Before I begin with this ‘report’ all I’m going to say is one thing: blame Shitshoes! Thus, with that clear, let us examine what went wrong, and what went bloody horribly wrong!
10 players assembled at The Camel + 1 scorer, anticipation high in the air [along with perspiration]. Arriving at the ground as Bashers do [i.e. well liquored and early] we noticed we were a player short. Said player [Pope] finally arrived along with a rag tag crew of Hot Dog’s presumably direct from the bar from the social event the evening before. They were dressed like it anyway, not exactly sporting correct cricketing attire and looking like they were dressed from a donation bin at the Salvation Army. Terrible; how frigging hard it is to wear white [or at least take the time to get out some bleach – SCC this is for you!].
Toss won/lost, don’t care, we were batting and this is where it starts to get hazy. Deadset, worst batting performance I’ve seen in a while [or at least a few weeks]. Top score was 12. Friggin’ hell, bloody embarrassing. I remember looking at the time, 10:48 AM: we were 3/4 all out and I was 3 sheets to next Tuesday on the Foster Lager express! Toot Toot!
Nothing can be said about the batting which is positive because it was a travesty: top scorer was The Gear on 12 by memory. Have a look at Spielberg Shitshoe’s video and see what I mean: A lager train wreck of a performance: All out for 74.
If there were any positives from the days play [apart from ‘discovering‘ a layer of Pure Blond cans on the bottom of the Esky on the return bus] it was the fielding effort: top class and a bloody boss effort! 9 Stars out of 10 lads for the bowling and fielding, we had a big chance all the way and really did more than we should have. Tantric again was lethal with the new pill, along with Billy who was reminiscent of a young Joel Garner [in height if nothing else]. I stung some muppet in the head with his first ball but didn’t draw blood nor teeth so I’ll work a bit harder next time. The evergreen Birdshit had the ball on a string and was keeping them honest. The Pope claimed a wonderful C&B on his first delivery and with a only a few overs left we still had a chance of winning [they were a few players short after all]. Alas, the game slipped away as our mighty Skipper Dags swallowed a bitter pill and conceded the penultimate runs for a Hot Dogs victory.
Shout outs to wonder penmanship in times of injury/crisis by Woodstock & fantastic pies and beers supplied by our loving sponsors Just Beer & Kooka Pies. Shitshoes did nothing but film shit on his phone so it was a collective vote to blame him for the loss. Him, and the Fosters lager.
Fines rained thick and thin in the Back Bar at The Camel with resident fines master Woodstock keeping everyone on their well trodden toes. We came, we saw and were thoroughly destroyed by a rag tag team of misfits. That said, we have better haircuts, sunk more piss and didn’t penalize them for not wearing proper sporting attire, so technically we won.
Winners are grinner’s!