I’m in Hamilton, Waikato for the weekend for tomorrow’s first One Day International between New Zealand and England. From here on in my travelling takes me wherever England play and as a result, like my adventures in India, there’ll be a lot more cricket related stuff appearing on the blog.

So to appease readers who aren’t so taken with my favourite sport, here’s a nice early morning picture from the Bay of Islands yesterday:

For everyone else and for those cricket newbies who’ve diligently carried on reading, here’s a deliberate plug for my cricket club back home in Bedfordshire.
Hamilton is home to a mighty New Zealander who now resides in my neck of the woods. Kiwi Geoff, or Jif, as he is sometimes known, has been instrumental in helping take Elstow CC forward. As a result mainly of Geoff’s enthusiasm and fundraising efforts we now have facilities and a junior cricket set up to be proud of. Keen to carry on the good work, this summer we play host to Australia and New Zealand as international cricket comes to Bedfordshire.

Promising ‘Bigger Bashes Than The Ashes’, at Elstow Cricket Club we are looking to serve up a feast of international cricket on Friday 28th and Saturday 29th June. The tournament will be held at our club’s home, The Warren, Elstow, deep in the English game’s forgotten heartland, Bedfordshire, and will comprise a three-team T20 competition between sides from England, Australia and New Zealand.

Staged to coincide with the Antipodean nations’ visits to England in Summer 2013, the Elstow Tri-Nations Series offers an antidote for the discerning cricket fan looking for an alternative to over-priced venues and free from the soap operas and sideshows that are synonymous with the modern game. Elstow Cricket Club is keeping international cricket real.

Dubbed The 3M’s Trophy, in honour of Messrs Martin, McGrath and Mullally, we recognise something of ourselves in those three signature number eleven batsmen. There’s the quest to improve, to entertain, to give your best when everything’s stacked against you and sometimes even triumph.

Elstow Cricket Club is looking to do exactly this as we welcome the world to The Warren. We have set ourselves the target of accumulating the same amount in pounds raised over the weekend as these upstanding have-a-go merchants achieved in Test runs.

Times five… Plus a bit more.

The funds we raise for the club will enable us to grow membership, especially of the junior ranks, and develop the club’s facilities. We held a similar event to tie in with the last Australian tour in 2009 – The Elstow Ashes – and next year’s project is the long awaited follow on to this. The teams will get the honour of representing their country, under floodlights and roared on by a vociferous local crowd. Local bands, brews and barbeques will also help make the weekend.

Get your fun off the A421 and get down to Bedfordshire for a smorgasbord of international cricket this summer.

If you’re an Australian or Kiwi reading this and want to achieve one of your life’s ambition by turning out for your team, if you’re a potential sport loving sponsor and can donate a few readies or are a local keen to volunteer or turn up and and support over the weekend, please get in touch with the club at elstowcricketclub@hotmail.com or via this website.

Please try and support us if you can. Thank you for reading.

For the non-cricketers among you who’ve kept reading and, indeed, everyone else, here’s a picture of Uncle Ken’s cannons (Hello Geoff!).

Booooommm!!!! As Kevin Pietersen might say.

Have a great weekend.

The problem with spending so much time on your own and with an over-active imagination is that your brain processes all sorts of shit for too long a period of time. As I was hiking the hinterlands of Fun-Gary (Hello to my mate the mechanic!) earlier today taking in all the scenic splendour of New Zealand’s Northland I got thinking along the lines of what if….

Well, what if I meet this stunning Kiwi lass while I’m out here, fall head over heels in love, we end up marrying and decide to move to Blighty. How the hell would I tear her away from all this?

Fun-Gary probably doesn’t get into the top twenty of NZ attractions, because like the Greatest British Song Ever Written there’s far too many contenders vying for a place among the elite. Heading out from the Town Basin, along the Hatea River through the gently picturesque Mair Park and the rainforest of Kauri Park up to the dramatic Fun-Gary Falls before heading back down to the historic harbour via the Abbey Caves, the views are effortlessly stunning pretty much everywhere you look.

