On paper, Sloth’s first batting line-up of the season looked formidable. Bolstered by the return of Jim Painter and fresh blood in the form of Newbie Tom, this also included Hewston, Lewis, Franks, Headon and James Mac. So why in god’s name, you may ask, did Howard open?

In fairness, Howard lost no time in swinging the bat and looked like posting a decent score, before lofting an over-pitched delivery to Rotork’s skipper on the mid-wicket boundary. Hewston looked similarly assured but was well bowled by a late in-swinger, taking out his off stump, before he could make much of an impression. Enter Messrs Painter and Newbie.

With a combined total of over 20 years away from the pitch, these two looked hungry and keen. Tom willed the ball to the boundary for the first time with a stream of expletives, whilst Painter managed to drag anything outside the off stump to where – one assumes – he thought it belonged, on the on-side. Unorthodox as he was, Painter nonetheless retired on well in-excess of 25. However, the run-rate had somehow slowed to a crawl and something had to give.

Lewis, padded up and waiting like a caged panther, urged Newbie to get on with it or get out. He chose the latter. Now un-tethered, Lewis scored 25 in less time than it took Painter to remove his pads. Whether bisecting or finding the field, Lewis ran everything and urged his hapless partners to do the same. Bond was thus given a work-out that would have stretched a man a fraction his age. And in a blink Lewis was gone.

With wickets in hand, it was time to unleash the big guns. However, these only fired intermittently and – a couple of glorious sixes notwithstanding – the score merely limped towards respectability. Bond, somewhat compromised after his supporting role to Fresh, looked ready to explode as ever but never quite ignited. In the final overs, Rotork managed to stifle the run flow, nullifying Macca and Headon in the process. The anticipated late flurry did not ensue and the run-total barely crept into treble figures.

To say that the weather was a little nippy would be a gross understatement. With the light already fading and the sun long gone, Sloths took to the field to defend their meagre total, swathed in as many layers as they could cram under (or – in one unforgiveable case – over) their whites. Chairman Franks, meanwhile, toughed it out in a short-sleeved shirt. (Hard as nails that one – and not at all prone to fainting)

With ball in hand, Hewston looked on the money from the off, as did Headon and – later – Howard. Rotork’s openers, however, were unperturbed and set about dismantling the bowling. Some of which, it has to be said, did a pretty good job of dismantling itself (Madeye and Fresh both taking several balls to find their feet –the former quite literally). But it was Macca who provided the vital breakthrough, taking wickets with consecutive balls of his first over and inciting some near-suicidal fielding positions in a bid to enforce the hat-trick.

Talking of suicidal, you would have to be nuts to keep wicket without lower-frontal protection. Or at least have nuts of steel. Or both. Meet Mr Bond. Having essayed a take in the near-darkness from one of Howard’s quicker deliveries, Bond lay prone on his front – like a felled oak – for some moments, before declaring himself fit to continue. When questioned over a pint in the clubhouse as to why he wasn’t wearing a box, Bond declared ‘I never wear one’. When asked whether he had been hit in that region before, he cheerfully replied ‘Oh, yes – last season’. Go figure.

Other attempts to put the Rotork batsmen off their stride included a brutal body-check from Macca, in a bid to catch a sitter, mid-wicket, from a mistimed, speculative hoik. Actually, there was a good case to be made that the catch would have been easily held, had the batsmen avoided contact. Indeed, Franks made a late appeal but was duly ignored. Even the deployment of Morris Men at the canal end (a case of ‘merriment behind the bowler’s arm’) failed to shake Rotork’s single-minded resolve, their audio impressions of wickets tumbling (by clashing sticks together) proving ineffective.

And, with some inevitably, the total was reached. But was it? Sloths had put on 106. Noting the scoreboard bears the legend ‘target’, it had been decided to display the required total to win (107), rather than that scored. So, on reaching this figure, there was some confusion – before it was agreed that this was – indeed – the win. Whatever.

So, in summary: Painter is back and looking good; Fresh’s form with the bat continues; Bond is as head-strong as ever; Macca already looks like reprising his top bowling form. And we lost. Which, surely, sets the stage for another season full of thrills, spills, triumph and adversity. Will Bond finally go nuts? Or will Bond’s nuts finally go? Can Fresh continue to retire in successive innings? Has Painter rediscovered his mojo? And who was that, lurking around the covers in the dark, as we sipped our post-match beers? Could it have been Ed? Where is Ed?…

Roald Amundson, Antarctic Correspondent, Slothful Times

(Editorial Note: Roald Amundson, is a twat and can be / should be contacted directly. Those feeling unjustly abused should remember, he bowls like a Sloth on acid)