The Guildford Festival of Cricket

It was the weekend. It was mid-July. The weather was grim. This could only mean one thing. The Guildford Festival of Cricket. Excitement throbbed throughout the shires

Sandwiches having been lovingly crafted by my own organic, free-range hand, the long train journey to this forgotten corner of Surrey began interestingly, with Stuart Broad’s public admittance to using muscle-enhancing chemicals:
Is the dope a doper as well as a dobbler?

Guildford. Ah Guildford. Forever a beautiful, market town. Look how the sunshine shimmers off the traffic.

Losing my bearings somewhat, the prescient local Council foresaw the need for a sign. A sign to joy! Let us go, stripy jumper, to meet our destiny together.

Once inside, we settle ourselves down comfortably with the radio, in order to listen to another, more interesting game.
Observe the generous leg room.

The ground was standard enough, for this part of the world, but was disturbed by the haunting howls of South-West Trains fast service to Waterloo.Despite the turgid innings before them, the crowd enthusiasm burbled through.Come lunch, it was time to indulge in my morning’s creations. To spice things up, I attempted to break the World Record for numbers of egg held in one hand.
An otherwise brave challenge, was abandoned due to lack of eggs.

As time dripped around to teatime, it seemed appropriate to investigate the wonders of the GUILDFORD FESTIVAL OF CRICKET.
Suitably persuaded by the charming, cricket-assailed women of the above stand, I acquired some of their excellent, if lukewarm, tea and a fine miniature carrot cake.
To the English weather!

First match of the season

Yesterday must have been a good day. I woke up this morning with a sharp pain in my ribs and some white, crusty matter in my hair. I guess I fought with those Pakistani fans, but at it must have ended amicably.

So! It was the first game of the season for me. Late, I know, but I have been jet-setting as late. Following in the wake of King Cricket’s photo journalism, and my own last year, I too, present the 2009 season's commencement.

The day started well. Sandwiches and Greek pistachios. I’m not entirely sure whether they were actually Greek, I bought them in Greece and they have a lot of Greek on them. So, I gave them the benefit of the doubt and brought them with me. A decision I would come to regret.


As I was walking along, I began to worry over the state of my boots. The previous day was spent picnicking in a field in Suffolk, and a group of curious cows found great interest in my leather footwear. Then I realised I wasn’t going to London premier ground, Twickenham Green, but slumming it in the Oval. Buggered boots be damned.

Here is a picture of the cows.


The match started well. The dancing girls proved surprisingly entertaining. The crowd never tired of booing the male dancers off the stage. The joke was still hilarious after hours of repetition. Here’s one dancing on his face.


Also, the celebrities were out. Sadly, Boris Becker could not afford a ticket; he ponced a free one as a cameraman.


Remarkably, my companions were complaining of ill-preparation: they had left their sunglasses at home. Not me. Look how cool mine are.


However, as Ireland’s innings sank into oblivion, I had a crisis of my own. Where to put the pistachio shells?

Jesus Christ! What am I going to do with this lot?

Alas, the weather began to have a bit of weather about it.


Then it rained and we went to a bar. Following this, some things happened. Then we went to a curry house. And I went home.


Ah, the ever reliable District Line. You never screw me over with Duckworth Lewis calculations.

More acual reporting: Colchester blues

I went to Colchester this weekend. A surprisingly nice place. It has a “Dutch Quarter”. Although, this isn’t as interesting as it sounds. But full of charming cottages nevertheless. So if you fancy a weekend of Dutch cottaging, then Colchester is your place.

The first thing you do when you go to watch a game in Colchester is realise that it’s not Chelmsford. Actually, it’s quite important that, when you set out on your car, you don’t just assume that they’re playing in Essex’s quite good county ground, but in a middle-of-nowhere backwater that you’ve never been to.

Obviously, the ground wasn’t sign posted. But, fortunately, Banana World was, so we had plenty of cultural alternatives.

So, we drove around Colchester a bit. Decided it wasn’t terrible. Eventually, I too a picture of a plastic map provided by the Council mounted on to the side of the road to help guide our meandering navigation.

The red dot signifies our position. The green at the top shows where we should have been. Interesting that.

So, for the perfectly reasonable price of £15 we entered the ground that offered the same views as we would have had had we stayed from the safety of our car.

At least in the car, I wouldn’t have got slightly sun-burnt when the eight minutes of mild sunshine bore into my pasty skin.

The great thing about small grounds is the opportunity it affords for mid-interval pitch gawping.

