You may or may not know that the one quality we always look for in a piece of writing is brevity. If you have submitted a match report and seen it hacked to a skeleton, you will know this.

Ged has submitted countless match reports. We semi-regularly tell him to keep them short.

Last time we told Ged we like short writing, he responded by producing a 2,500 word report on a match between Warwickshire and Middlesex, told from four different perspectives.

To save innocent homepage visitors’ scrolling fingers, we have published it here.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

We went to the fifth one-day international between England and Australia. Cricket-wise, it was your quintessential damp squib, even if the weather was a beautifully sunny, warm, dry squib.

The paper wallet in which the tickets arrived promised music, action and cricket, in that order.

We assumed this was a reference to Old Trafford also hosting live music events, but as it turned out it was a fairly accurate description of the entertainment on offer on the day.

We saw David Gower striding across the outfield before the match. He’s been looking older on TV, but we were struck by how lithe and spry he remains. Nasser Hussain’s hurried gait was also on display but we didn’t have any strong feelings about this. Tom Moody was there too. We didn’t see him walk much, but we can confirm that he is massive.

Fortunately for the purposes of this match report, we didn’t really see much cricket because for about half the match, Mitch Marsh was standing in the way. Here’s one moment when he was slightly less of a visual impediment.

We passed the day having a ‘pie-off’. Various offerings from Stockport’s Lord of the Pies were pitted against the classic meat and potato from Treacle Town Pie Company in Macclesfield.

This competition was not without controversy. It transpired that the pies from Lord of the Pies had been warmed, whereas the Treacle Town pies were cold. Allegations of ‘pie doping’ were bandied about but eventually we decided to just eat the pies and try and factor the relative warmths into our ratings.

The general consensus was that Lord of the Pies offered greater pie diversity, but the standard Treacle Town meat and potato would have been the finest pie, had it been warm.

We wish we had photos of some or all of the pies to share with you, but we didn’t want to encourage the people we were with. At one point two of them – let’s call them Dave and Alex (because those are their names) – were looking at photographs of pies from a previous pie-off, discussing which pie they had eaten at what time of day and which had been the finest. As they were doing this, they were eating pies.

Between innings, there was a competition where six people got to bowl at a washing machine. If they landed the ball inside the drum, they won a washing machine. No-one managed it. While this was going on, one of the Kwik Cricketers took a blinding catch, palming a full-blooded pull shot straight up into the air before pouching the ball as it came back down.

The match finished early and we went and got the tram. At the end of our journey, we discovered that we were due to have pie for tea. After lodging a formal complaint about this, we drank some wine and fell asleep.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Ged Ladd’s smartphone, Ivan Meagreheart, writes:

It can be exhilarating, being Ged Ladd’s smartphone; even after the bland ending to our Day Two, we were full of excitement ahead of Day Three. Ged woke me up and I was feeling 100% full of energy, which is as it should be.

Our walk to the ground was mostly uneventful; my colleagues and their apps being the forgotten heroes of earlier treks, now that the humans well and truly knew the best route. However, towards the end of the walk, there was a comedic interlude, when Charley The Gent Malloy, deep in conversation with Harsha Ghoble, fell behind the pack and decided to use his app to find us and the entrance. Naturally, the app took him to the main entrance, as Charley omitted to tell the app that we gather near the Sir Harry’s Pub, using the Pershore Road entrance. So Charley blindly followed the app to the main entrance, where he felt lost again and phoned Nigel for help. Typical human, Charley then blamed his tool rather than his own lack of logic. “How many times have we been to this ground and used this entrance?” mumbled Nigel “Father Barry” White to Ged.

Still, we were soon in the ground well ahead of the start of play.  Ged was hoping/half-expecting that Bert would come and join our little group at some stage during the day, but he never showed up. Bert did, however, have the courtesy to explain why in his own match report.

