Brighton Beamers Cricket Club

“Rudderless” Beamers hit rock bottom

The Beamers juggernaut, possessed of huge momentum from the unbeaten start to the season, jack-knifed horribly on Sunday against Chigwell CC, shedding its load of London Pride and Mr Kipling’s Country Slices all over East Brighton Park.

After hours of post-match analysis over their tear-diluted pints the elders of the Beamers Jedi Council concluded that we hadn’t scored enough runs or taken enough wickets. This nugget of wisdom was later whittled down to: it was a bad toss to lose. Well, in the immortal words of Professor Yaffle, “Fiddlesticks and flapdoodle!” We were well and truly chiggered, outplayed in every area of the game, and only clawed back a modicum of pride through a nice tea and some quality quaffing in the Battle afterwards. Toss, schmoss - the better team won. In a most un-Beameresque manner there was mutinous talk from some quarters that the skipper had left the Beamers ship of state “rudderless”. It might have been kinder, perhaps, to say that the rudder sheared off in the skipper’s hand as he tried to steer HMS Beamer away from the rocks of a 9-wicket defeat. A loss of such magnitude cannot be blamed on the limitations of one man.

The Chiggers bossed the game from the outset. A combination of hostility from the Dominator and guile from Rob “The Beat” Allum was more than a match for the Beamers top order and by the first change we were reeling on 30-odd for 4. But the skipper had made plans for such a contingency in the stately, plump form of Frank “Insurance” Rigby being held back at number 6. He was the Beamers Praetorian Guard, charged with the task of stemming the haemorrhage of wickets. While those around him lost their heads he stood firm, his bat and armguard metamorphosing into an impenetrable Frankish shield. Alas, only Siddo, resolute in defence, dashing in attack and suicidal in running between the wickets, was able to prosper alongside Frank. So thornlike was Siddo’s resistance in the booze-soaked side of the Chiggers that the Dominator had to bring himself back on and resort to attempted murder with a bouncer. Eventually, tea came and HMS Beamer, with her mainmast blown away but with Frank still standing on the burning deck 57 not out, limped into port at 140-8.

Quick wickets were the order of the day if the Beamers were to have any hope of victory and so it was that Musso and J were let loose with a cordon of slips and gullies to make the first incisions. But the breakthrough proved elusive, not just for the opening pair but for every other bowler who followed in their wake.

Richard Mussett has, no doubt, been called many things in his time but “Muss the Toothless Dragon” will surely rankle with him. Jeremy Cakeheart provided plenty of sponge but the icing and the cherry on top were sadly lacking. There followed a succession of puff pastries, fondant fancies and fairy cakes from the Beamers bowling attack all of which Ross and Tim, the Chigwell openers, tucked into like a couple of third-formers on an afternoon exeat to a village teashop. Nothing seemed to go the Beamers’ way. Everyone seemed to bowl all right and there was plenty of playing and missing, but the three half chances went begging, the runs mounted up and as the first hour ended without a wicket we entered the Bowldrums. It all went eerily quiet, what little banter and sledging there had been dried up, and the Beamer mariners huddled together in their ragged whites on the Raft of the Medusa, lips parched, delirious through lack of wickets:

Chiggers, Chiggers everywhere
And all the Beamers think,
Chiggers, Chiggers everywhere
I really need a drink

When the wicket eventually came it was sadly symptomatic of the whole afternoon. A weary long hop from the skipper, an attempted pull by the tiring batsman and a dilly-dolly-dandy dollydrop to Dave at slip, who had time to tuck a red gingham napkin into his whites and rub his hands together before completing the catch. Celebrations were as muted as the Beamers had been all day. After that, Siddo managed to put some decent overs together as Ross inexplicably refused to perform the coup de grace, but it fell to Tim, that stout yeoman of East Coker, to finally put the Beamers out of their misery.

After a few pints, it didn’t seem that bad, but Monday morning brought both headache and heartache as the enormity of the Chigwell victory sank deep taproots into the skipper’s brain. In Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Grandad philosophises that “From the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success”. It remains to be seen whether this captain will be there to smell them.

