The Bacchus XI vs BBC Caversham Cricket Club

Cast your minds back for this one

MATCH REPORT – The Bacchus XI vs BBC Caversham Cricket Club - Crowmarsh End Cricket Ground – 11 June 2023

“Water, water everywhere, and never a drop to drink”
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Pat had the perfect weekend planned out. On Saturday, he would watch his beloved Inter Milan stun the footballing world by winning the Champions League. He would then celebrate long into the night in Campion Hall’s D’Arcy Room, before fulfilling the ultimate ambition of every red-blooded cricketer/wine enthusiast; to share a bed with Freddie Gate. He would then wake, kiss his paramour gently on the moustache and prepare for Sunday’s mighty task: this to be a cricket match against the Bacchus XI’s favoured opponents, Iffley Village, a charming crowd who hold a special place in our hearts as the only team we have ever beaten (and who still exist). No Bacchant could fail to be moved by such a prospect, and a veritable legion thus descended to bask in the reflective glow of Pat’s ecstasy.

Alas, reality is so often a poor substitute for the dream. The withering of the grand plan began with Iffley’s sheepish admission that a league team had booked their ground, and that they were unwilling to wrest it back in gladiatorial combat. Thus were we denied our frolic in the delightful pastures of Great and Little Tew, and the malaise spread. City won the treble, Pat’s evening in Campion Hall became a tour of all the least appropriate sleeping spots on offer (or not, as was frequently the case), and to pile insult upon injustice, he woke the next morning not in the burly arms of One Of The All Time Gates, but on the floor at the foot of his exalted bed. His disappointment was palpable, and the tattered remains of all the Bacchants’ weekend hopes lay strewn across the floor of the D’Arcy Room (reports that these tatters were in fact the mouldering corpse of Sam Riley are categorically untrue).

Nevertheless, as the haze cleared and Fr. Phil drowned the sinners of the previous night in strong coffee, it dawned upon the company that, in defiance of all good sense, we actually had a match to play. Even more bizarrely, it was against the BBC. Quite how Pat had managed to arrange this in between mourning his poor Milanese boys and flirting with one of Bavaria’s most noted botanists is a mystery, yet here it was, and with it came the tantalising prospect that the weekend might be saved. A prospect dashed upon arrival at their ground, in Caversham, as it was revealed that we were to bat first.

Bacchants tend to dabble in bizarre superstitions, such as advisability of a leg-stump guard and the existence of Eoin Simpkins. But none is quite so pervasive as the insistence, universally believed, that batting first must lead to a swift and catastrophic downfall. Quite what the ‘downfall’ of a team that hasn’t won for two years might look like is anyone’s guess, but the belief remains unaltered. It was therefore with the attitude of two bound for a surprise spelling test at the gallows that Jake Swann and I strode to the crease to face the opening bowlers. These began with a series of fearsome bouncers which died completely as they hit the pitch, drifting through on the leg side at about waist height. Proper batsmen would have scorned such a target, but the Bacchus openers are no such thing, and we set about smacking them to the square leg boundary. Jake’s middle stump shattered in the fourth over, but whether it had actually been hit or merely wished to register its disgust with our behaviour was unclear. Either way, it brought Herr Vittenklop, the noted botanist and number 3 batsman, to the crease, and the crowd held its breath in anticipation of Freddie’s Big Score.

It is a matter of lively discussion amongst the cricketing community as to whether Freddie’s Big Score is to be a big number, as per tradition, or a score compiled entirely from big shots. The noted botanist, a true devotee of the scientific method, has resolved to examine all possibilities. Two massive fours and two destroyed stumps later, the results remain inconclusive.

All of this drama finally brought Ben Mills to the crease, complete with his frightfully legit-looking red helmet. In fact, everything about him looked frightfully legit. He unleashed a series of shots which most of the assembled Bacchants could scarcely name, far less attempt, and before long the word ‘strokeplay’, amongst other obscure Antipodean slang, was being bandied about the pavilion. Clearly, with the exhibition of cricketing excellence taking place at the other end, common decency dictated that it was time for me to leave. One wild swipe across the line was all it took, and the far more able form of Ollie Wright (making his debut no less) strode forth to the crease. There followed a passage of cricket without parallel or precedent in the annals of the Bacchus XI, in which two thoroughly excellent batsmen rotated strike, blocked good deliveries and dispatched bad ones (of which there were a few) to all corners of the pitch. This demonstration of what is possible when the basics of the game are not merely understood but acted upon, though edifying, completely shattered the fragile economy of a standard Bacchus day out. The peerless caterers from Yugman and Co. had proceeded on the basis that this was to be an innings like any other, a whirlwind tour through 10 hitherto unimagined ways to lose a wicket, all taking less than an hour. As such, Ollie Wright was barely established before lunch appeared. He studiously attended to building his score, regardless of the succession of quiches, tarts and wines hovering on the edge of his peripheral vision, but the mountainous pile of sausage rolls seemingly broke all resistance. A conveniently straight ball was carefully shepherded onto his leg stump, and he came scampering back to the boundary with a look of barely suppressed glee. Ramsy Polding, who was next in and thus forced to abandon his glass of Riesling, was less than impressed, but nevertheless had an ideal solution ready at hand. A few deft flicks and cuts showed the BBC what he could have done had he so chosen, before a looping loft to mid-on returned him to the banquet table. Bacchus himself looked down and smiled.