As much as I’m proud dear old Bedfordshire, the miles of ever-changing powerful panoramas of this part of the world knock my beloved home county into a cocked hat. Then I got thinking, you know what?, home’s home. Bedfordshire may not have the stand-out sensational selling points of this particular underrated part Northland in this wonderful country, but delve a little deeper and Bedfordshire is a real treasure trove, a celebration of life. So without further ado, here are, in no particular order, The Seven Wonders of Bedfordshire (according to Dances With Chazzwazzers, anyway….):

1. The Forest of Marston Vale. Running south from the county town of Bedford towards the M1 motorway, this regenerated woodland area, through many years hard work, has triumphantly morphed from a brick making backwater to an outstanding area of natural beauty. Surf Brogborough Lake, take a trip on the Vale’s train (The Fenny Flyer) or walk or bike among segments of the 61 square miles of countryside to get for a tangible understanding of the thinking man’s dales.

2. The Devonshire Arms, Bedford. So hang on, there’s no TV blaring out some inconsequential rubbish, no pool table, dart board or fruities? No over-bearing moronic Muzak? No food? So no drizzles of this? No reductions of that? Nothing involving a pretentious use of an everyday kitchen item for the benefit of a small quantity of grub and a large portion of chef’s ego? Nope.
Just good ale and lots of it. And genial hospitality (Hello Martin & Naomi!). And conversation. An oasis in the desert of mediocrity that passes for Bedford’s pub scene.

3. Woody’s Tree. This venerable Baum proudly acts as the unofficial gateway to the picture-postcard villages of Ickwell, Northill and Old Warden as well as one of the county’s main tourist attractions, The Shuttleworth Collection. Get past Woody’s Tree and you’ve safely made it away from the suffocating new towns, the insufferable retail parks and into an idyllic world of village greens and South Eastern Bedfordshire woodland. This iconic tree was so-named after one of my chums (Hello Wood-man!) once acclaimed, unannounced, on the way back from football, “Wow, that’s a great tree. I’m naming it after me”, and so an arboreal legend was born.

4. Hulcote. I have been lucky enough to live here for thirty-odd years and as hamlets go its probably the best in the world. No pubs, shops, or Drive Thrus. No matter. Steeped in history, Elizabeth I is said to have favoured one of the local properties as a summer retreat, while during the last war Winston Churchill stayed in another of the houses when overseeing operations at nearby Bletchley Park. in addition to this, the church, St. Nicholas, is one of few that escaped Henry VIII’s little strop around about the reformation. In addition to local lore, there’s plenty more countryside to lose yourself in and pleasant farmland. The garden cricket is pretty good too.

5. The Burger Van Outside The Kenilworth Road End, Luton. “Naaaaaaaxxxxtt Puh-leeeeeaaaasssse!” An ear-splitting, banshee-like announcement beckons you forward. Come rain, shine, snow, fog, light drizzle and through thin and thinner these girls are there, furnishing thousands of Hatters fans with their pre-match tucker. Work makes you fry. And they don’t half work hard those girls in the van. Demonstrating the principles that made our country great; industry, humour, pride, enterprise and over-reliance on greasy foodstuffs, no one walks away from this eatery underfed or disappointed. That comes ninety minutes later.

6. Battlesden Hill. (Hello Hill Farm folk! X) Simply stunning, sweeping views of Bedfordshire. Time always seems to stand still when I’m here. Overlooking the South West of the county, it is a sight that takes in busy green hills full of sheep and cattle, far away rustic villages and of a time when things were surely simpler. Evocative scenes that bring all those emotions of love of county and country that we English, frankly, are for the most part dissuaded from experiencing.

7.

Enough said….

Postscript. Oh yeah, that stunning Kiwi lass from my imagination earlier? Sadly she is just (as with a lot of other things in my head), how would Captain Mainwaring term it; in the realms of fantasy.

This Saturday sees the start of the RBS Six Nations for 2013. Despite starting my adventures in the land of the white cloud part of my mind will be firmly on matters further North every weekend for the next seven weeks.