When the match was over, the 10 Heavy Rollers gathered outside the ground at their traditional farewell point. (Outside the Sir Harry’s Pub, you didn’t need an app to help you guess that). Lemon Peel had kindly stored Ged’s luggage in the back of her motor, so that we could head off on foot to New Street without returning to the Hagley Road hotel. So after the warm goodbyes/farewells, Ged and I wandered off into Birmingham.

We were well early for our train and it was a beautiful afternoon. Sunny with some light cloud, maximum temperature 23 degrees Celsius, breeze less than 5mph. We found an Italian cafe/restaurant with an outdoor terrace, just off the main strip as we approached New Street. Ged killed some time there over a couple of Americano coffees. Then when it got a bit chillier, we went into the station and killed some more time in the Virgin lounge, where Ged drank cranberry juice.

Then onto the 19:30 train.  Months ago, Ged had booked a quiet carriage in first class at low cost, using my arch rival, Ged’s laptop, rather than my app. Spit. Ged continued reading; he even partook of some wine and nosh at this juncture. We were completely unaware of the rest of the train.

When we got off the train at Euston, we suddenly were hit by a wall of sound behind us; thousands of drunken fans singing. The Mitchell Johnson Song. The Joe Root to the tune of Hey Jude song. In the hanger-like acoustic of Euston, the noise was almost deafening. Ged said it reminded him of the We Are the Mods scene from Quadrophenia. Ged’s wrong. There was no Phil Daniels, no Lesley Ash, we were at Euston, not Brighton, there were no mods, no rockers and (be realistic, this was a train full of cricket fans) no ultra-violence. There weren’t even any Australian antagonists; at least none that you could see or hear.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Ged Ladd’s smartphone, Ivan Meagreheart, writes:

It can be quite exhausting being Ged Ladd’s smartphone; day one of the Edgbaston Test had been such a day. Normally a good rest overnight and I recharge my batteries without difficulty, but I had a bad night and in the morning I felt even more run down than I had the night before.

Ged went to put the kettle on and the cause of my low energy was revealed to him.  Although the lights were working, the sockets around the walls were all dead. Ged spoke to a member of staff and the problem was sorted very quickly. Ged let me lie in for 90 minutes or so before we set off for the ground and promised that I’d be allowed to rest for most of the day. Ged certainly wouldn’t need me to look up the cricket score today.

Soon enough several other Heavy Rollers turned up. There would be 10 humans this year, perhaps a record number. First to arrive was Big “Papa Zambezi” Jeff and his charming pal Biff (possibly the best Northamptonshire batsman never to represent Northants in first class cricket). Soon after that, Harsha Ghoble, famous for getting barracked by the Indian supporters for holding the Indian flag upside down, vintage Trent Bridge, 2002. Then David and his son Dan Peel, chauffeured to our meeting point by their delightful wife/mother (respectively), Lemon. One more, Peter Doubt, would meet us at the ground, so we were ready for the off.

Dan Peel, a local lad, offered to lead the trek from Hagley Road to the ground.  2.1 miles by my reckoning – I have an app for that. Ged insisted that I rest and that we could manage without apps or use other people’s smart phones. Dan took us a fair bit further east into Birmingham than was necessary – which is why humans should never be trusted with directions. The Boy Malloy kept pointing out that his app was suggesting a different route, while Charley “The Gent” Malloy was happily counting his footsteps using his exercise app, delighted that a bit of route confusion was increasing his footstep count.

Eventually we got to the ground, which was heaving with people, but we were in very good time for the start of play. I know – I mustn’t tell you about the cricket. I’m a machine. I can do rules.

To avoid the sorts of Edgbaston shopping confusion described in the final paragraph of the piece linked here, Nigel and Charley had, between them, brought masses of “man nibbles” with them for the outing. Pork pies, sausage rolls, cheese and onion rolls, chocolate marshmallow sandwich biscuits, jaffa cakes – that sort of stuff. And Doritos, naturally. Most of the group washed this feast down with copious quantities of beer, but Ged is off beer these days, so he drank buckets of water instead.

