The Bacchus Touring XI vs Chaoks Boys Invitational

MATCH REPORT – Chaoks Boys Invitational vs The Bacchus Touring XI – Tattenhall – 28 August 2022

And now tell me, and tell me true: where have you been wandering, and in what countries have you travelled? Tell us of the peoples themselves, and of their cities – who were hostile, savage and uncivilised, and who hospitable and humane? Tell us why you are made so unhappy by the return of the Argave Danaans from Troy. The gods arranged all this and sent them their misfortunes in order that future generations might have something to sing about.
The Odyssey Book VIII

WHILE I WAS buttering oats on the first evening of the Bacchus tour, Jeffers did a spot of divination in The Iliad: ‘But come, we should not stay here bragging on like little boys, or people may resent it strongly.’ If we had known what this meant, we might have done something about it.

Things looked pretty sweet the next morning. Though the touring party at this stage numbered but four – and three of them me, in my parents’ house, and the Larkens, who are trying to displace me from it – we were in good heart. Some threatening telephone calls had confirmed that Freddie Gate was driving north from the metropolis, his charabanc sunk low under the weight of cricket with further caseloads of the stuff swaying on the roof, while the junior Hudsons were leap-frogging backwards along the North Wales coast and fully expected to reach Tattenhall in time for lunch.

An ungenerous statistician would have observed that even these promised numbers were short of eleven before we’d even begun assembling the opposition, whom we had also invented. But faint hearts never won fair lady, and we hadn’t won anything since last July: it couldn’t require all that many moving parts to confect a victory at the Flacca – could it?

The Flacca is the sports club where I played some truly miserable football as an eight-year-old, and where Dominic and Hugh played a game a little like what the Bacchants do. To let us do that there, I had given a wodge of cash to the father of a boy I had played miserable football with. It is a fine ground, and it was a splendid day. The Flacca is also convenient for the village and nowadays has a well-stocked bar; by early afternoon Tattenhallians were showing an appetite for quenching drinks in the sun with a view of Bolesworth and Beeston – a view they did not want obstructed by whatever we were about. That was when the Larkens started putting up their crusader tent.

Bacchus numbers began to crumble. The Rev Doc Phil excused himself with the claim that his province had forbidden him from the sport (I think), although in fairness he had only agreed to play some months before, late at night when drink had been taken and he was dangling by his ankles over a piranha tank. Meanwhile, Hugh Edward Cormac Ignatius Rice Hudson (for it was he) had assembled a ‘home’ side under the moniker of the Chaoks Boys who were rather taller than anticipated.

I asserted our seniority by instructing him to bat first and bloody well hurry up about it, before Tattenhall CC threw our tainted money back in our faces. Trumpets sounded, flags and banners flew, horses reared, tradesmen yelled, batsmen bartered equipment, stole bats, dropped boxes in disgust, wicketkeepers wept, fielders exchanged allegiances, the Larkens’ tent fell down again. Ten Bacchants tottered onto the field and the Chaoks openers took middle.

THE NEW BALL was the last of the Bacchant-crested missiles provided by Larken, and Charlie Gee took it. Mr Gee has taken the violent interruption to the civilised progress of his life, prompted by an ill-judged comment on medium-pace bowling, in admirably good heart; for a man who had been seized that morning from the streets of Chelsea and folded into a hold all, he was chirpy and accurate for a cheap first over. The servant executive is considering reclassifying Charlie as a club asset, to be kept in the kit bag with the mismatching pads.

Then it was Catwater’s turn. He faced up to H E C Hudson, looking fairly legit at the crease, who took a wholly illegitimate swipe at his first ball and played on. Our celebrations were ungracious.

As mentioned, the Chaoks Boys belong to the Bacchus cinematic universe and we had hopes of bringing a few of their number into the side in future seasons (though not the abysmal Hugh, of course). We kept Charlie and Catwater on for a few overs more to foster an impression of high standards and limited extras – I stood as an implausibly close slip to minimise byes – which yielded another wicket for the latter when a ball was played to exactlywhere Dominic was and he couldn’t escape the catch. The crippled brother in the field otherwise resembled a component of Antony Gormley’s Another Place (and if you don’t understand this slur, read up on your British modern art).

Our credentials affirmed, it was time for some variety and excitement. I took over the bowling from Charlie’s end, and was pleased to bowl the same searching ball outside off thrice in a row – which was thrice spanked to the offside boundary. The Inevitable Jeffers endured something similar at the other end, as the batsmen threatened to get set like an over-firm jelly.

I abandoned the probing out-swingers (that’s Ye Authentick Cricketing Terminology for borderline wides) for in-swinging leg theory (read: bodyline). Anthony Audas had 24 – all boundaries – when he top-edged one high, high in the air, over our admirable new keeper Greg Montgomery. This gave me ample time to detail exactly what would happen to Mr Montgomery if he didn’t take the catch; like a sensible fellow, he caught it. I bowled the other opener, Josh, and thought how brilliant am I.

Billy McCorkell, the next batsman, is an extraordinary sort of person, and hadn’t wielded a bat for some years. He was joined by the famous Seb Neal, a Great Man of History (and teacher of the subject), to form a partnership which set like a cement-flavoured jelly. They may have been aided in this complex chemical process by my catholic approach to our bowling attack, which now incorporated Larken’s right-arm filth and something we called Novelty.

