Thank you for joining us at The Sloth Hundred.

A truly bucolic scene greeted the Sloths on Tuesday evening. An immaculately prepared wicket sat waiting, stumps and bails standing proudly to attention, the outfield beginning its late-summer transformation from lush green to dusty brown, beneath a sky painted in the palest blue. It was, in every sense, a perfect evening for cricket.

As is customary, the assembled Sloths drifted in carrying equal measures of excitement and melancholy. Excitement for another evening together; melancholy because this was to be our final home fixture of the season.

The usual pre-match chatter grew steadily louder before slowly fading into puzzled silence. Stella, famed for their punctuality, were nowhere to be seen. Not fashionably late. Not stuck in traffic. Not even represented by a lone wandering opener. As phones emerged and contacts were frantically scrolled, hope lingered that perhaps they were merely delayed.

Then Sloth Porridge addressed the elephant in the room.

His contact confirmed not only that Stella weren’t coming—they weren’t even aware there was a game.

Excitement gave way to mild frustration before quickly descending into laughter. It was, after all, gloriously, unmistakably, wonderfully… Sloth.

As this most quintessentially village-cricket scenario unfolded, another small group of cricketers were gathering nearby for a training net, having themselves been abandoned by their scheduled opponents. Fate, it seemed, had decided there would be cricket after all.

As befits his rank, Colonel Mustard marshalled every ounce of charm, diplomacy and effortless affability before marching across to introduce himself. Moments later, through equal parts persuasion and personality, the Colonel had convinced the Buro Happold XI to abandon their nets and become our opponents for the evening.

With spirits restored, Sloth Porridge produced another stroke of inspiration.

“We’re only nine a side… why don’t we play it like The Hundred?”

It was a genuinely brilliant idea.

Borrowing the broad principles of the modern game, the Sloths padded up while Colonel Mustard and Ed gallantly defected to strengthen the newly christened Tadpoles.

The cricket itself, if we’re being honest, was something of a mismatch. Yet the Tadpoles displayed precisely the sort of resilience, enthusiasm and infectious good humour that earns instant honorary membership of Slothdom.

Bugg and Mini Bugg opened proceedings, with Mini Bugg securing invaluable family bragging rights by comfortably outscoring Dad—a fact unlikely to disappear from family conversation before next season.

On his Sloth debut, JP joined Porridge to accelerate proceedings. The highlight came when the Colonel, having loudly informed both players and his ever-attentive admirers that he was “going to bowl properly now”, immediately delivered something bearing only a passing resemblance to a yorker. Porridge gratefully accepted the invitation, dispatching the full toss straight back past the Colonel and into the boundary.

Sometimes cricket writes its own punchlines.

Ant and Lodge then arrived to consolidate, although “consolidate” may be generous. Both spent several overs searching for the middle of the bat. Ant did eventually find the middle—unfortunately the first solid connection cannoned into Lodge. The second found the middle rather better… unfortunately it also found the middle of Ant’s own chest.

One hundred balls later, accompanied by a scorer wrestling heroically with an unfamiliar format, the Sloths closed on an impressive 148 for 3 from 20 sets.

The Tadpoles then gathered themselves, appointed both scorer and umpire with admirable efficiency, and strode out to chase.

Porridge and Racing Snake were entrusted with the new ball against the Tadpoles’ strongest batters. An early breakthrough arrived courtesy of Gasman, who calmly pouched a catch at long-on. Undeterred, the Tadpoles regrouped and accumulated runs with quiet determination.

Colonel Tadpole Mustard, naturally playing to his gallery at every opportunity, compiled an entertaining 31 before retiring to what he would doubtless describe as “well-earned applause” from his loyal supporters.

Disciplined bowling, sharp wicketkeeping and committed fielding gradually tightened the screws, restricting the Tadpoles to a thoroughly respectable 100 from their 100 balls.

As the evening sun finally dipped below the trees, both teams lingered a little longer than usual. The Sloths had unexpectedly discovered a new group of like-minded souls who clearly appreciated equal measures of cricket, conversation and cheerful nonsense.

Not a bad outcome for a fixture that never happened.

And so the home season quietly came to a close. Was the evening really about the runs, or about finding friends where fixtures failed? Were the Sloths batting against bowlers, or simply knocking another chapter into the long story of village cricket? Did the boundaries matter more than the laughter drifting from the spectators by the rope? And perhaps the greatest mystery of all—was Stella ever meant to arrive, or were they simply the opening act in a story that turned out better than anyone could have planned?