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. Some wickets, he was seaming 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 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 suicidal 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 for Wantage 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 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. 

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.

1972, a low key summer in many ways, six years of playing solely away games had begun to take a toll. It did with me anyway, never possessing Don’s stamina or JP’s energy; I craved the luxury of leaving home ten minutes before the start of a match and just playing cricket. The stalwart’s of this decade already in place by now. J.Pilcher, R.Blowfield, a man capable of starting an argument in a Jehovah’s mission. G.Launchbury, a man capable of finishing the said argument. A. Haines, D.Watkins, I.Pert and G.Wixey. I’m on about constants here and only talking about cricketers, so no need to apologise to those I’ve not mentioned. Everyone’s turn will come, eventually. Anyway, all these away games and our own new ground far and away over the distant horizon. The thought of a new ground probably kept the others going. Whilst for me, a foot soldier, who could see no farther than the next game and it had all become a bit of a chore. The ones that had  worked tirelessly towards the new ground took comfort from the fact that one more season and we were there. It’s an amazing feature of this period that we kept going at all. Some talented cricketers could have taken the easy (sensible!!) option and played cricket that involved the odd home game. The ironic thing is that there isn’t a single local fixture on the list, the half dozen in Oxford being the closest. One notable retirement this year, Chris Cornish played his last game. A fine bowler, accurate and a prolific wicket taker.

What of the times? Glam rock had taken the pop music world by storm, Gary Glitter reached number 2 in the charts and some of the younger players amongst us tried to dress like him. If not actively pursuing his proclivities for under age girls. Don picked me up before one game and even he noticed that overnight it seemed, I had gone from just under six foot to six foot four thanks to my Gary Glitter diving boots. Well he laughed like a drain, although when it came to the fashion icon stakes, he couldn’t talk. There seemed to be a couple of scandals bubbling away under the surface at this time and on the drive over to Sonning, I remember Don talking about last year’s fixture and saying to one of our number. Who just happened to be sheepishly looking out of the window at the time, Don said that he didn’t expect him to have their captain’s wife backed up against the wall of the pub this year. Nearly cost us a good fixture. Who the recalcitrant is will only remain a secret unless the usual blackmail fee is posted my way by return of post please.

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But I digress, back to cricket matters. Memories of an uneventful season are restricted to a few. The game at Stokenchurch was abandoned. We had declared and it rained during the tea break. Dark and murky as a gorilla’s armpit we went out to play on a wicket juiced up and pretty near unplayable. The inimitable Chris Nugent (he blamed the wet ball) let a quick beamer go that parted the batsman’s hair. Whose nickname, for some reason, happened to be Porky, whether he enjoyed the taste of bacon, or perhaps he had Gary Glitter urges toward pigs, we never found out. He stared back at Chris, whose concept of an apology back then, usually involved holding someone up by the shirtfront and then saying sorry. Porky said, rather cryptically I felt, ‘That was so fast it never had time to bounce.’

Fortuitously, the game ended soon after and we had a drink with Porky who just happened to be a pigman and not some bestial freak. The journey went relentlessly on and next week we played Wolvercote. A fixture much loved by one Ian Pert, who had fond memories of the ground. This year brought no joy for him however, but in one of the half dozen score books that I’m unable to locate, you would see the record of when Ian scored a hundred on this ground. An occasion that I remember well, if only for the convention back then that the centurion duly bought a gallon of beer. Being as I had the rich sum of seven pence in my back pocket, the chance of a couple of free ones on Ian became an irresistible urge. After the game, we all went to the Red Lion in the village, umpire, scorer and ten players. Why only ten you might well ask? No prizes for guessing who went straight home. One Kenneth Ian Pert never turned up and left others cursing and me cursing the fact that I was likely to remain drier than a Saharan pebble for the immediate future. 

On to Goring and playing against a former player. Danny Vandervill was a useful cricketer who had moved that way a few years earlier, did the sensible thing and played for his local team. We gave them a bit of pounding and poor old Danny copped one in the mouth. A flier from George and Danny needed treatment. Getting hit like this was in itself, not an unusual occurrence back then. But dear old Les Carter came out with a gem, we all like a joke at someone else’s expense and as Danny came off holding his face together, Les said. ‘He walked off the field looking like a man playing the harmonica.’

The journey carried on into Oxford and our fixture with the Honourable Frederick Pickersgill Memorial X1. Alumni of an Oxford college, they consisted of lawyers, media types, publishers … you get the picture. Frightfully nice professional people and always a pleasure to play against them. They had just put an advert in the cricketer for a fast bowler, the wording of which went like this. 'Fast bowler wanted, must be able to play the piano.' Amazingly, they got one, fast and a good pianist. They already had John Nagenda playing who went on to play for Kenya in the world cup. I hooked John once, missed the ball and my glasses went flying over first slips head. Wrapped around the ball, a cartoon sequence as they flew off into space together.

Amongst Pickersgill’s number was a well meaning probation officer, come psychologist. He found Chris a fascinating subject and every time we played he couldn’t wait to coax another confession from Chris. Who himself, couldn’t wait to confess. He played the part of the confessor to perfection, subsequently owned up to everything from Trotsky’s assassination to the recent Post Office job in Blackbird Leys. It turned out that Chris had played a major part in the man’s dissertation for his PhD.

The bowling was once again carried by George, fifteen games and he had the best bowling figures in ten of them. The batting mainstays were John Pilcher and Tony Ayton. Tony was a top class performer who never played enough games for us. And so the season ended, no more Sunday nights into Monday mornings with Donald, well not until next season anyway.

