For some reason I am being asked to bat at nine. I don’t know why.
I sit and watch our innings with the haunted air of the disenchanted. After what seems like weeks, it is my turn to bat. The time has come for Laurence Elderbrook to take his stage.
Before I walk out, I take a moment to compose myself in front of the mirror. In my creased, off-white flannels, I look dishevelled. But still, it is time.
I don’t bother to take a guard. I just blink slowly and await the bowler. My captain is at the other end. I fix him with a languid, surly gaze before returning my attention to the ball. It pitches on middle and straightens. I leave it.
The pitch is hard and the ball whistles over the top of the stumps. It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. With a huge backswing, I knock middle stump clean out of the ground.
I watch it cartwheel away and then discard my bat. I pull out the two remaining stumps. With one in each hand, I drop to my knees and hit them against the floor in unison. I do this repeatedly. I do it maybe 20 times until they’ve made dents in the pitch. As everyone looks on in admiration, I toss the two stumps away, throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar.
Pausing only to lower my trousers and moon my captain, I depart with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.
Everyone admires the stand I have taken. They admire me.