Slur on social cricket
FIE! What is this? Is a mockery being made of social cricket? And in the House of Commons, no less?
A missive is passed on to me concerning a perfectly disgraceful incident in the British parliament the other day.
Two Tory backbenchers were on the Order Paper to speak in support of the Queen's Speech, which sets out the government's legislative programme. One of them was a certain Dr Phillip Lee, who used to play for a social cricket side known as the Old Grumblers.
Jeremy Corbyn, Leader of the Opposition, was to reply. But Corbyn did a bit of sneak research. He wrote to the current captain of the Old Grumblers, asking for information about Dr Lee's cricket career. The reply he read out to the House.
It seems Dr Lee's average, as a top order batsman, was 11.2 runs. The only wicket he ever took was a French farmer's wife, on a tour of Brittany. He is in arrears with his subs.
"As a doctor, Lee advised on numerous sporting injuries to club players. The misdiagnosis of many led to a string of unnecessary early retirements and an acute player availability crisis, from which the team has only recently recovered.
"As captain of the Old Grumblers Cricket Club, I rarely had to handle as obstinate and disruptive a character as the Doctor, who stubbornly refused to stand in any conventional field placement and very openly demonstrated a disdain for team sport, command structures. Presumably this led him to the logical career choice of Tory backbencher."
All this Corbyn read out in the House. It's there in Hansard. Future generations will pore in puzzlement over this inexplicable slur on social cricket.
In social cricket a batting average of 11.2 is perfectly acceptable. So what if it was a French farmer's wife? A wicket is a wicket.
Are people going to turn round now and suggest that when I took 4 for 32 against the RAF Red Arrows with my crafty leg-spinners, the victims were not fighter pilots but an erk, two mess waiters and a fellow from RAF Stores? It's irrelevant, wickets are wickets, whether RAF personnel or French farmers' wives.
The above refers, of course, to the days of the Durban Press XI when we were skippered by an eccentric fellow known as the Compton Boy (his son now plays for England). His brother, Compton the Elder (esteemed cricket scribe on this newspaper), also featured prominently in our many triumphs.
We used to play against sides like Otto's Bluff, Richmond, the Attorney-General's office, Kloof Crickets, Maritzburg Grasshoppers and SA Breweries (these were humdingers!). We once played Harrismith, in the Free State, and I got kidnapped by the Harrismith desperadoes and took three days to get home.
All kinds of drama happened. There was the sledging. That dreadful man Doonge Gold, for Otto's Bluff, with repeated flatulence at silly mid-off.
There was the time the Compton Boy got struck in the eye by a rising ball at Otto's Bluff and had to be given stitches by the local vet – the fellows all chorusing: "Put him down! Put him down!"
Yes, all kinds of drama in social cricket. But nobody read it into Hansard in parliament – not even in the provincial council. I say Corbyn was out of order.
What happened to the Durban Press XI? Well, after a glorious span of some dozen years or so, the half-witted Compton Boy had to deliver our sponsored bag of kit to the office of the Maclaine of Lochbuie, a Scottish clan chief who regularly turned out for us, generally known as Drambuie.
The Compton Boy mistakenly left the bag of kit not at Drambuie's office but at the office of a lady who raises funds for charity. Our kit got sold on a jumble sale.
Sic transit gloria mundi …
Tailpiece
A COUPLE are on a motoring tour in Canada. They get hopelessly lost. Then they come to a town. She winds down the window and asks a fellow on the pavement" "Excuse me, where are we?"
"Saskatoon, Saskatchewan."
She turns to her husband. "Now we're really off course. They don't even speak English here."
Last word
I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.
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