At this time of year, it’s usually a good idea to bat first, whilst the sun is at a reasonable height and the red ball visible. So it proved, last night at KES Fields. The wicket was flat and true and the outfield lightning fast as Sloth openers Fresh and George took to the crease.

Visitors ‘Stella-Max’ (Stella-Super? Stella-Extra?) presented a heady mixture of bowling. This ranged from the nippy and accurate, to the downright bizarre. Thus, it took a few balls for many sloth batsmen to find their rhythm. However, all did so. And I mean ALL.

No wickets fell. I’ll repeat that: NO WICKETS FELL. Many a Sloth returned to the pavilion but none was dismissed. Occasionally, a mistimed shot was lofted but only one found the fielder, who then had the good grace to let it go. Outstanding in this regard was a near-vertical hoist from Danny-O that gained such altitude it had NATO readying air defences. Danno was literally able to run two before the ball finally returned to terra firma.

Jimmy C was particularly impressive, compact and busy at the crease, with terrific hand speed. Harding, too, displayed a good range of shots. Hewes was imperious and unruffled as ever. Fresh and George saw off some tricky opening bowling to get the score board ticking. In fact, it didn’t so much tick as whir, reaching something in the region of 180 runs by the end of the allotted 20 overs.

Facing such a mammoth total, Stella appeared defeated before they’d even begun to bat. None seemed particularly eager to pad up. A couple did show potential to let loose but this never really transpired.

There were no weaknesses in the Sloth bowling line-up. In days of old, one might have expected some respite for the embattled visitors, provided by the inclusion of three or four non-bowlers. However, this team had no such element.

George ‘Lazereye’, fed-up with striking the pads, resorted to hitting the wickets. Jimmy C took a terrific, diving catch at short mid-off. SDS, fielding at point, took a similar – if somewhat more sedate – catch, pitching forward in apparent slow motion to snaffle the ball just above the turf.

Luke ‘Horcrux’ provided the now-familiar running commentary, now-familiar running commentary – repeating everything for the benefit of hearing-impaired, older Sloths. He also took a terrific catch, head-height, from an edged, rising delivery by Howard. And, with Hewes (?) on a hat-trick, near to the close, he dived forward, past the stumps, to scoop the ball from the dust, only to find the batsman had not made contact.

In the dying overs, the earlier-proffered white ball was finally accepted. Given that the game was now being conducted by moonlight, this was possibly a little overdue. Having said that, Stella’s batsmen had appeared to be seeing the ball OK. Only, they’d generally seen it hit the wickets or be caught by waiting fielders.

Talking of which, having spent much of the innings, inexplicably, with nobody behind the wicket – bar Horcrux and the occasional deep fine-leg – Sloths ended the game with 5 slips and two gullies. Knowing full-well none of these was likely to catch anything, Hewes elected to bowl in a manner that forced the batsman to pitch the ball to the one remaining offside fielder.

I’ve literally no idea how many runs Stella scored. But it wasn’t many. And it certainly wasn’t anywhere near Sloth’s record-breaking total (which I don’t actually know either – what am I, Bill Frindall?). Suffice to say, the visitors took it in good heart and characteristic humour. None more so than their wild-card batsman, who alternated – with successive balls – between batting right-handed and left. Class!

Over lukewarm tins of premium lager on the pavilion veranda, the usual post-match analysis was conducted and questions raised. To-wit:

• what idiot decided cricket balls should be dark red?
• does one cricket match and three days’ drinking constitute a ‘tour’? (that one from Stella)
• speaking of red – whatever happened to unions?
• why can’t cricket bats be made of bamboo?

Answers, please, on a red ball, in red marker pen, launched into the darkness of a dark, cloudy May evening.

Karl Marx, red correspondent, Slothful Times