Soon it was time to walk home. The Boy Malloy took charge and insisted that we follow his app home. Even Dan Peel admitted it was a shorter, quicker route.  After changing/charging respectively, Ged and I joined the group for a drink in the hotel bar early evening (Ged imbibed, I didn’t) and most of us went out for a light Italian meal across the road, which was a popular choice with all other than Harsha, who referenced the Bland Food Sketch, but came along anyway and seemed to enjoy his bland evening.

When we got back after dinner, Ged’s power sockets had gone down again, but this time he got someone at reception to put a shilling in that particular meter before bedtime.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

We weren’t going to do this, but when we started writing something else we sort of felt obliged to ‘fess up that we’d actually been at the ground yesterday and by that point a match report seemed unavoidable.

New rule

We always include a brief italicised outline of what we want from match reports submitted to this site (send them to king@kingcricket.co.uk), but one thing we increasingly feel the need to mention is that you don’t actually have to be Ged Ladd to contribute one. Much as we enjoy the man’s offerings, it would be good to break the Ged hegemony because variety and fenugreek are the spices of life.

Ged doesn’t even have to be there.

Although he was on this occasion.

Ged

We know Ged through this website. A couple of years ago, we met Ged for a pint and we now know him in that sense. But we don’t know Ged. For example, until yesterday, we didn’t know that Ged was the kind of person who could tell you in what year you’d met him for a pint and Ged didn’t know that we were the kind of person for whom past, present and future are just one murky impenetrable dream state, meaning we rarely know if things happened yesterday, five years ago or not yet.

So this was not one of those we-always-meet-up-for-the-cricket things. It was a very kind invite from Ged which was completely unexpected. We were particularly struck by it because we would never even dream of inviting someone to something unless we’ve known that person for at least 20 years (a threshold which also increases by the year).

Be prepared

Ged told us he would take care of food and kindly reminded us that Lord’s Cricket Ground’s greatest attribute is that you’re allowed to take some booze in.

Going by the guidelines, a bottle of wine seemed the most sensible thing to bring. However, we have never drunk wine at a cricket match and what little we know of Ged also made us suspect that a bottle of SPANISH RED WINE in upper-case letters probably wouldn’t be to his normal standards, so we instead plumped for the two beers option.

At the same time, we didn’t want to be the northerner who turns up with two cans of Skol, so we opted for two bottles of Belgian beer as this seemed nicely ambiguous.

Real world skills

What we didn’t bring was a bottle opener. Fortunately, Ged’s front row seats provided us with a perfectly adequate concrete step in front of us and we were able to put this to use for the old ‘position bottle top on corner and hammer with side of hand’ opening technique.

We were somewhat taken aback when not just Ged, but also his two companions Charley “The Gent” Malloy (slight suspicion of a made-up name) and Big Al Delarge (slight suspicion of a made-up name) were astounded by this hitherto unseen method. When we employed it a second time later on in the day, people in neighbouring seats also looked on in awe. One guy, wearing a blazer, said: “That’s pretty impressive,” and really seemed to mean it.

We felt a little like we’d just cracked open a can of Skol, but mostly we felt proud to have helped spread a vital life skill which we had always taken for granted.

The Home of Cricket

While there certainly were a few beer drinkers in our stand, it wasn’t 98 per cent of the crowd as it is at the cricket grounds we normally attend. The most popular beverage was instead Champagne and the day was punctuated by popping sounds.

Surveying the patch of grass beyond the boundary, we put it to Ged that a more appropriate nickname for Lord’s would be The Home of Corks. He seemed to find this amusing. Acutely aware that we are nowhere near as witty in real life as people sometimes expect us to be, we made a note and repeated the joke hourly.

The Home of Real Tennis

At the end of the day’s play, Ged offered to show us the ground’s real tennis court. This was everything we hoped it would be – which is to say an almost entirely baffling experience. As far as we can work out, those who commit to real tennis from an early enough age must at some point hit some sort of sweet spot where they have had sufficient time to attain a rough grasp of the rules without yet having been consigned to a wheelchair through old age.