As a postscript and whilst we’re on the subject of Donald. Over the years I’ve travelled in some decrepit, tired old vans that Don used, one at least deserves some comment. A Muscovich van that pinked and backfired its was around the countryside. At Pressed Steel after a failure with the bat, I asked him if I could borrow it and go up the Cowley Road and get a kebab. ‘Be careful with it.’ His parting words … who me? I parked, switched the ignition off and jumped out. My driving practice then the same as it is now, leave it in gear and save the handbrake. Stupid boy, the van had serious pre-ignition problems. For those unaware of this rare electrical fault, the engine doesn’t want to stop for some reason. As I walked the short distance down the street, I noticed the car was bouncing along with me, until … yes straight into the back of a parked Hillman hunter. It was like a goat, despite half a ton stopping it, the van kept bunting away as if trying to mount the obstacle.

Anyway, no damage done to Don’s van and like any responsible adult I left Don’s phone number under the windscreen wiper and made my escape. I always felt the need to confess, every time I drove Don anywhere. Well I did a couple of years ago and I couldn’t possibly repeat what he said. 

1973 April the 29th and the inaugural match at Challow. Rain threatened in the morning, but by the time the openers walked out against Bicester, the God’s smiled down and the ground looked fantastic. A cricketing Taj Mahal amongst the cabbage patches that some of our rivals played on. On the day our most prolific and stylish batsmen missed out on the first hundred at our new home, scoring a mere 83. Aubrey played his best years on wickets, some of which resembled allotments, but he is a more philosophical sort than me. I’d be spitting nails about the injustice of it all – Aubrey just got on with it. By the way, I’m not suggesting Aubrey was in any way decrepit by this time. Still a formidable player, he went on to play for another twelve seasons.

But we won and kept winning, Saturday and Sunday. Just to prove that our record concerning ineligible players is not a recent phenomenon, against Steeple Aston we probably trumped everything that followed. According to the book, one Sid Hunt scored 80. Considering Sid, an ex-carpenter who was over sixty by now and had four fingers missing on his left hand, a notable achievement you must think. Who was this man? A ringer? Most certainly and not just any ringer, one John Pilcher who got his fix of League cricket in the top division playing for Old Botley at the time. I think if you’re playing a doppelganger then use the best. In fact we had another one, John Drewett who also played for the same club as JP, made a dozen or so appearances for us over the next few seasons. Always under a variety of names and always with plenty of success. With the interests of accuracy and the self interests of those involved, I feel that runs and wickets accrued should be credited to them. All the time hoping that the OCA don’t dock points retrospectively! 

We also had a Kiwi guy wander down from the hills, been farming out near Fawley - ploughing his way around Europe he said. He also claimed to have just missed the New Zealand tour party that year. And for the half dozen games he played, you wouldn't have argued with that claim. He also got a few of us banned from my local, he upset the landlord, one Major Ernest Quinn. Doing a haka on the bar and telling the Major that his beer tasted little better than Kiwi's urine. The Major had spent all of his service life fighting for the Empire and his view of all noisy colonial sorts well aired - shoot the lot of them, it's the only way. We took our own wild colonial boy into the Berkshire restaurant where he persevered with his trenchant view that all English beer was as limp as Gnat's. The next thing, our noisy new friend was suddenly quiet. On closer inspection, he was face down in his chips. Weak as Kiwi's indeed ... we never saw him again.  

1974 and another season of unbroken success, victorious in all Saturday games apart from one and champions of the inaugural Evening League. The latter involved several close battles, the one at Denchworth, a typical parochial affair, ending up as a hand to hand fight as one of our number told their scorer to get back on her broomstick and eff off. Not very nice was it? But I have to say at the time, we all thought it hilarious, what does that say about us? Apart from ome or two exceptions, not a very nice bunch I suppose.  

Two quick bowlers bolstered the Saturday side, Chris Nugent and Colin Haines back to terrify opponents and in Chris’s case frighten the living daylights out of us as well. New ball and a quick wicket balanced the equation very nicely as he bounced teams into oblivion, in nine of our league games our opposition totalled a mere 381 runs – Kennington only scored 69 runs in two games. The wicket at Challow blameless, if very quick. One guy, a decent batsman maybe, but a man lacking any degree  prudence, tried to hook Chris. At gulley I saw the ball come off what I thought to be the bat and I dived and took a pretty smart catch. Looked around and wondered where my adoring team mates had got to. The ball had crashed into the poor man’s temple and I’ve never seen anyone so knocked out. A week of tests in the Radcliff infirmary ensued and an obvious advocate for the use of helmets stared us in the face. Despite this, helmets were another ten years coming. So Chris bowled like only Chris could and Colin behaved like only Colin could. A big man, not as tall as Chris, but wider. Red faced, enormous hands, slightly pigeon toed, you’d say to yourself this man could be nothing other than a farmer, which he was. A man of no little bluster, in actual fact quite a genial sort. But he looked anything but as he glowered and huffed and puffed. A precocious talent as a young man, he took sackful's of wickets in the sixties. Colin batted and never felt the need for batting gloves and he hit the ball miles. Or more often than not, he never hit it at all. He batted like a fast bowler, a short life and a merry one. Incidentally, he worked part time as a bouncer in the Swan, one night I was going up the stairs into the town’s only disco/club and Colin came bursting down the stairs six at a time. Flashed past me, his Doppler affected shout saying something to the effect of, ‘Don’t go up there, there’s a fight.’ To which I shouted rather lamely after his disappearing back, ‘But you’re the bouncer.’ He never replied, last seen running across the market place a blistering pace.   

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