Like some volcanic plug left uneroded eons after the rest of the mountain has turned to dust Wayne's opening over into the teeth of a gale will linger in the memory long after the minutiae of this match are forgotten.

Now, the Beaufort Scale lists 13 different forces and includes such charming descriptions of the effects of wind as "Small twigs in constant motion. Light flags extended" and "Ripples, but no foam crests". It makes no mention of the effect of wind on a strapping opening bowler. If it did, it might say something like "Ball slung at own feet. Over extended indefinitely" or "Run ups, but no deliveries".

Poor old Wayne. The look of utter desperation on his face after the ball thudded into the Mountfield turf next to his size 11s for the fourth time will haunt me to my dying day. A spacewalking astronaut suddenly untethered from the mother ship could not have looked more helpless and distraught. The rest of us, gawping through the portholes of starship Beamer, all felt Wayne's pain (apart from those sniggering in the slip cordon), but he was beyond help as he drifted off into deep space. "Portslade, (crackle)…we have a problem".

A six-ball over takes on the mantle of eternity at times like these. As some wag opined, Wayne's only hope was to land one right on his big toe, limp off injured and let somebody else finish the over. The blowy conditions really did put the wind up him and it took every last ounce of resolve and character for him to finish the opening over. Big man, big heart, comedy bowling.

Until then everything had been going swimmingly for the Beamers. Eleven players, on time, kit not stashed in a Cavemobile, toss won, Mountfield inserted. But then the ill wind began to blow.

While Wayne was being pulled back to Mountfield by a gravitational beam Siddens and Mussett senior were entrusted with the still-new ball. Runs came in a flood, the like of which hadn't been seen since Noah's time and before we knew it Mountfield had posted 80 for no wicket. Time to apply the tourniquet. Time for that peerless peer, Steve Bassam. Resplendent in scarlet and ermine he tabled dozens of amendments to the Mountfield (Unassailable Total) Bill (2004) and succeeded in hobbling their progress. Together with the Spinning Beast he stemmed the flow better than a Lilet Maxi.

But the runs still came. The skipper's attempts to shore things up were "as successful as Edward Scissorhands tying balloon animals". Towards the end the best option was to bring on Robbie Mussett. One over, one for three. Should have opened with him!

By the time the aroma of the teatime garlic bread tickled our nostrils Mountfield had skipped along to 209-7. The chase was on. Tally ho!

If Dave and The Preacher were Olympic sprinters, (rather a big, portly "if", I grant you), they would have been given a little flag for a false start so quick were they out of the blocks. Clive was particularly brutal with anything affording him a bit of width and the Beamers' fifty came up with scarce a dozen overs gone. Half an hour later we were 80 for 6, Cliverts gone for 41, Dave for a baker's and Frank, Siddo, Wayne and Mussetto blown away for seven and a half between the four of them.

But at least we were up with the run rate and with the skipper and the Beast putting on 40 in double-quick time an unlikely victory lurched into the realms of possibility. When Chafey departed one might have been forgiven for thinking "Après lui, le déluge", but plucky resistance first from Jonners and then from Basso gave the Beast time aplenty to flail the ball to all points of the compass and plunder a marvellously entertaining 61 including one six so enormous that it went into orbit with Wayne around the Andromeda nebula.

With the Beast's demise it was left to Robbie Mussett to put on 40 with his Lordship, but a straight one first ball up did for him. His day will surely come. After three defeats on the trot let's hope it's next Sunday.

Soggy Ham Sandwich

Straight from making history at Northants, the Beamers and 4 generations of Caves assemble at Ham.

The story so far: after years of fasting in the wilderness, in summer 2003 the Beamers assuaged their want with a feast of runs before applying the skewer to the Ham batsmen. Victory by 100+ runs. All this despite heavy sledging from senior Caves and constant attempts to seduce errant Beamers away from the task in hand with offers of exotic bathing facilities.