The Six Nations seven weeks is one of my favourite times of year. The nights begin to draw out, it warms up a little and when it doesn’t the warmth from the pub or your house does the trick as you contemplate the Arctic conditions on the pitch while the guys go all out for 80 minutes for Northern Hemisphere rugby bragging rights.
Nothing gets me out of my seat like watching an England game; shouting at the television for the big lads to stop doing stupid things at the ruck, for Ashton to stop pouncing about, pleading with the Southern Hemisphere officials to give us the benefit of the doubt sometimes.
Please?
The pounding of the table at the missed tackles, the very reluctant praise of anything good the French do, the quick to console with any of the Celtic brothers (despite the fact that some patronising English bloke in their face is the last thing they need at that time); yes, the Six Nations is a very special time on Planet Sport.

Then, from somewhere in the Twittersphere this beautiful, beautiful creation turns up.

Finally, a televisual rugby drinking game to rival Stella With Stelling.

So just when I can’t work myself up anymore about how much I’m going to miss it this year, there’ll be thoughts of my lads (Hello fellas!) whacking fingers of drinks down their necks in a distant pub somewhere every time Brian Moore needlessly gets, let’s say, “deossification” into a damning soliloquy of how poorly the scrums are being reffed. He knows about this new game…. Trust me, he will do this.

Well, enjoy I say. Here’s to an England win, though I fear France will nick it this year. Have several for me and have a cracking Six Nations.

Picture and concept courtesy of @WelshDalaiLama . Great work sir, thank you. If you’re on Twitter, go and have a look.

Here, have a killing
In fact, giant teams here, have two
The FA Cup means a lot to me
But it means probably nothing to you

“Be strong, serve Town only,
know that if you do, beautiful heaven awaits”
That’s the poem I wrote for the first time
I saw a man with ten clubs to his name at the Kenny gates

Mr Rendell, that’s his name
No one ever knew his name cause he’s a journey man
Never thought twice about him,
Until he took his moment of fame with both hands

Now that I know him, those You Tube replays
I’d love to be in his goal scoring shoes
Getting there at the near post
And leaving the Norwich fans confused

Go ahead, Mr Rendell
Go ahead, Mr Rendell

Mr Rendell has freedom
A freedom of the Canaries penalty box
Free to be without the worries of a man marker
For Mr Rendell’s a fox

His only worries are injury
And an occasional harassment by away fans
Bench warmer they call him, but I just saw him
Send Town fans crazy in the stands

Dons, are they really civilized, yes or no?
Who are we to judge?
When thousands of Bedfordshire men could be entranced
By the prospect of a fifth round grudge

Mr Rendell has given us this greatest of days
A wondrous day of which we talk
Has our Cup dream gone too far?
To a wonderland with him we’ll walk

Mr Rendell a giant killing hero
But not to all
I see you score in joyous, bursting pride
Realize that all in all you stand tall

Go ahead, Mr Rendell
Mr Rendell, yeah
Mr Rendell, yeah
Mr Rendell, go ahead

Mr Rendell
Lord, Mr Rendell

With profound acknowledgements and respect to Arrested Development and, indeed, Scott Rendell.

They’ll be dancing in the streets of Bedfordshire tonight….

2012? Pah! If 2013 carries on in this rich vein of form we’re going to have a cracking year. First Phil The Power Taylor bags his sixteenth world title, then the Mighty Hatters stun the world of football and now my beloved Elstow Cricket Club (www.elstowcc.co.uk) are up and running in what will be a very important year for the club. Kudos to Matt, Dave and Tom for some great performances and to Dan for some great writing. It’s right here folks.