After that, it was time to shake hands and part ways. We politely reminded Ged to try and keep his match reports as short and pithy as possible and then the next day wrote 800 words about meeting him.

Did Ged make Lord’s throdkin?

Did he ever. Top man. Recipe here.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Ivan Meagreheart The Smart Phone writes:

It’s hard work being Ged Ladd’s smartphone. I get pretty run down by the end of most days. Still, there are perks. One of those perks is cricket. During the cricket season I get to look at the scores a heck of a lot. And sometimes I get to go to matches.

Ged has a regular meet with friends for Thursday and Friday, the first two days, of the Edgbaston Test. This year [Editor’s note: last year now] threw them into confusion. The match started on a Wednesday. So what exactly is their tradition? They plugged for the Thursday and Friday; days two and three this year.

So on day one, the Wednesday, Ged decided to get his packing and some work done early in the morning, go to the gym to watch a fair chunk of the morning session on the TV while exercising, then head to Euston during the luncheon interval.

When we got to Euston, Ged called Daisy; a task for which I am ideally suited, but increasingly rarely employed. Daisy told Ged that her two o’clock patient had cancelled and that she now had an unexpected break until half-three. She intended to slob out and watch the cricket. “Great,” said Ged. “Give us a call or text if anything happens – the wifi/digital signal on the trains is ghastly, but strangely, mobile phone signals get through fine.”

It’s only a short journey to Birmingham, but Daisy must have phoned Ged half a dozen times while we were on the train. Girls. Ged seemed happy enough about it, though.

When we got to the hotel, Ged collected his key and then wheeled his bag to the bar; stood watching the TV for a short while, then turned around and headed towards our room. Moments after we turned and walked out, the punters in the bar gave a huge cheer. I didn’t realise that Ged was so unpopular.

Ged took about 10 minutes to unpack a bit and grab some reading matter, then we headed back to the bar. Ged found a quiet corner with a good view of a second TV, ordered a potta and hunkered down for the rest of the afternoon.

About an hour later, Nigel “Father Barry” White arrived and joined us in the bar. He had received a peculiar text from Charley “the Gent” Malloy and “the Boy” Malloy, who said they were running a bit late and had stopped for a snack at a service station. Ged and Nigel debated the causation sequence in that two-part statement. There ought to be an app for that.

After a while, the Malloy pair turned up. The four fellas had a drink together as stumps approached. Soon after stumps, Nigel raised the subject of dinner. Charley announced that the Malloys’ late afternoon snack had turned into a bit of a junk food feast and that they weren’t hungry.

Ged and Nigel searched for a restaurant nearby – I have an app for that – and settled on Bengal Delight. They had a very enjoyable meal by all accounts, although neither ruby looked anything like the posh drizzle-laden pictures on the website. I was quite rundown by the end of the evening, as was Ged, in excited anticipation of spending day two at the match.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Dumbo the Suzuki Jimny writes:

Just a few days after Ged and Daisy went to the Lord’s Ashes Test and got all confused about etiquette, Ged asked me to take him out and about for the working day, to culminate at Lord’s, The Home of Cricket, for a net with Charley “The Gent” Malloy and Escamillo Escapillo. I was incredibly excited about visiting Lord’s for the first time, but knew there was real work to do first.

Ged stuffed my copious rear with a great big cricket coffin and his kit bag, plus a much smaller bag full of his work papers, covering that lot with a large tarpaulin, as is his custom when I am likely to sit around loaded up.

“Giddy up Dumbo,” said Ged, as we set off. Unlike the bowler Mark Wood, who has an imaginary horse, I actually AM an imaginary horse, which is even more fun. We went to Hammersmith first up, to a big building with a visitors’ car park. Ged went in with his small bag of work papers. I waited. And waited. And waited. Ged was in there for hours. Eventually he came out of that building, looking quite perky.