THERE ARE MANY blind avenues in the advance of science. There are, too, deeds done which, while ultimately necessary for the progress of knowledge, are never to be repeated. The novelty overs from Freddie and Le Nis were the XI’s equivalent of vivisection: we shall profit by what we learnt from them without ever desiring to witness them again.

It took more than a little while for either bowler to establish an action recognisable – let alone legal or ethical – as such. The ball bounced repeatedly on terra incognita, and the batsmen struggled to find a connexion either between bat and ball or between the game they had signed up for and whatever was going on. Eventually, this was too much even for my blunted aesthetic sensibilities, and the experiment ended bitterly, our credentials back to chicken feed. Tattenhall was not impressed.

Those who consider this an unfair portrayal weren’t there, man, and don’t know.

A SUDDEN OUTBREAK of fielding saw Jeffers throw down the stumps to dismiss Billy for 16, and we were back in the business of wickets. Larken had Neil Robinson ruthlessly caught and bowled, while the arrival of Michael Hudson at the crease led Dominic to assure us that he had ample ACL to bowl some nasty off-cutters. His wicket shattered soon after, the paterfamilias departed the field muttering something about Henry II.

Caitlin Thomas had come to the match for a quenching drink and uninterrupted views of Bolesworth and Beeston. A silly mistake: Caitlin is an excellent cricketer, and the kitbag of club assets has whites in all known sizes (except ours). She went out as the ninth Chaoks boy, and Dominic’s off-cutters suddenly looked rather less nasty. I had reckoned it would be churlish to bowl them out for less than 100; I had not allowed for a wagging tail. We brought back the cavalry, but Caitlin shrugged off Charlie and Catwater for the yeomen they are, while Sneal embarked on some serious scoring.

Inevitably, Jeffers broke the square. Impenetrable mystery proved too much for the History Man, and Sneal’s stumps parted company. Striding onto the field in his place – Hugh Edward Cormac Ignatius Rice, no other. Looking only marginally less legit for having a second bite of the cognac-soaked cherry, he eyed up the field – glowered at Jeffers – took his spotless guard – and threw a wholly illegitimate swipe at his first ball, nicking it behind to the irreproachable Greg.

The umpire gave Hugh a moment to do the decent thing, until the sheer indecency of the Bacchant appeal compelled him to walk. The Bacchus XI has achieved many things, but it took a little bit of Chaoks for a king pair in a thirty-over match. Limits of glory? Expanded. With Jeffers suspended rapturously on a hattrick, the innings closed 128-9.
SAUSAGES, POTATO SALAD, and chatter filled an unusually civilised tea interval. Such civility disguises unease. Without a conventional opposition, or an anomalous eager ringer, nobody seemed to want to prompt the Bacchus innings. It took some ill-veiled threats to stop the match being abandoned due to refreshments.

Our opening partnership was Dominic and Larken. Jesus, being broadly sympathetic to the XI’s cause, wept. Larken took his guard, looked at Anthony Audas standing at the opposite crease and thought: he’s not really all that big and scary. Anthony was in fact standing much further away, at the end of a rather serious run up, and is in fact all that big and scary. Larken survived the first over to score a solid nothing, and then ran a quick single off Dominic’s batting in the next over – which happily kept him off strike. Anthony bowled Dominic next ball.

And then… Freddie came in for his Big Score. Based on the figures coming out of the Bacchus super-computer, the boffins at Caramel House suggest the Big Score could be largest imaginary number known to Maths. He was bowled by Caitlin for five. Larken holed out, caught by Anthony, and Catwater thought it would be a jolly thing to do the same. Sympathetic observers would say these were extraordinary catches and the batsmen unlucky (and indeed it was mooted that Anthony had covered the ball and his hands in Velcro). I was not sympathetic. We were 26-4, after seven overs.

I don’t really know whom I expected to rescue the score from that point, but I was nevertheless visibly disappointed that they did not. Suffice that, in the next seven overs it took to bowl us out, nobody found better connexion between bat and ball than Issy found between shoe and biscuit tin lid when performing the Egg Trick for a large crowd at one the next morning. No further questions.

The batting was ugly; my behaviour was worse. When, on being asked to swap in as a substitute fielder, Freddie demurred, I lost the frayed wisp of cloth I call my rag and expressed sentiments to the effect that I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. When Le Nis was bowled to finish the match, I was halfway home before somebody reminded me to shake hands with the opposition. It took some hours, and a lot of singing at the piano, to cheer up.

AND THAT, BEST beloved, is how the Bacchants went a whole season without a win.

SCORECARD

Chaoks Boys Invitational
J Thomas b P Hudson 20
H E C Hudson b Riley 0
P Shergill c D Hudson b Riley 4
A Audas c Montgomery b P Hudson 24
W McCorkell run out Jefferies 16
S Neal b Jefferies 29
N Robinson c & b Larken 0
M H Hudson b D Hudson 0
C Thomas not out 6
H E C Hudson c Montgomery b Jefferies 0

Extras b21 w12 nb8 41
Total (30 overs) 128

Bacchus Touring Party
E S T Larken c Audas b Robinson 0
D A Hudson b Audas 5
F Gate b C Thomas 5
G Montgomery c Neal b Robinson 3
S Riley c Audas b Shergill 12
Jefferies b J Thomas 3
C Gee c Audas b M Hudson 11
I Larken c Neal b Robinson 0
J Nisbet b C Thomas 0
P H Hudson not out 0

Extras b5 w8 13
Total (14.2 overs) 52

CHAOKS BOYS WIN BY 76 RUNS