Round Five of the Bedfordshire County Indoor Cricket League featured Elstow A’s encounter with top of the table Dunstable A. After the previous early start pre-Christmas, a more welcoming start time of 12 noon awaited us (albeit this time does play havoc with the Sunday roast). Tom Wisson won the toss and elected to bowl, opening up with Phil Johnson and Stu Robson against an experienced Dunstable opening pair.
The scored ticked over for the league leaders, however in between the threes and obligatory wides, some good dot balls were had. However, both opening batsmen retired in quick succession after reaching 40. Dunstable had reached the half way stage on an imposing 96 runs for loss of no wickets.
Two newcomers created the change in bowling of Dave Riddle and Wisson (Tom – for those in doubt!). The number four lasted a solitary ball, the yorker from Tom proving too good for him. However, runs were kept to a minimum (in indoor terms) despite the best efforts of R. Blake who clearly had a licence to play expansive shots, with two Dunstable batsmen in the hutch, ready to return. In between dogged back wall fielding some lusty 4s and 6s were had, before a smart stumping by Matt Stevens off the bowling of Jonty saw Blake depart for 16.
Batsmen 5 and 6 for Dunstable tried to quicken the pace in the remaining three overs but good bowling from Robson and Tom Wisson kept runs to a minimum and prevented the retired batsmen of Horton and Boocock from returning to the crease.
Dunstable finished their allotted 12 overs with 171 for 3.

Elstow’s reply started with the ever dependable Tom Wisson and Riddle. Tom played some expansive and exquisite off and on drives before retiring on 40. Only one minor scare was had whereby Tom managed to run two singles, to Riddle’s none but a wayward throw allowed Tom to scramble home. Dave soon retired as well once Stevens was well set. Dan Wisson joined the fray and the scored kept ticking before Dan was caught excellently on the back wall by A. Lewis.
Robson (aka the self titled finisher) was adjudged LBW for nought. However Stu was pleased that he had at least managed to use his new pads. Proclaiming he ‘didn’t feel a thing’ as the ball thudded rapidly into them- which was heartening to know. Johnson came and went fairly quickly. However, Elstow were always above the run rate and managed to knock the winning runs off with an over to spare for the loss of only 2 wickets.
Thank you once again for Ali for scoring and the support of a good dozen Elstow supporters.

MoM: A tricky one this week as Riddle, Tom and Stevens all retired on 40.
The four bowlers of Stu and the aforementioned three were steady and all
went for roughly the same amount of runs. Despite Riddle again being the
most economical bowler, this weeks MoM goes to the skipper for setting
the platform and intensity at the top of the innings – Tom Wisson.

DoD: Again a tricky one – a professional performance, leaves little
calamity to pick through. A misfield from Dan Wiss costing three and
Riddle’s non running nearly costing a run out were the only real two
candidates.
But wait – two late entries of Stu and Jonty. Stu narrowly misses out on
this award (as he at least used his new equipment) whilst Jonty didn’t
use any of his. DoD goes to Jonty.

Thank you to everyone for the texts, tweets and emails. Being a Luton Town fan, for the most part, is no fun. Then every so often, when you least expect it, something absolutely, indescribably wonderful happens.

It’s mid-morning in the hostel, residents rummage around for something approaching backpacker breakfast. The sun’s beating down outside. The fog is clearing. It clears quicker with the news.

Luton Town 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 0

Unbelievable Jeff!

The de la France 24/7 Boulangerie. As French as a hastily prepared ferry blockade yet staffed almost entirely by Chinese people, where George Street crosses Goulburn Street, Sydney. An unusual grip of homesickness has engulfed me, tinged with a certain sadness. One of my heroes, Sid Waddell passed away last year.

When you speak of the all time greats of sports commentary, very few could match Sid. Unparalleled for his peerless powers as a wordsmith, his unflagging passion for his pet sport and his ability to inform and entertain, the genial Geordie had it all. His passing last summer was a sad day for darts.

As I scrabble and scroll back and forth between Twitter, BBC Sport, emails, phone, books, there’s absolutely no doubt tonight’s PDC World Darts finalists are serving up an absolute treat.
Dear old Sid would’ve loved it. Michael van Gerwen, from the one of the now traditional outposts of darts, Holland has been in outstanding form throughout the competition. The future of the sport and a man for whom Sid would’ve been rolling out the well-worked one liners flies into an early lead, first two-nil then four-two. Phil Taylor, a Titan of the tungsten and the subject of some of the greatest Waddell-based commentary begins a fight back so typical of the great man.

