When Yarl eventually arrived they brought some fresh new talent to the proceedings. A number of their team seemed to resemble heavy weight boxers and clearly had been on steroids to boost their bulky bodies.
Toss lost again it was not long until these talented Sri Lankans where batting and biffing the ball to all corners of the boundary. Crossbats remained remarkably calm as the score card accelerated at an alarming rate. Yarl took control of the game early and it was only when we introduced some full tosses into the equation that they lost their heads in the overdose of buffet bowling.
Yarl closed with a reasonable score of 177. Game on!
After a stunning tea full of spicy treats from our Asian friends it was time to bat.
After the early loss of Collier, Wright and Winch pushed the score along to 100. Further progress was made by the middle order powerhouse but not without the contribution of two more “ducks” from Fraser and Carter chasing the most sought after trophy of the season. Winch was soon to follow when Umpire Carter stuck up his finger giving him out off a “no ball.” Once a Muppet, always a Muppet.
This clatter of wickets did send a shudder of concern through the lower order who now nervously strapped on their pads wondering if the four of them could take us to victory by scraping the last 8 runs together between them.
Man of the match Reeve obliged and clattered a 4 to the boundary to register another win for Crossbats.
We are lucky enough to live in a pleasant part of London. Leafy green suburbs with decent cafes and pubs. Perhaps Dunbar thinks all parts of London are like this, hence his suggestion that we should drink in a local pub in Northolt Village. It may have been the word “village” that persuaded him to lead a handful of the team to this dangerous watering hole.
The signs were not good as we entered the establishment. Broken bottles littered the steps up to the pub. Once inside, the tattooed landlady (or was it a man) advised us that all real ale was off and it was lager or lager. As we sat and chatted about the game and Frasers penchant for having sex with turkeys, it was not long until one of the local inbreds made his way over to enquire where we were all from. Now looking suspiciously out of place we realised we had stumbled into a life threatening situation and thanked God that Dunbar is built like a brick shit house. The conversation died as we quietly all considered our exit strategy. The fence surrounding the garden looked promising. I reasoned I could vault over it and make a decent escape if things turned nasty.
Choosing our moment carefully, when the locals were scratching their cocks, we left en mass moving quickly, trying not to break out into a run. Once outside, a brisk pace was soon adopted as we searched out our cars in the hope they had not been torched. Behind us, the remaining customers of The Plough pub raised a finger as we disappeared back to civilisation.