Woodham Mortimer Cricket Club

The Club Yoyo. Gav’s been up and down between the 1st & 2nd XI more times than a whore’s drawers. You would think that this would be the main headache for the captains each week – which team to put our Gav in. But it’s not. The main headache is what boundary marker to put people on when our Gav bowls. The answer is the next field if possible! I mean can you really call it bowling? For sure our Gav has burgled 6 wickets in a single game, but even Stevie Wonder can chuck a ball up high and hope for the best. It’s a frustrating game this cricket malarkey. But more about the man himself. Gav’s surname isn’t just Cook by coincidence. Oh no. Before his days as a brick layer (if only his bowling figures were as study as his walls) Gavala was a top chef at his local wimpy. Gav took up the name ‘Cook’ because he just loved making food. You can see this every week when Gav plays when he offers the batsman 6 pies an over.

In a previous life Gav must have been Chinese. He hates dogs. Detests them , so much so that Gav would rather have Adolf Hitler sit on his lap whilst he stroked him rather than the resident WMCC mascot Trigger. Maybe Adolf and Gav are mates. Have you seen the size of Gav’s cricket bag. Must be the largest in the world – big enough to fit a small Nazi in for sure. Can’t keep anything else in their surely – apart from those shiny new pads and gloves, and that unused bat. Don’t let the blotches of red fool you. Gav will tell you they’re from boundaries. Poppycock – after another 1’s fiasco Gav got out for a duck and went straight to the supermarket. Coming across the vegetable aisle Gav vented his frustration on the cherry tomatoes. Gav was eventually escorted out but caused a right palaver when his bag got stuck in the doors. Very embarrassing. Managers had to lube him up with butter to squeeze him into the gap – something Gav is still struggling to do when batting.

If Humpty Dumpty and a pair of promiscuous (look it up Cam) wicket-keeping gloves ever had a love child you would get a little something like our Nigel. Like his dear old father Dumpty, who couldn’t be put back together again, our Nigel also appears to be shot to pieces in more places than one. I mean what is it with you wicket-keepers? First you moan that my bowling is too far down the off-side then you tell me its too far down the leg side. Are you never happy? Our Nigel is a rare breed. With what knees he has left he leaps to any wide ball like a gazelle, one that was once a fine prancing animal but has since been shot a few times and half eaten by a lion. Who needs knees anyway?

If there was ever a love child between Freddie Flintoff and Lurch (Hot Fuzz – Yarp/Narp you get it) then you would have Roger Marshall. The 2^nd oldest of the Marshall trio to grace the pheasant sigil. Rog likes to think of himself as a genuine all-rounder AKA all-round greedy bugger who wants to bat, bowl and field. During the winter Roger spends his days staring glumly out into the snow, pretending it’s a hot July afternoon, chasing a ball down like a dog on heat. The term cricket on the brain doesn’t do this guy justice. When Rog finally has a kid it is due to be named after his most admired cricketer: Brian Lara (Brian if it’s a lad, Lara if it’s a lass). Yet, despite his many flaws – like when Rog rambles on about anything and everything, and you’re not quite sure what is going on or what the meaning to this pointless tale is trying to convey – he is very much so an impact player, devastating with both bat and ball at times. I mean have you ever had a dream where a guy was that good at both things? No? Me neither. Certainly not as good as brother John. Ooooo John.