I can’t see it nor hear it. There’s thrice as many people that will be lapping this up at Alexandra Palace that have walked past me, completely oblivious to another great day for this great sport happening on the other side of the world. Stony faced commuters at the end of their holidays, bronzed or burnt or both backpackers somewhere in between theirs. Efficient waitresses flit round with Lattes and Long Blacks. As the morning’s gone on, the swelling traffic has drowned out the Edith Piaf. Chase The Sun? Chase the bus more like.

Through my iPad I’m back home. Feet up in front of the fire, slippers on with a Glenmorangie (Hello Wiss!) in hand, looking towards the heavens as Taylor piles on the genius. Tweets and refreshed updates replace the looks of admiring disbelief from Dad and the brilliant Sky coverage from the Pally. Taylor hits back hard. From a perilous position of four-two down and the ‘darts is a young man’s game now’ platitudes doing the rounds, the grandad from Stoke on Trent, once again, prepares to amaze and inspire as only he can.
Four-two becomes four-three.
Four all. Brian Moore introduces me to a splendid new word on Twitter downplaying darts’ cynics and nay-sayers.
Four-five. We think we know what’s coming. Tweeting cricketers of all generations and abilities get behind the Stokie, the oft maligned Colin Murray is doing a great job in tandem with the live-blogger on the Beeb’s website.
Four-six. The young man, van Gerwen, judging by the commentaries, appears to be a broken man. Taylor’s experience and ability looks to have won him an unprecedented sixteenth world title.
Four-seven. Taylor’s trophy again. An outstanding achievement whatever your viewpoint on his sport. Van Gerwen’s time will come.

I well up at the mention of Sid’s name in the online post-final Taylor interview, a fellow tourist looks on quizzically. Lost in my memories and reminiscences I don’t bother to try and explain.
Sydney’s loss. Through Sidney I have gained.

Two or three or four beers in to Symo’s New Year’s Eve Extraganza and my thoughts turn to the last twelve months. I am still a spectacularly poor human being, but thanks to the outstanding experiences this year has foisted upon me, my life has been further enriched.

My two favourite things this year have been the onset of proud uncle-hood and my country. They thought it couldn’t be done, they poured scorn upon its credentials but we did it.
We smashed it. The Olympic and Paralympic Games of London 2012.

I am always immensely proud of being English and British but not everyone is. I hope the events of our summer will change this perception. We showed that nobody does it better. What follows is a personal account of my two favourite things of 2012, one with reason to fondly remember, the other to hope for the best for our future.

Earnestly, 2012. Thank you.

2013? No pressure….