It would have taken a heart of stone to scorn the feast provided; clearly Ben Mills is possessed of just such a thing. Overs passed. Runs abounded. A succession of bowlers was less dealt-with than derided. So much time went by that he asked for water to be sent on, provoking consternation on the sidelines; no Bacchant had ever lasted long enough at the crease for their previous drink to wear off. His latest partner was a certain Charlie Aithrie, another debutant who exuded boundless confidence and a sense of ‘generally being good at sport’. It was therefore with expressions of delight and benignity that the onlookers watched him swipe wildly across the line at his first ball; clearly he was one of us. A series of galvanic swipes sent the ball in all directions, always at catchable height but with enough force behind them to stun a rhinoceros. The blizzard of boundaries which followed set the seal on what was a somewhat monumental innings for the XI; never before had we reached the full number of overs; never before had we lost only five wickets; never before had we scored 200 runs. A clamour that owed little to the inexhaustible wine supply (but a great deal to Le Nis’ speaker system) greeted the batsmen as they left the pitch, with particular focus on the indefatigable Mills; he finished on a quite magnificent 92 Not Out.

Only a pessimist could possibly have found fault with such a glorious day. However, the Bacchus XI counts several hardened examples among its number, and these vile malcontents directed their attentions to a looming shadow on the horizon, perhaps the prelude to a spot of light afternoon rain. The older, more superstitious Bacchants nodded sagely: disasters come in many forms and we had, after all, batted first.
It was clear by the time the BBC began their innings that the doom-mongers had undersold the threat. The shadow had ceased to loom and was by now a present reality. Black clouds squatted ominously above the pitch; the wind lifted bucket hats into the air. All our hopes of a first win since 2021 rested on bowling out the opposition (something we had, needless to say, never done) within the next 20 minutes. With the new ball visible only through lightning flashes, Mr Tim Gee launched the attack, sending two overs of full, straight(ish) stuff at the BBC’s opener, before retiring to his car with the urgency of a zebra boarding the ark. Sam Riley smiled grimly; he had been jilted of his chance to bat, and this was cloud cover of which he had scarcely dared to dream. He loosened his bowling arm, downed his tin, and then looked on in horror as Pat tossed the ball to the shattered Mills. Subsequent requests to be excused fielding duties are, we are assured, unrelated.

Charlie Gee was, meanwhile, attending to the serious business of annihilating the top order. Two fell in his first over, one in his second, all leaving behind broken stumps and having never caught the faintest glimpse of the ball. He would have certainly continued in this vein, had the apocalyptic scene not been completed by the arrival of the rain (and, two minutes later, the hail). All crowded into the pavilion to weep for our misfortune at not being able to unleash Jeffers and to be plied with raspberry tart, and at length the bullet was bit. The company retired to the pub and attempted to reconcile what had, in fact, been a moral victory with our deeply immoral lust for the real thing.
That was that. Time (a truly unacceptable amount of time, for which I apologise) has allowed us to reflect on a weekend that was, if not perfect, then at least perfectly Bacchant. A 100-run victory giving way to a washout draw falls perfectly within the spirit of the XI, as does the fact that we apparently play better after dancing in Campion Hall until 6am. And it should go without saying, although it definitely won’t, that performances like this are certain to bring actual wins in the near future. I’d feel pretty nervous if I played for The V&A Wytham Middleton Stoney Michael Hudson’s Mates right now.

SCORECARD

Bacchus XI
J Swann (Bowled, Adams) 8
E Larken (LBW, Singh) 14
F Gate (Bowled, Adams) 8
B Mills (Not Out) Ninety Fucking Two
O Wright (Bowled, Adams) 34
R Polding (Caught, Dilip) 3
C Aithrie (Not Out) 21
S Riley (Did not bat)
T Gee (Did not bat)
W Jefferies (Did not bat)
P Hudson (Did not bat)

E X Tras 27
Total: 208

BBC Caversham’s scores have been lost to the ether, but Mr Charles Gee Esq took three splendid wickets for the Bacchus.

MATCH ABANDONED