The Llamas were thrust into action early on a post lbw Sunday to get to the 6 a side tournament ‘just down the road’. The convey was set, Min had loaded the players with bacon butties, and spirits, although hungover, were high. Straight out of the farm gate, things started to go wrong. Jig followed a dodgy lead and managed to get lost within 10 seconds of leaving the VF house, a feat made all the more ‘incroyable’ through the fact that he possesses two geography qualifications, and majors in maps. Anyway, after some tight corners, and fast straights, he rejoined the pack and we arrived at Berkshire’s equivalent of the Rose bowl, or the Dell for those of a football persuasion, which resembled an ancient amphitheatre, with hedges in place of an ugly, rampant crowd of thumb uppers and downers. Once unloaded, we immediately established ourselves as the most annoying, yet entertaining band of undesirables on the turf, instigating bouts of cheering and layabouting that rivalled the mob present at Jesus’s trial in its ability to procure a result that was not altogether universally acknowledged in its product. In the ‘stag do’ style, the following bi-syllabic shout outs were overheard, from as far away as the weather station on the far side of the pitch (for added effect here, shout each one out in the office as you read them, raising the tone to a high C on the first syllable, and descend again slowly from the peak on the second):
‘Llamas’ (obviously)
‘Cricket’
‘Run chase’
‘Weather’
‘Raffle’
‘Robin’ (a winner of the raffle)
‘Red kite’
‘Key fob’ (we won’t talk about this any more… shhhh..)
Amid this general rancour, some cricket was played by the Llamas A and B teams, and it is for me to relate the fortunes and misery of the A squad in the following lines.
Our first match saw Froud lose the toss and send us into bat. Fortunately, Pikes managed to cast the shackles of his hangover aside for sufficient time to hit some runs, and backed up by Jigs relatively ineffective swishing and swiping, we appeared with about 40 runs at the end of our innings, which wasn;t actually that bad, to be honest.
Percy began proceedings in the field with a really tight first over, which Jig then proceeded to undo, by bowling a couple of juicy half volleys, which were dutifully dispatched, interspersed by some bamboozling good length balls, which did one of their batsmens ends up, and confused others into offering shots as effective as the pulling power of Percy’s pink swimming trunks.
After another good percy over, and a reasonably hairy, dwarfish, but calm over from Pikes, we had limited the oppo to the early 30′s and the match was ours.
Match two was similar in style, Pikes buffed a glutton of runs, Jig helped out, then was bowled off his toes, Froud bolstered the innings with a golden, and Percy then hung around and supported Pikes to 39, a total that looked extremely appetising to the opposition…
The llamas had other ideas. Jig had found his line and length, and displayed two overs of ferocity that harked back to the legendary encounter between Jason and the Hydra, with its many heads being cut off by a succession of meaty blows, and the prize of a golden fleece being totally irrelevant in this metaphor, and the Hydra and the severed heads for that matter. Percy bowled some balls that allowed the opposition to score lots of runs, and again it was up to Pikes to close the match.
With 8 to win off 2 balls, we were in the driving seat, but Jig decided that there was no better time to look like a dick by falling over a simple fielding opportunity to gift the oppo a boundary, and take the nerves to the last ball. Fortunately, Pikes delivered, and the 2nd win was ours.
In the proverbial pole position that we now occupied in the group, one would expect the Llamas A to see out the 3rd match, against the weakest links of the league in relative comfort. But a llamas fairy tale seldom has a happy ending, and our frailties that we had worked so hard to mask became all to apparent, in what can only be described as a half hour from hell. I won’t bore you with the gory details, they are too shocking to pass your company’s e-mail filters, but lets just say 11 all out, then Froud bowled a couple of balls….
And that was it.. Vamoosh. We searched a little later for both our dignities, and a missing key fob chip, but to no avail.
One day, the Llamas will take over the world. But in the meanwhile, we remain with one foot firmly in the depths of mediocrity. Long may it continue…
James “The Merman” Heanley
Thanks to Jig’s generous all-for-one-if-you’re-not-on-my-team-you-can-fuck-off attitude, it is left to me to complete this match report and fill you in on the fortunes of the “B” team. It is important to begin by dispelling any preconceptions you may have about what this letter may indicate: it is not as if we allocated two captains and then lined up waiting to be picked and, when each captain had picked the three “best” players, stuck those two half-teams together to make one uber-team made up almost entirely of handsome Aryans (except Hugo), leaving six weedy nerdlingers to try to fumble their way through a viciously competitive tournament with nothing to protect their dignity but one youth-sized box. Oh no, that isn’t how it happened.
It might as well have done…
The band of merry fairies that made up the Llamas B smelt worse than the communal Llamas jockstrap as they took to the pitch for their first game, having had less time to warm up than a Chicago Town microwaveable pizza. As dust, lamb and three types of ale seeped through their pores, Charlie and Ben concentrated hard on not being sick and less hard on their bowling, and, before Mossy had had a chance to count the money he had picked up off the barn floor the previous evening, the 4 overs were up with the Llamas set to chase a hefty total of 47.
With Sam’s imaginative powers hit hard by the entire goats cheese log he had eaten the previous evening, he showed inspirational captaincy to send these same two drunks out to open the batting. For the first two overs this seemed like a stroke of genius as Ben and Charlie opened their shoulders and let rip, their style more agricultural than North Dakota, and brought the total to just over 25 at the half way stage. They were soon found out, however, and ended the game a dismal 9 runs short. As they left the pitch they might as well have been a pair of Medusas, their beautiful curls replaced by hissing snakes, so stoney-faced were their team mates. Because sometimes one mythological figure of speech just isn’t enough.
The next game was almost as memorable as a night with a date rapist. Llamas batted first and scraped to about 27, thanks mainly to Mossy and John nudging and nurdling with something resembling finesse but smelling a lot like scrotum. A tough total to defend and this team of miscreants were most definitely not up to it. Mossy’s spin stemmed the tide for a while but in the 3rd over the Llamas succumbed to the inevitable and lost in the sporting manner that only years of sexual inadequacy can teach.
And so all was lost as they advanced to the third game with no hope of progressing to the next round. A round of burgers from the delightful lady in the van gave the Llamas the strength they had seemingly been lacking and, like Samson with a new head of hair, they flexed their muscles and came back from the dead to win in devastating fashion. A decent batting performance was followed by some devilish bowling which saw their opponents finish all out and ten short.
The greatest success of the day came as the two teams were leaving the Brightwalton oval with their tails between their legs: a moment of extravagance had seen Jig buy enough raffle tickets to feed an army of woodlice and this profligate spending gained some reward as Percy was the lucky winner of a sparkling new pair of pasta tongs which had been crafted in the stainless steel mines of Moria.
A day of comforting comradeship and horrendous hangovers that we will no doubt repeat next year. Thanks to all who committed to such an arduous mission in so much pain, especially to FAGS Skater and Dr Rich. Thanks also to the RAC man who made sure we knew how pointless our search in the grass was, and to Froudy for his sober enthusiasm, chirpy punctuality and fantastic body.
Thanks.
Charlie “Backdoor Boy” Vaughan-Fowler
Sorry Lewis, didn’t include your totally awesome run out in our first game to win us the match… you exude style from all orifices in the field, I’m feeling kinda turned on thinking about you out in the deep…