Category: Match report (page 1 of 34)

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Middlesex v Worcestershire at Uxbridge – match report


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 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.

Essex v Australians at Chelmsford – match report

Ivan The Smart Phone - Not a Selfie

My name is Ivan. I am Ged’s smart phone. One of the few things I cannot do is take a selfie; my friend Ida took this picture. I wear a protective cover in the style of an old-fashioned calculator. I am told that this is a joke.

I went with Ged to see a cricket match in Chelmsford, the principal settlement of the City of Chelmsford and the county town of Essex, in the East of England. We travelled to the ground by train and on foot. I could explain all the detail of the journey to you; I planned it after all, but Ged says that I must not be too wordy in my match reports. He also says that I shouldn’t mention the actual cricket. I can follow rules.

When we arrived at a little park across the river from the ground, Ged asked a steward for help, as for once I could not answer Ged’s question. The steward pointed to a security check in the park, near which we saw some chavs knocking back bottles of Champagne at 10.45am.

Ged went forward for his check.

“Do you have any glass bottles or glasses?” asked the steward.

“No,” said Ged. “I read the ticket carefully. So I brought only plastic bottles and glasses.”

“Stroik a loit, knock me darn wiv a fever and shoik me ‘and, squire,” said the steward, putting out his hand for Ged to shake. “Yer the first proper gent today.”

I identified the accent as Dick van Dyke.

I kept Ged and Charley the Gent Malloy in communication during the journey, so Ged knew exactly where to go to find Charley. Unusually, Ged did not wipe his feet as he entered the pavilion, but he did wipe them as he left the building, heading for the viewing benches in front, where Charley had saved him a good seat.

“No chance of us trying your famous bottle of red wine today then, Charley,” said Ged, showing Charley his little plastic bottles of wine. “Glass prohibition and all that.”

“Oh I pay no attention to that guff,” said Charley, producing a proper glass bottle of wine. “But I thought white would be better than red today; it was so hot yesterday.”

I had taken Ged and Daisy to Wimbledon that day and indeed it had been so hot my circuits overheated. I had to sleep for most of the day. I am pleased to report that no such overheating occurred on this occasion. I should say, though, that the Wimbledon surroundings were somewhat more salubrious than Chelmsford. Still, Mrs Malloy had prepared a similarly splendid picnic, with chicken rolls, cheese ones and also some with corned beef – the latter I think Charley rather hoped would be rejected by Ged, but Ged enjoyed his fair share of everything, including the nibbles, biscuits and cake.

Towards the end of the day’s play, we all relocated to the other side of the ground to get a different view. During a short rain delay, a steward protected the field of play. He was jerking around with Southern Dragon Kung Fu moves, as if fighting his own demons.

“Are you all right?” asked Charley.

“These bloody flies at this time of the evening,” said the steward. “They’re awful.”

Ged and Charley had not encountered any flies, but decided to leave that area and return to the pavilion.

Soon after that, Mrs Malloy joined us for a few minutes at the end of the day, during which time Daisy phoned in from the Hampton Court Palace Flower Show. All too soon, Ged and I were on our way back to the station, after agreeing that, one way or another, we had all enjoyed a splendid day in the country.

Send your match reports to 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.

Lord’s Cricket Ground tour – not a match report

Bert writes:

This website has a number of obsessions. Cricket is one, obviously, but there’s cats and fat cricketers and ankylosing spondylitis and all sorts of other stuff. And there is the apostrophe, with particular reference to the correct use thereof.

The thing is, I don’t think this is especially unusual. The link between cricket and punctilious punctuation, that is. There is something about cricket, its atmosphere and culture, that makes it a suitable place for those of us who care about such things. Next time you’re at the cricket, ask the person sitting next to you if correct apostrophe use matters – it’s very likely that you’ll get an affirmative response.

I found myself at Lord’s the other day, taking the kids on a tour of the ground. It occurred to me that I could confirm, or possibly refute, my hypothesis on apostrophes while I was there. I mean, one would expect that the Home of Cricket would also be the Home of Correct Apostrophe Use. So I paid particular attention to this as I took the tour.

Let’s start with something simple – the straightforward adding of a possessive s to a singular noun.


Yep, no problems there. In fact, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed that the same correct usage is repeated at the top of the stairs. Well done the MCC. Now, what about plurals?