Dear Alfie,
Well you just about got to the party, and like the best Wissons at the best parties, you won’t remember a thing about it. You were born a month shy of the greatest event to hit these shores for over seventy, maybe 150, years. Like your mother you were born in an Olympic year. Like your father, your birth year will always be synonymous with British sporting excellence. For him, the party he never got to was Botham’s Ashes. Then it was all about one man. Now it’s all about one team. Team GB. And one city. London.
You’ll learn us Brits are a funny ol’ lot. There was more resigned trepidation than fevered expectation leading up to the start of London 2012. Thankfully, the events of the next six weeks saw ‘daring to dream’ replacing ‘doing ourselves down’ as the nation’s default disposition. Danny Boyle’s wonderful Opening Ceremony helped set this mood. I slept through this, however in readiness for my first Games Maker shift at Lord’s Cricket Ground for the Archery event the next day.
I am proud to write that I was part of London 2012. And I’ve got the t-shirt to prove it. And the trousers, trainers, jacket, cap, socks, brolly, flask, watch, even the man-bag. All dutifully put by for you to appreciate- or profit from- when you’re older. And if you like purple, red and beige, you’ll definitely appreciate it.
Ah, appreciation. It gladdens the soul, emboldens the heart. At the end of my last shift, as I funnelled my way behind my team of fellow Games Makers for a congratulatory demobbing and closing ceremony of our own I noticed we were being applauded by some of the spectators. Emboldened and gladdened, I sought out one of their number. A charming English rose, Laura, who looked every inch the Royal Box dweller in summer dress and Ascot hat. ‘I just think you’re all so brilliant’ she gushed. ‘This is amazing.’
In between the nervy beginnings and that triumphant finish was four days of utter bliss. My role at the Olympics was in the Printed Results Distribution team. I had to get the results of the matches out to the people who needed to know. In effect it was a minor role in the grand scheme of things. But in my mind I was at the centre of the action as I walked, mooched and slalomed my way among and around the thousands of fans within the magisterial surrounds of the Home of Cricket. I was helping deliver this epic footnote to Great Britain’s recent history along with those important documents clasped tightly in my excited hands.
Walking smartly along the corridors of power(in this instance the home of Judges and Technical Officials) in the Grand Stand or climbing to the best seat in the house, the top of the Pavilion roof to the media’s base, to the athletes’ area at the back of the Nursery Ground, I roamed Lord’s like it was a personal fiefdom. That I spent one of my lunch breaks giving an interview on the hallowed turf to the host broadcaster television crew reinforced this view. But the fact of the matter is everyone looked as I did. That ten foot high tall walk, those wide smiles, the tangible feeling you were part of something very special indeed.
Those treasured tinnies and words of congratulation in the Coronation Garden was the end of my London 2012 experience, so I thought. My line manager had other ideas.
So thanks then to Omar Ahmed, a prince among men, I find myself zipping along the banks of the Thames in the DLR against the cool August dawn. Past the rejuvenated East End, through those Tube Stations referencing the past of this proud city; East India Dock, Prince Regent, George V then the steadfast industries, present for hundreds of years, will remain here to see Empire evolve into legacy. It’s my first Paralympic Games shift at The Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich and I’ve no idea what to expect from my next involvement in London 2012.
Pulling, changing faces, rotating the boss; so many new phrases, so little time. Unlike my outsider’s role at Lords I’m away from the public and in among the athletes. I’m stationed on the Practice Range, attending to stray arrows and even more stray media types. Being among the Paralympians is a fascinating experience. According to my colleagues in the FOP team (It stands for Field of Play. There was I thinking I was going to be lounging around all day in a big shirt reciting Keats.) the atmosphere is more chilled out than it was at Lord’s and so this proves to be the case as Games Maker and Paralympian happily coexist.
I get to be on nodding terms with these wonderful athletes and I chart their progress from afar as the competition hots up. One of the archers is taken to the hearts of the London crowd in particular. Matt Stutzman, an armless archer from the USA, captivates audiences with his unique style and charming personality and finishes with a silver medal in the Compound Open Final. The strains of Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ reverberate evocatively around the arena at the end of the medals ceremony and with a lump in my throat I know my time at London 2012 is coming to an end.
The memories will live on however. What a summer it was dear nephew. Never mind all that rainfall from May to July you’ll doubtless be told about, 2012 was a golden summer; Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy, Mo Farah, Jessica Ennis, Laura Trott, Sarah Storey, David Weir, Joe Strummer, Ben Ainslie, Ellie Simmonds, Victoria Pendleton, Sebastian Coe, Greg Rutherford are but a few who are proof of that.
Here’s to your future. Here’s to our future.

Much love,

Uncle H x

Dear friends,

It’s usually about this time of the day, probably earlier, that I’m thumbing out my annual Festive Text. As I’m looking to keep my spending down to a minimum (I am, just don’t mention the Dim Sum selection I bought for tomorrow’s Boxing Day Test Match picnic) and because I’m not over keen on giving my English mobile phone provider a great bulk of my Travelling Expenditure War Chest, for one year only, it’s Season’s Greetings via the medium of blog post.

Which means today’s offering is a bit on the tame side again. Sorry about that.

However, China is en route via a three day train journey from Perth, with his hands gaffer-taped round a wine bottle and sharing his cabin with an over-amorous pensioner (male) so there could be one or two stories to relay there.

Plus there’s Boxing Day at The G tomorrow.

And it’s nearly Friday, and I think I’ve found the stereotypical Aussie pie to tell you all about. Looking forward to getting stuck in and reporting back to all you lovely people.

There’s a Games Maker’s view of the Olympics to come too.

Before all that, it is Christmas Day. Thank you all for your wonderful generosity and valued friendship over the last year.

