Challow 1971

What a summer, wet I mean - abandoned games, rained off matches and in June, everybody's favourite MP, Margaret Thatcher's planned to end free school milk. Better news from the government when it announced crash helmets will become law in September. We played on a few that summer where it should have been obligatory, in the interests of personal safety that is. Not for ourselves you must understand, we played on a few minefields and had two bowlers who terrified. I was thirty yards away at slip wondering if I was about to be a party to manslaughter. One end was George Launchbury a six foot two swinger (the cricket ball, not the other type!) who twisted the ball either way, all done without the benefit of any cloud cover. On a humid day he could be unplayable, some wickets we played on, he'd seam it both ways as well. His partner was the same height only bigger and quicker and nastier. The last adjective may appear to be a rather grandiose claim being as how George had a mean streak himself. He was a useful footballer, who after getting run ragged for most of one game against a particularly mouthy opponent decided enough was enough.  When George threatened this nasty bit of work, he just stuck his chin in George's face and said the now immortal line, 'Go on then you big pansy.'  

This was a mistake, we all knew it was one insult too many and sure enough  George let a decent left hook go and this man fell and I was convinced there were cartoon stars coming out of his head before he hit the ground. George was a always a practical sort, recognising the writing on the wall, he never waited for the referee, just walked off the pitch, straight into the changing room and his early bath. He never played forWantage again, although the local boxing club rang him a few times and tried hard to recruit him to fill their vacant light-heavyweight position.                                                                                    

Anyway, over the years, we've had a few with a bacchanalian persuasion and George's opening partner probably took all the plaudits in that category. A hell raiser of Olympic capabilities. I've had the dubious pleasure of having a drink with him recently and it would be fair to say that he has slowed down somewhat. But this is a relative moderation and within a couple of hours my liver was trying the short climb up through my windpipe. Chris Nugent a man, to use the quaint language of the tabloid newspapers, of huge appetites. Everything was in proportion with Chris and the more nervous amongst us refused the chance of a shower until he'd dressed and gone home. Chris was quick and on some wickets, we dared not bowl him. When we played United Oxford Hospitals, it was flying all afternoon, but we hadn't scored many ourselves so Chris was turned loose. Got them out for twenty eight, one batsman got one that didn't bounce and travelling at a towering velocity, hit him between the legs. Two noises that were unusual on a cricket pitch, a batsman screaming and another noise, something breaking. After a long period reassuring the batsman that he was still breathing, although everyone was unsure about his continuing masculinity, he undid his flannels and pushing his hand down the front of some funny coloured Y-Fronts pulled his box out. A sight never seen before or since, the box was in two pieces, straight down the middle - mirror images. He left the field gibbering away, men other than the umpires in smart white coats escorted him towards  - well we never found out. Fortunately the hospitals team played their games within the grounds of the Warnford, so excellent counselling facilities were close at hand. There's a collective watering of eyes whenever those that survive that day mention the incident. 

But that wasn't the end of it all. Relaxing in the club afterwards, an incident occurred that concerned our opponents scorer and his attractive, hot-pants wearing daughter. He was raging, kept ranting about someone trying to de-flower his innocent fifteen year old behind the very club we were drinking in. Ranting and about to get the police involved.

The perpetrator of this not very close encounter was of course Chris. Not that anything happened, just some hormonal fuelled, teenage grope interrupted by an overprotective father, hers not Chris’s that is. The atmosphere immediately went from the relaxed milieu of a hospital social club to Dodge City within the blink of an eye. We were confronted by an angry mob and you never have a solicitor in the team when you need one most. But with the sound legal knowledge that comes with three or four quick pints, we all questioned the collective logic of our opposition. After all, Chris was only fourteen himself, and we felt that legally if anyone should be pressing charges it should be the younger of the two. Trouble was that he looked twenty five and no-one believed our reasonable observation. Our rational arguments succeeded in only further enraging the baying lynch mob. Leaving us with a choice, have a fight – Chris and my option, or beat a discreet retreat – the other eleven’s assertive decision.All through the ensuing altercation, I was giggling which would appear somewhat callous and from a distance of thirty four years I apologise unreservedly for such an unseemly display. But I did notice the young woman’s hot pants appeared to be both inside out and back to front. Needless to say, we drove home, realisation to the fore that this was another fixture we had lost because of activities away from the cricket pitch. There have been too numerous to mention over the years.

It goes without saying that, despite many wet, some indifferent and a few dangerous wickets, the season’s best bowling performance was on a docile Magdalen college wicket and George's 7-27 a master class of controlled swing bowling. Even this game was not without incident. John Pilcher, ground down by an afternoon of Chris's colourful language, went off on one during the tea interval. This took place in the scholastic, nay, cloistered setting of Magdalen's historic cricket pavilion. Literary alumni giants such as C.S.Lewis and Oscar Wilde must have shuddered as John's language proceeded to be more colourful than Chris's. Language the great men wouldn't have dared use in the printed form, John’s profanities could never be called original, but said with a concentrated intensity of feeling, that for once Chris was speechless.  

A postscript to the season and in September the 1d and 3d coins ceased to be legal tender in UK. This news caused panic in Challow, where a certain farmer was seen digging furiously, like a scene from Treasure Island, but without the parrot.  He just managed to beat the deadline and arrive at Barclay's bank with a hundredweight of 1d coins.  

Challow 1972

Batting

Bowling

mtchs

inns

n.o

runs

h/s

50's

avge

Mtchs

Ov

Mds

Wkts

Runs

Best

Avge

A Ayton

9

8

0

278

86

1

34.75

G.Launchbury

15

170

46

45

429

5-15

9.53

J. Pilcher

16

8

3

376

72*

3

31.33

D.Watkins

17

195

50

40

387

6-47

9.68

R.Blowfield

11

11

2

224

42

24.89

A.Haines

13

44

2

16

187

5-18

11.69

G.Launchbury

15

8

3

121

62*

1

24.20

G.Wixey

11

18

6

14

171

2-24

12.25

A.Haines

13

11

2

214

49*

23.78

D.Watkins

17

15

4

256

53

1

23.27

G.Wixey

11

11

0

153

29

13.91

I.Pert

15

12

1

131

29

11.91

D.Pert

13

8

4

44

17*

11.00