“My new ukulele strings have arrived, Dumbo,” said Ged. “We’ve got time to collect them from the music shop on the All Saints Road on our way to Lord’s. Ride like the wind, Dumbo.”

This last request was a bit strange, given we were in Hammersmith in the rush hour. Unless you consider 10 to 15mph to be “like the wind.” I did my best.

Ged wasn’t in the music shop very long and came out proudly waving two sets of baritone ukulele strings. When we drove around the corner, there was a policeman waiting. He waved to a group of other policemen a little further down the road, who flagged us down. “Just a routine, random stop and search, sir,” said one of the policemen. He then asked Ged for any ID with his name on it. Ged proffered his Middlesex CCC life membership card.

I was overcome with fearful and paranoid thoughts. Ged always travels under a false identity; none of his credit cards or membership cards are in the name Ged Ladd. I thought the police would easily rumble Ged and that I would be impounded or worse. Why did they stop us and let countless others drive by? Was it Ged’s beard? Was it because I am black?

“Where are you coming from and going to, sir?” asked the copper.

Ged told him.

“What’s under the tarpaulin, sir?”

“My cricket coffin, kit bag and a bag of work papers,” said Ged.

‘Don’t say “coffin,”’ I thought. ‘That’s bound to arouse suspicion.’

“Would you please step out of the car and lift up the tarpaulin, sir?” said the policeman.

Ged showed him.

“Would you like me to open the bags?” asked Ged.

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” said the policemen. “Just waiting for the database check, sir.” There was a long pause.

“Do you like cricket, sir?” asked the policeman.

‘Good question,’ I thought. ‘You’ve stopped a life member of Middlesex CCC, on his way to Lord’s for a net, with a great big cricket coffin, but truthfully he doesn’t care much for cricket; he prefers rounders and netball.’

“Yes I do, officer,” said Ged, pathetically.

Thankfully, those silly policemen failed to rumble Ged’s false identity and let us go as soon as their useless database check came through.

To add to my sense of persecution though, when we got to Lord’s the gate official wouldn’t let us into the ground, as there was a so-called big match on the next day and no-one available to do a security check on me. I wanted Ged to tell her that we had been security checked ten minutes ago, when the fuzz gave us both a thorough going over, but he wimped out. Ged simply expressed his displeasure and parked me on the other side of the Wellington Road, so I still haven’t seen Lord’s.  But we’re going again soon and I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve been in.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Ged writes:

I prepared a splendid picnic, though I say so myself, for me and Daisy to enjoy on the Saturday of the Lord’s Ashes Test. Breakfast muffins stuffed with juicy coriander prawns was the centrepiece of the midday feast. The main event, though, was focaccia-wiches, containing Big Al deLarge’s latest discovery of amazing Parma ham. Following a successful use of the latter fare the previous week, when Dave The DJ came round to my place for a guitar/ukulele jam, Daisy was envious as crazy and expected nothing less.

These days, Daisy and I choose to hide from the sun in the “unfashionable but good for priority bookers” front reaches of the Lower Edrich. This time we were surrounded by delightful Middlesex CCC people, many of whom we knew at least by name from the internet radio and website chats in years gone by. It was like an impromptu gathering of the e-clan.

Mid-afternoon, I ventured alone round to the posh side for a pee. As I have reported many times before, you get a better class of floor piss round there. But as I approached the Tavern Stand loo, I saw that Mr Johnny Friendly, who had sent me and Daisy the MCC Rules of Real Tennis only a few weeks previously, was standing in the doorway, engrossed in reading his electronic tablet. It seemed to me, momentarily, that I was always running into Mr Friendly in or near those toilets and that he might mistake my repeated presence as sinister, or perhaps a quest for additional gifts. As he was deeply engrossed and I was sure he hadn’t seen me, I decided to save embarrassment by walking a little further round to the Allen Stand loo instead.