This year, as part of a resolve to conquer such distraction by confusing loyalties, the chief architectof Ham support, Cave PADC, was drafted in to make up the numbers for a Beamers squad riddled with injury and hangovers from the previous weekend.

Thus, the central question on every Beamers' mind: was the suckling pig ready for slaughter once more? The firm consensus in the Hand & Flower after was that only a proclamation from the heavens saved Ham from the sage and onion.

Ham's maitre d', Bob Jordan, perhaps sensing a strong vegetarian contingent in the boys from Brighton thought Ham'd be safe from the spit by electing to put the Beamers in. How wrong he could have been.

Following to the letter firm instructions from the skipper, Beamers batters feasted on the opening salvos from Ham at 4 an over, took the ballet dancing Penguin in their slavering jaws, gorged and spat him back into the outfield after 6 overs with figures of 0 for 53, then asked for more, this time with extra chilli.

221 for 4.
Arthur 14, Attenborough 27, McKenna 70 no, Smith 60, Siddo 0 (sorry Rob), Lord Chafey 36 no.
Contributions all round then.

Then tea.

And as the Beamers' bowlers sharpened their knives, the rain started. Hopeful of only a short shower all assembled under the trees on the Common waiting for the worst of it to pass.
But then the Lord spoke. From on high a thunderclap announced the futility of desire, the utter wretchedness of kicking an animal when down. What less should we have expected for casting such pearls before swine?

It would be nice to report on evensong and a late communion back amidships. But no. Fayre of this substance demands a pause. Remember though, good things come to those who wait. There's jugs in the bank, dear Beamers, and Smithy & McKenna's buying!

For the last 17 years early in June I have made my way to Northants. First as a young ringer for the Lord of the Manor as he pitted the wits of the Gentlemen 'gainst the brawn of the villagers, and more recently for the Beamers, gentlemen of wit and Braun hair curlers.

It's hard to sum up what happened this year. Even now as I attempt to find the words, I fail, emotion wracks my heaving chest.

I 'll have a go though.

Two teams, both alike, save that one was slightly better than the other. The apples and the bananas. There were, in the white corner representing the apples: Frank, Rob siddo, Mike (hart), Tom (frank's mate) Jonners and and Musso. In the other white corner were the Bananas: Smith, Davies, Tongue, Esson, Bailey and the Beast.

The six a side competition consists of two leagues, a round robin of the two produces two finalists who must play one another over the allotted 12 overs of a game. It's fast, furious, comical and hurts a lot.

The Apples, under Frank's wise tutelage, did well to win their first game. But in the stronger league they struggled agains the next two teams and although never embarrrassed were beaten twice. Musso deserves a mention for his tireless fielding.

The bananas were nothing short of rampant. In their first game they swallowed the awesome Aldous family whole, Pete taking a truly blinding C&B to send Beefy Simon whimpering back to the Pavilion.

In the second game they swept SHORTLEGS aside, posting 70 odd and then bowling them out within three overs. In the final game of the round robin they were up against the reigning Champions, Southwick Y. Bowling first we contained them to a manageable total of 69. THe bowling and fielding performance was inspiring.

Once again Pete Bailey deserves a special mention. Keeping wicket he takes a lifter full in the face, then, ten minutes later whilst bowling, he dislocates his finger. The assembled cricketers look a bit green, and some (including the skipper) are hopping from foot to foot making suitably empathetic grimaces, others are calling for the' first aider'. Meanwhile, Pete, the quiet tough guy of the Beamers, takes himself off and pops the finger back in. He then finishes his over. Scary, hard man, Pete. Don't mess.

It was at this point that I realised that this puppy was ready for a nailing, the turkey was self basting in preparation for a plucking. This was it.

The final, against CAMRA, was never going to be easy. Esson bowled another blinding over, his fouth of the day. Beasty followed, the change in pace foxing the CAMRA batsmen who incidentally had put on 101 against one side. Tongue got a lashing, Smith and Davies steadied the ship and Bailey did his bit. Richard Tongue taking a steepling catch to redeem himself.