Ah, exemplary. How many boys? More than one, I’ll be bound. You’ll have to take my word for it, but that same perfection is repeated on each of the display boards in the case. As you might imagine, the children and I spent several happy minutes at this display, bathing in the warmth of the calm, confident typography of the English cricket establishment. Marvellous stuff.

Of course, the name of the place itself – Lord’s – has an apostrophe, indeed one that might trap the unwary user. So how does the MCC get on with this trickiness?


Perfectly, of course. We shouldn’t have expected anything less.

Anyone For Real Tennis? – England v New Zealand match report

I Can't Get My Head Round These Rules

Ged writes:

Two days after my last-minute-dot-ticket-office, cocktail-avoiding day at the Lord’s Test with Charley the Gent Malloy, I returned for my long arranged Sunday visit with Daisy. The weather forecast had been dreadful, but we woke up and indeed arrived at the ground on a beautiful sunny Sunday.

Daisy and I had an event-free circuit walk during lunch, but when we attempted similar at tea, we ran into Mr Johnny Friendly, walking the other way.

“Hello you two,” said Mr Friendly, stopping to chat with us. “Are you enjoying the cricket?”

“Oh yes indeed, Mr Friendly, very much so,” said Daisy politely, before enquiring: “Have you been watching the cricket or playing your beloved real tennis?”

“Mostly the latter,” replied Mr Friendly. “I can’t get enough of it these days.”

“I saw a television broadcast about real tennis only yesterday,” said Daisy. “The rules sound fiendishly complicated.”

“Not at all, young Daisy,” said Mr Friendly with his kindly voice. “The rules can be set out on a couple of pages; indeed there is an MCC leaflet that explains it all. Would you like a copy?”

“Nothing in the world should give me quite so much pleasure,” blurted Daisy, slightly exaggerating her Jane Austen-style manners.

Unfortunately, you see, Daisy comes from almost the right kind of family, which, after making a modest fortune through trade, then packed Daisy and her sisters off to almost the right kind of school. You should not scorn or reproach such people, dear reader. Daisy is a very good sort of girl; you should wish her extremely well and be happy to see her respectably settled. No doubt, there are men who might not object to her.

“Then you shall have a copy of that MCC leaflet,” said Mr Friendly with his benevolent voice.

“Ey up, tha’s reet gradeley,” said Daisy, getting so excited and confused that she muddled Jane Austen, the great early 19th Century novelist of manners, with Jane Austin, sister of the mighty Ian Austin, the greatest all-round cricketer that Haslingden, nay, even the whole of Rossendale, has ever produced.

“Hello you three,” said Mr Friendly, turning away from us. He was greeting some friends or acquaintances, no doubt far more important folk than us. Soon Mr Friendly was in deep conversation with those people.

We wandered on, thinking that Daisy’s real tennis rule leaflet hopes had been thwarted. But two days later, by means of that magnificent institution, The Royal Mail, a personally autographed copy of the MCC Real Tennis Rules, together with warm wishes from the Friendly family, arrived at our humble little hovel on the western fringes of London. Now that’s class for you.

Send your match reports to 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.

Scarborough Cricket Festival match report

Ed writes:

I went to the Scarborough Cricket Festival. Here’s nearly proof.


Yorkshire playing Durham in a top-of-table Div 1 encounter. Your proverbial 32-pointer.

We bought our tickets at the turnstiles.


At the same time, my Dad was at Trent Bridge. His ticket was more fancy.


We asked where we were allowed to sit.

“You can sit anywhere.” Pause. “But not the pavilion.”

Great ground, packed but with enough non-pavilion options to make it a nice-but-tricky decision.

As happens often in my life, I ended up at deep midwicket.

The sun shone.

We agreed there was nowhere else in the world we’d rather be than here. We wondered if Gary Ballance felt the same way.


We decided to do a circuit of the ground. You can do that in real places.

We started then got stopped: “You have to pay a pound to walk through here.” It was the members enclosure.

“Or you can walk anti-clockwise.”

We spurned the financial incentive and embraced the anti-clockwisdom.

Sat on the grass now, by the actual, real-life boundary rope, near a few hundred Yorkshire supporters, it was time for a beer.

We headed to the bar. They only sold the Scarborough Cricket Club Merlot by the glass – I wasn’t allowed a bottle as a keepsake.

We drank bitter.

Dad was worried he’d not get his money back for his third day Test ticket. Here is the small print.


Small print in Scarborough is bigger.


After a few more beers, we passed out.


Send your match reports to 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.

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