Have an absolutely marvellous Christmas one and all.

That’s usually the gist of my text message. Now then; enjoy.

Huzzah!!!

Isaiah 9:6 For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

(Hello Auntie Daphne x)

H

Last Ball Drama Downs Five Man Elstow

Tom Wisson’s Elstow arrived at the Bunyan Centre for a prompt and early start at 9am, against the Biggleswade Town. Frantic calls to ‘Hoggy’ were made. (Personally there is only one real Hoggy and as our Secretary is the 14th member of his fan club I am sure he will agree. There is only one Hoggy). The calls were too no avail, it was down to the Elstow V to win this game.
With the toss lost, Elstow opened with El Capitain and Dave Riddle, with Rob Tebbutt being the square leg umpire…. where was that unshaven man? The vital cog in the Elstow machine, without him, I am not sure where we would be, but certainly we would not be in a better state. This was his moment, he could have played and made us VI. (Seriously mate, thanks for all the unwarranted acclaim and everything, but you would have got on a lot better without me regardless… Ed.) But no, he is out there in some corner of a foreign cricket field, living the dream, whilst envious men read on through http://www.danceswithchazzwazzers.com

The excellent opening partnership was only separated when faithful scorer and Club President Ali Milne called ‘retire please’. Elstow were 90 plus for nought with Phil ‘Jonty’ Johnson striding to the wicket. The scoreboard kept ticking and soon Tommy Wiss retired on 41 not out. Jonty made a dashing 8 before departing. Dan Wisson joined the fray, after a few balls being met by leaden feet, Dan Wiss was soon driving 4s and lofting 6s… Elstow managed 166 for 2 off the alotted 12 overs, with Dan Wiss 21no and the faultless Ridds 40no and Tom Wiss 41no.

Elstow opened up with Tebbs and Jonty. Both bowled good lines, but the missing fielder made 3s easy to achieve for the Waders, the opening pair soon started to erode into the target. The Waders were on target with only the loss of one wicket (thanks to Tebbs). However, now both Tebbs and Jonty had bowled out. It was down to Elstow’s premier spin bowler* and Tommy Wiss to stem the tide.
Jimmy Hart could only score runs off the occassional wides but the straight ones were bamboozling and he was put out of his misery when Riddle straightened one and bowled Jimmy through the gate. Kevin Wright came and went courteousy of Riddle, though not before a lofted six, but the second attempt saw Jonty take a neat catch on the back wall. Another Biggleswade bunny was had, bowled off his pads through the gate and Riddle had three for not many, the game had turned (figuratively speaking only).

Kelvin kept the scoreboard ticking, and soon it was squeaky bum time. Have no fear we had Tommy Wiss. A caught and bowled meant it was “Kelvin v Wisson” to see who won this game.

Wisson was on top. A tidy over and it was soon 6 required from the last ball. A play and a miss, and Kelvin disconsolately walked off, Elstow V were over the line….
But wait….
The umpire stretched his arms and to Elstow’s disbelief a wide was called. Kelvin returned to the wicket. Waders had 4 runs and an additional ball. The tables had turned.

It was now 3 from 1 ball required. A decent ball was squeezed out to the side wall and the Waders ran a single to win by one run.

Heartbreaking stuff.
However, the Elstow V should take great heart, a great show.

MOM: A cat in the field, an effortless knock and a spell of guile and flight. David Riddle
DOD: Only one person and I shall not disgrace Matthew James Hoggard by referencing him by his nickname here.

* When Jacko, JT, Danny Course, (for those who remember his bowling) Matty Stevens and Harps are not available.

Report courtesy of Dan Wisson, aka The Bury Avenue Bugle. Thanks fella, for stepping up to the plate and filing such a comprehensive and enjoyable account of Sunday’s match.
For anyone new to cricket, Bedfordshire, or indeed The Mighty Elstow, please see our website for details; http://www.elstowcc.co.uk
Like us, retweet us, tell your friends about us. We are a small village club with big goals run by dedicated, welcoming people passionate about our great game and our growing community.
Get involved, you’ll be pleased you did.