 came from Seb’s one over. Highlights included Mark’s figures of 5-2-11-0, Nitin’s figures of 5-3-6-1, Hoggy’s 5-1-15-1 (which included an array of mystery balls - the real mystery being how they weren’t smashed to the boundary) and Brooksey’s 6-0-25-3. Brooksey seems a much better bowler now it has been explained to him that it’s your average runs per wicket that is important, not the amount of maidens bowled. The entire team were delighted that this performance saw him move up to Sunday’s tenth best bowler in the averages. Tea. There are moments in life where you feel you just don’t deserve what is happening to you. Those vanishingly rare moments where you become the jammiest git alive Nb. - this is not the same ‘thing’ as securing your place in the team as opening bat and wicketkeeper by being the Captain’s best mate; that is a form of preferential treatment akin to, but distinct from, nepotism. I have scoured the dictionary and thesaurus for a word that describes this ‘thing’. I can’t find one. If one doesn’t exist, I’m of the view I have the right to invent it. Right? Hannaprodism © We sat down and were treated to home-roasted chicken with homemade stuffing and grilled onion sandwiches, rare home-roasted beef with homemade horseradish sandwiches, homemade herby sausage rolls, homemade scones with clotted cream and jam, homemade doughnuts and roasted red pepper and feta sandwiches. There were apparently egg-sandwiches too, but having re-read the above paragraph, who really gives a fuck about egg sarnies? Pork, the entire Team salutes you. Tea of the season, and indeed, champagne moment of the day. On a separate note I now firmly believe in Karma. Those of us who remember and had to go through the absolute shit-show that was Tea last Sunday, have now eaten the Yang to that SHIT-SHOW. 109 to win. Some quiet prayers mumbled that we were only playing 32 overs, as the majority of the Team could by now not move due to the sheer volume of delicious goodness that had been repeatedly thrust down throats (you dirty fuck Sethi, for your mind going there). We were woeful. As those who ate that feast of a Tea had anticipated. At 30-6 things looked over, as Hannaprod walked in to open at number 8, in what I think he thought was a Timeless Test. Thankfully Brooksey with a match-winning 31, and Nitin and Hoggy both with 18* respectively saw us over the line; 110-8 with 4 balls left in the game. Highlights included Faf’s Golden Duck (he knew he should have left it), the scorer writing “shorter” above Pork’s (5’4”) name in the scorebook so that she could distinguish him from his batting partners Seb (6’2”) and Brooksey (6’1”) and, of course for the limited overs’ fans, Hannaprod’s 9 off 35 balls. 35. Like I said. Woeful. Back to the clubhouse, and that warm feeling of knowing that contrary to all the evidence, and all principles of common sense, Sundays were undoubtedly greater than ever. |
Date | Time | Team | Opposition | Location | Putney | Opposition | Result | Scores | Points | Toss |
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17/09/2017 | 1pm | Sunday 1st | Captain Scott Invitational XI | H | 109/8 | 108/10 | W | 0 |