Brighton Beamers Cricket Club

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.