It's just not cricket, old boy
D id Pibworth
When I was young I went on holiday with my family and some family friends to Ireland. It was Easter but we still went swimming in the sea, nearly got ship wrecked in a boat and I went to my first X-rated film which was "Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed". I was only nine but they, the Irish, didn't seem to worry about us going in to see it. The other family we were with were called Fellows-Smith and the father was John (nick name Po  Po ), who had played cricket for South Africa. He took me out in the mornings and bowled at me and generally gave me some fierce coaching. As I would lift my bat in anticipation of the ball, he would stop before letting go and shout "I haven't let go of the ball yet, so how can you possibly know what to do with the bat!"
He taught me the forward defensive stroke, which I took on board and got quite good at.
I waltzed back to school and was immediately picked for the 1 st Eleven where I was a half­ decent - if occasionally sloggy - batsman and also played wicket keeper. And, by golly, I could pull off the forward defensive stroke when called upon.
My biggest problem with cricket, and indeed all sport, was that I genuinely couldn't care less if my team won or not. Don't get me wrong, I tried my hardest while out on the pitch but I was never worried about winning; I just enjoyed playing.
Of course I never trained or anything like that and so, as the years went by, I never gave it much more thought and ended up playing for Clifton Reynes and very occasionally still do. Sometimes, in village cricket, you will get someone who tries to give a team motivational talk, but it's generally accepted that it's a bit of a social really and most of the players are young and will move onwards and upwards if they're any good, or old and have moved downwards to end up there with knackered
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knees, hip replacements and a love of beer. When the umpire shouts encouragement to his own team with a fag and a pint on the go, you immediately gauge the spirit of the game. And it suits me fine. CliftonReynesdon'thavetheLBWruleeither, partly due to it being an easier job for the umpire and partly due to the state of the pitch. I think it's a good rule myself, as many a feeble bowl has been turned into a fizzingly brilliant googly by the sheer luck of a well-placed sheep turd.
One day, many moons ago, whilst having a swift half before attending Ronnie Scott's, a pal and I invited a team from The Coach and Horse pub in Soho to play us. The Coach had two teams. The drunk actors team and a good team.
A mix up of some description must have happened and on the appointed day of the match in Clifton Reynes a large coach pulled up outside The Robin Hood Pub, and out got a group of extremely fit and extremely well turned out men. The leader, who I could have sworn was Viv Richards, who played for the West Indies, strode over to me and asked where the cricket pitch and pavilion were. I said he'd just gone past the pitch, and he thought not. They had passed a field with some sheep init.Itookhimbythearmandledhimtothe pitch and he sat down in the field, surrounded by sheep and cried with laughter. After a while I asked him why he thought it so funny. He explained that it was just that they were playing 'The Spectator Magazine' at the Oval the next week.
We chatted about our sporting experience withintheteamandItoldhimoneofourplayers was from Northampton which cheered him up. Ah no, I hastily explained, he doesn't play for them, he just comes from Northampton, but he did used to play for Denton some years back. Anyway, he explained the situation to his team who were very decent about the whole thing,
and they decided to play us anyway. They all batted left handed and still beat us with a tidy margin.
But the point is that Viv bowled at me. Probably not his fastest, but still a decent ball, and I pulled out a forward defensive shot that Po  Po  Fellows Smith would have been proud of. My spirit lifted and I looked around proudly to see where I could place my next shot. Ah, the old magic still holds I thought. For once in my life I thought, we can win this. I can show these boys a thing or two. I didn't see the next ball. I don't think it touched the grass and the middle wicket shot over the keepers head by about 30 yards and I traipsed back to the gazebo, which doubled as our pavilion and tea roo m .
At tea I told Viv that I thought that ball a bit harsh as they said they would be gentle with us. He said "Well yes, but honestly, and no offence meant, I can't allow someone like you to do a shot like that. I'll be dropped from the team".
Anyway, it was a great day. Their team got into the spirit of it all and broke bread and drink with us in a fairly serious manner. As I helped Viv back into the coach at about midnight, he said: "I like this village cricket, we must do it again sometime". We all hugged, swore undying love for each other and that's the last we ever saw of them.
And that's exactly how it should be as a rematch could only ever be an anti-climax. It just wouldn't be cricket old boy. . . . . .
David Pibworth is directing 'Blackadder' at the Chrysalis Theatre in September 2104: BoxOffice-www.mktoc.co.uk
At Christmas he is directing and appearing in 'Cinderella' in The Isle of Wight.
David is available for his popular talk on 'The History of British Situation Comedy' with an insight into the actors and writers of Britain's favourite sit co s. 01 234 241 357.
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Phonebox Magazine 51