68 to get for a win. Bailey no doubt wracked with pain got us off to a flyer before he lost his wicket. Davies picks up the mantle and justified his opening place. Smith floundered, the emotion too too much. Beast and Davies at the crease. 12 runs needed 6 balls left.

The crowd were on their feet. Who was to bowl? The pace man? NO it was the dobber! "Jesus" I cried "That's not on, we're done for". Beasty had other ideas. One to the boundary. 8 off 5. Miss, 8 of 4. 2, 6 off 3. Miss, 6 off 2. 4, 2 off 1 for a win. FOUR!!!!!!!!!!! C'mon.

An amazing team effort, truly inspired fielding, bowling and batting. We won, not through skill or luck, as there were doubtless better players there...but through commitment. Nothing got through us. No overthrouws were thrown, no backchat was heard. There was just the quiet determined vision of a team that knew they could win, and in doing so would make one man the proudest in all Northants.

I'm filling up.

The Northants Campaign

For reasons that will become clear I am not going to dwell long on the Saturday of this year's Northants Weekend.

It was awful.

The Sausages (3) egg and chips that the pace attack decided would help them bowl was not a great start. In fact most of the Beamers enjoyed a healthy lunch and, with a couple of pints to wash it down, by two thirty were about as lethargic as a flaccid hammock. I believe it was only Beast who went for the healthy option.

After last years debacle it was decided by the skippers that the Beamers should bowl first, thus giving us the advantage of an improving wicket. And so to attack. Started OK then fell apart. The figures speak for themselves. It really was awful. First Stevee, then Siddens, then Mike Hart then Smith falling like strimmed daffodils before the black and decker dynamo of the Southwick top order. Smith, saving the best for last brought out the Beasty. Bring on the big guns they cried.

"Beast.Beast.Beast.Beast....Bugger."

The ball sailed high over the Mid on boundary, again, and again. A red kite turned and wheeled on the thermals created by Rick's bat, eyeing up the weak and the lame hoplessly tethered to the boundary. Meanwhile the Beamers bowling 'attack' were bent double over the light to medium roller and mercilessly rodgered senseless. It wasn't pretty. Beast was taken for 26 off one over.....should have had a proper lunch.

After tea and facing the task of matching the largest score ever chalked against us we had a bit of a go. After ten overs we were looking good. Then like puppies we rolled over and offered up our underbellies to the marauding teenagers. After 15 it was all over. Frank got a few but no-one stuck around long enough to help. Beamer after Beamer gave up his wicket and shuffled off in the direction of the light to medium roller.

We consoled ourselves by drinking the pub dry.

THE CAMPAIGN DIARY OF CAPTAIN CHAFEY

It's hard to win a game of cricket when you drop seven catches and nine of your eleven batsmen don't score more than five runs.

Harder still when your opponents have an opening pace bowler with more venom than a boxful of Tasmanian tiger snakes. Chigwell nickname their paceman, Dom, The Dominator, but he might just as well have been The Dominatrix so submissively did the Beamers top order surrender to his will. Jeremy even batted in a corset for goodness' sake! Not since 9/11 has there been such an aggressive attack and when the Twin Towers of Bailey and Arthur had collapsed the Beamers were reeling on 5 for 2. Time, if ever there was, for a captain's knock. Well, the captain suffered several knocks from some hostile stuff and then a fatal dent as Siddo forgot the First Law of cricket and gave his skipper out LBW. When J and Ritchie the Chigwell Ringer departed the Beamers found themselves in a hole bigger than that left by the Tunguska asteroid at 37 for 5 and needing 150 to win.

But the Beast was still there, his beastly torso a patchwork of bruises. He was so in the zone that 13 minutes later as his team-mates cheered his half century he could no more acknowledge it than Steve McQueen in Papillon can believe the sun when he comes out of three years in blacked-out solitary. By this time, with Siddens making amends for his umpiring with a quickfire 32, the Beamers were just 48 short of their target with 11 overs to go and five wickets left. The Chiggers were getting panicky and the green shoots of a Beamers recovery were poking through the earth.

