The Return

Dear All
Inspired by those heroics at Boyne Hill, it's an unwelcome return for that whining voice from the wilderness. Shoveller's implement is firmly planted in the potting shed, his sporting career on hold as he battles injury, mental infirmity and his ongoing and one-sided struggle against mediocrity. That incredible performance in the Julian Cup has inspired me to assault the keyboard - a display made all the more extraordinary by the fact that with the likes of myself, Sidders, Blackett, Bazza and Graham Joel opting to sit the match out, it was effectively our 'B' team that 'drubbed' Boyne Hill. A great evening's entertainment, spoiled only by the twitterings of one-time 'club great', Andy Parkinson. Cow corner's favourite bully-boy, Andy was trying to convince me that a result of his old man's knighthood, he was now able to style himself as the 'Marquis of Ascot'. I refused to be swayed by such nonsense, suggested the 'Duke of Slough' might be more apposite and pointed him in the direction of the Dangerous Book for Boys and the chapter on petty nobility.

Keeping with the theme of mental infirmity, of course, any such discussion can't be complete without mention of Thomas Wilding Esq. 'Rumpole's' grasp on reality appears as tenuous as ever, judging by his comments in the Advertiser the other week. Great effort against top-of-the-table Sonning in ruining their 100 per cent record - but was it wholly accurate Wildthang, to claim that "we controlled the game in the field well?" Never let a fact get in the way of a good yarn.

Anyway, despite the application of copious amounts of make-up and sporting a dainty tutu in club colours, I have been 'found out' by the Ladies' team. So I may as well serve notice, Reaper, that I might deign to make myself available for a couple of Sunday thrashes in August. Mind you, it could be a little crowded in the slips, what with the wheelchair-bound Mase at first and me and the iron lung looking to hunker down at second and third. Zulfi is now but a distant dream, half-inched by some jealous wannabe. Instead, I've got some sub-standard English plank, which is sure to have a deleterious effect on my deft strokeplay. I might as well make my excuses now.

I think that is enough guff for now. Watching England in the field at Headingley, I'm strangely losing the will to live, never mind continue with this epistle. Such a sorry display makes watching Atif and the Hound in their pomp, opening the batting for the II's, appear the equivalent of cricketing viagra. Yes, that good.

Grudgingly yours,

Shoveller