When I got back to our stand and reported my sighting to Daisy, she was most put out. “But supposing Mr Friendly did see you? He would surely see your lack of acknowledgement as a snub – and after he has shown us such kindness in the matter of Real Tennis. Surely the correct etiquette now would be for you to write and apologise profusely to Mr Friendly for your rudeness.”

I said that I thought the correct etiquette in the circumstances would be to forget the whole thing. But, you see, I come from the wrong kind of family and only went a few modest steps up the lower rungs of the social ladder by winning a scholarship to almost the right kind of school. Do not scorn or reproach me, dear reader – pity me.

Daisy was both unsure and upset. “Oh drains to oiky pater and that common, lawn tennis court he built for us. Why couldn’t we have had the real thing, then none of this Mr Friendly dilemma would have happened?”

There was no point consulting the good folk of Middlesex CCC around us. Good, honest, stout yeo-folk to be sure, but not the sort of people equipped to advise us on etiquette paradoxes. Where are the MCC posh boys when you need them?

“I know how we can resolve this dispute,” I said. “Let’s consult Jane Austen…”

… by which I meant the Complete Works of Jane Austen, which we always have to hand on our e-book readers. Unfortunately, Daisy misunderstood me and got straight on the mobile to Jane Austin, sister of the mighty Ian Austin, the greatest all-round cricketer that Baxenden CC, nay, perhaps even the whole of the Ribblesdale League, has ever produced. Daisy asked Jane Austin her etiquette question, listened politely to the answer, said: “Thank you very much indeed,” then put the phone down.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“Art tawkin’ ter me or chewin’ a brick?” said Daisy.

“I think that means she agrees with me,” I concluded.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.

Dumbo, Ged’s Suzuki Jimny writes:

Not all that long after taking Ged and Daisy to Ireland, where I got to watch my first snippet of a cricket match at Clontarf CC, Ged asked me to take him to Uxbridge to see day two of Middlesex v Worcestershire. I was very excited about this prospect, as it was proper first class cricket and I hoped I’d get to see a lot more cricket than I ended up seeing at Clontarf.

We set off ridiculously late for the game. Ged insisted on doing work in the morning and then doing some exercise at the gym at lunchtime before setting off, so by the time we got to Uxbridge it was gone 3pm and more than half the day’s cricket was done. We listened to the commentary on the internet radio on the way out to the ground. Ged said that it sounded quite tedious, but that anyway his main purpose that afternoon was to finish reading a book, The Utopia of Rules. I asked Ged what the book was about. He said it was a socialist perspective on the anthropology of bureaucracy, so I was none the wiser and wished I hadn’t asked.

When we arrived at Uxbridge, I expected to drive up to the boundary and watch the match, just as I had at Clontarf, but an official pointed me to another field, some distance from the first-class pitch with no view at all. Ged said he was powerless to intervene on my behalf. Ged should know; he’s reading the book on bureaucracy.

Ged also said that he wanted to have a photo of himself taken eating an ice cream, as a celebratory joke to send to the advertising people who, bizarrely, contacted Ged while we were in Ireland wanting to license some clips from the old Ladd family home movies. Ged’s Dad is slapping on the tanning oil in this advert. That’s Ged and his Mum looking daft on a Fredalo in this vine. Some of us actually have to earn our living.

It was a glorious afternoon when we arrived, but it soon clouded over and there was a really cold wind. Ged said afterwards that he enjoyed his ice-cream, especially as his friend, Frank Poole, had insisted on buying Ged the treat as well as taking the celebratory photograph. Ged and Frank had a nice chat while walking around eating their ice creams in the sunshine. Ged started the afternoon in shirtsleeves, but soon had to layer up with a jumper and thick jacket, yet still felt cold sitting reading his book, which was, apparently, a chilling enough read even without the cold wind. So we stopped off at Harry Morgan’s, near Lord’s, on the way home, as Ged said he needed some hot chicken soup to warm and cheer himself up. Bless.

Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.