From the boundary's edge

One of my ambitions when moving to the country was to join the local cricket team. This Sunday I achieved my aim when I turned out for my local team: "The Commoners".

We met at the pub for a pre match pint (how fab is that) and then drove off to a picturesque cricket pitch, somewhere in the darkest Cotswolds.

Village cricket is full of fascinating and terrifying characters: huge public schoolboy fast bowlers, with huge noses and giant ears who speak as though they have mouth full of ball bearings; ex-army lance corporals, brickies and roofers; little fat blokes who can surprisingly run very very fast; ancient old ladies who do the tea and buns between innings; mysterious Indian spin bowlers from the local Balti house; it's just fab.

Anyhow, I batted number four and came in at a crisis point when we had lost two quick wickets. Amazingly, after some stout defence, I managed to score thirty-nine runs with seven fours; returning to the pavilion, flushed with pride, to a ripple of applause from my team mates.

Sadly, my bowling was a mixture of Julian Clarey and Ray Charles and I was quickly ushered to mid-off with a: "thanks very much mate" from our wicketkeeper captain. Still, a successful debut, not so much because I scored a few runs but rather avoiding getting out for duck and looking, as my team mates would have no doubt whispered: "a bit of a w@nker that new bloke, aint he, eh?"