These shoots were scythed down as Siddo and the Beast fell in quick succession, like an old couple where one cannot survive without the other. But they'd added 64 for the sixth wicket and restored Beamer pride and hope. As Steve took guard the skipper was heard to mutter "Whatever you do, Esso, don't play a big wafty wendy heave-ho across the line". No prizes for guessing what happened next. Marlon batted bravely with a broken leg but was undone by a snorter and it was left to Musso and Jonners to see out the last four overs as our chances of winning evaporated. Inevitably, the scent of victory meant the return of the Dominatrix and there was no gainsaying her as Mussett fell leg before with the Beamers 30 runs short.

Things had started rosily enough for the Beamers earlier that afternoon as Marlon achieved a double breakthrough and the Chiggers limped to 8 for 2 off the first eight overs. Then the dropsy set in as chance after chance went begging. More catches were dropped than aitches in an episode of EastEnders. You'd normally bet your paisley-clad bottom dollar that Dave would cling on to at least one of three chances at slip, but, alas, the catching gods had gone to Margate for the Bank Holiday. Surely Siddo would take that skier - oh, no, he's mounting a buttery unicycle and is pedalling backwards and … oh dear. Others were culpable too and only the Beast and the skipper with three catches apiece came out with any glory. Siddens clawed back some pride with 3 for 14 with the ball but by then Chiggers had raced to 149-8 and the Dominatrix was just pulling on her thigh-high boots.

The bitterness of defeat at the hands of the Chiggers was sweetened by jugs galore and enjoyable banter in the Battle afterwards. No doubt Ritchie's inside information about the Chiggers' batting foibles, offered up with zealous candour almost as if he hates the lot of them, will prove invaluable next year.

Palmers start season at about 5.37pm

You have to appreciate that the memory is a little hazy after all this time (and indeed wasn't exactly on full throttle on the day) so if this isn't how you remember it, you probably were there.

Palmers - Hove Recreation Ground. Some anxiety on the Skipper's part about exactly how many Beamers would turn up but one Phil morphed into another to make eleven. Beamers won the toss and opted to bat. Rigby and McKenna struggled against a sharp seam attack and both sadly succumbed, the latter apparently (well Wayne said) to the best ball of the season. Smith and Arthur, however, gradually mastered the bowling and flowed and flourished till……. having seen off the openers with aplomb, Arthur was deceived by the first-change dobber and, taking a full toss on the bonce, retired hurt.

At this point the opposition decided drinks were in order and various people were sent off to find some. This took a very long time.

Smith and Loafer ( Lo Far? Loofah? - some poor unsuspecting soul that Frank invited along thinking the Skipper hadn't got a team when in fact he'd already selected 13) got into their stride and the runs flowed. Smith in particular showed why he's not been put up for the MCC for nothing and stroked and flayed the ball to all parts like the true gentleman he is. Latterly, assisted by Cave, himself showing early season promise, Smith powered towards his century only to be thwarted by tea, five runs short.

Tea went on a very long time. The opposition, lost in some spring-time idyll, completely forgot about their innings and had to be cajoled into re-starting the game 20 minutes late.

So soporific did this whole phase of the game become that your Skipper has only a dim recollection of what happened next or indeed that anything happened at all.

He thinks Bassam and Wright bowled well and had some early success. He seems to recall Cave being made to bowl a long spell with a bad back. There are fragments of memories of Smith and Wake bowling a bit and Wake taking an extraordinary catch at silly-mid off which should by rights have taken his head off. Oh and then one of their batsmen threw up at length, on a length, just outside off stump at the pavilion end.

He dimly remembers us bowling them out in the last over to win, probably a famous victory, only faintly marred by a distant recollection of their last batsman having dozed off in a bush somewhere.