I wandered out with the rest of the bearded pot-bellies that populate county grounds and CAMRA festivals alike and pontificated knowledgeable on the pitch.

“Bit dry” someone said. “No bounce” another divined.

We then took up position at the umpire’s post, to stare thoughtlessly into the abyss.

When the action resumed, Essex’s strong position was ebbed away. Which was surprising, given that their attack was led by Grant Flower.

Then Graeme Hick came on. Everyone loves Graeme Hick. He’s old and tries to hit the ball far. He nearly lost his wicket on the long-leg boundary on his first ball.

Look at Graeme Hick. Look at Graeme Hick in all his majesty.

Actual reporting of the one-day final

OK – moving away from the repository of self-pity that this site seems to have become, I shall do a little homage to the bestest King Cricket post ever – his photo journal of the first day of the season.

So, it’s Saturday. The day of the Friends Are Pointless Trophy, and it’s time for me to get ready to go to Lords. I prepare the sandwiches. One ham; one cheese. Plus an apple. (And a sneaky cupcake that no one knew I took.)

So the journey in was horrendous. There are no pictures. I was too angry for pictures. The Jubilee Line was down. I spent all week travelling to see a client on that bloody line, hating it, and now it twists the knife by failing me one last, bastardly time.

So, I arrive eventually at Lords. In an unreasonably angry mood, given the dry conditions of the day, but I have been determinedly knarked as late. I ask one of the unnecessary stewards how I go about buying a ticket.

He pointed left.

He shouldn’t have pointed left; he should have pointed right.

But he didn’t. He went and pointed left anyway.

After trekking a right old trek, I find a man that seems to live in a booth carved into the perimeter wall.

“Can I have a ticket please? A ticket for the cricket?” I ask.
“Are you a member?” The chappy asks.”
“Do I look like one?”
“Well, you need to buy a ticket from over there somewhere. I don’t really remember where. All I can recall is its extreme distance.”

I get annoyed at this point. I indicate this state to him by real rolling back my eyes, jabbering and frothing at the ears.

“Er,” he offers. “Uh. Here. Have a ticket. It’ll save you the journey.”
“Um,” I begin to stammer myself, but this time, in a non-jabbery way. “What?”
“Here.” He passes a ticket across to me. “This will get you in.”
“Right.” I think the foaming stopped at this point. “Thanks.”

So. In one of the biggest events of Britain’s sporting summer, the authorities are giving away tickets. Literally. They literally gave me a ticket. For nothing. Apparently, it was worth £42. But the ECB decided a more realistic price was £0 (for you Indians, that's about a million rupees) .

This improved my mood substantially.

So. I cheerily picked my way through the crowd, most of whom had paid more than £0 for their tickets, to settle in to my day’s spot. La:

I arrived just as Kent were beginning their suicidal tumble. They had lost both their openers. Seeing that they were the underdogs and that I was British, I instantly formed a bond with them, and decided that they should win. For the good of losers everywhere.

Wickets continued to tumble. Eventually, Geraint Jones came out.

“Oh good,” thinks I. “Last time I saw this goon bat, he scored a century for England. He must be good.”

Here he is walking back to the pavilion 15 minutes later.

Talking of goons, I was surrounded by a lot of them. “Come on Kent!” some of them would shout. This had little effect.

All but one of these dapper chappies got lost at the interval. The remaining bloke, despite his energetic and thirsty start, slept through most of the second innings. Although, I suspect their dress-sense was a few notches above Kent's. I don't know why they all dressed like robots. Perhaps it's a strategy to get into the England outfit?

So. Lunch. As tradition dictates, I enjoyed my little picnic on the nursery ground. I read the Times. I still haven’t fully adjusted to its new lay-out. Why did they turn it into the Observer? Why?

Much of the remaining day was spent searching for tea. Obviously, I didn’t want to wait 40 minutes in a huge queue. So I opted to spend the next few hours seeking the El Dorado of Lords: the quiet tea shop.

And, you know what. I found it. The joy! The joy of tea!

The £1.85 spent on buying this rather over-strong, but no less refreshing cuppa represented the sole expenditure for the day. This fact brings me great pleasure.

More happiness was brought about by this fellow.

The crowd liked him. And so did I.

After a bit, we applauded a Zimbabwean. Previously, we had clapped for a South African, another South African, sworn undying love to an Antiguan and celebrated the highs and lows of various Pakistanis. A great day for English domestic cricket.