Suri and myself carefully rearrange the boot of his car. Living up to his reputation as the coolest cricketer on the planet, the Sutta King has procured a high-tech esky crammed full of ice to keep the beverages cold on one of the muggier days in the league. ‘Elmo you ask me and I deliver’. He certainly does.

The G is bristling with the rhythms of morning cricket. I see Lucky for the first time in what feels like an age, more sedate than usual and completely uninterested in his paddling pool. I’ve half a mind to ask John if we can borrow it for the day, dismissing the thought as quickly as it arrives. The1s inspect the wicket and eyebrows hit the roof, loud ‘hmms’ are hmm’d, plenty of prodding is happening. It’s green but the soil is very dry and threatening to crumble away like a giant rectangular biscuit. ‘Hollies is the Hollies, we bat first on that’, declares JB. If we’re honest with ourselves, I don’t think anyone - and I include the Lords ground staff - really knows what the hell cricket wickets are, what they might do and why. McGurn wins the toss and agrees with Barron that we’ll have a stick, having apparently accidentally kicked and stood on the coin during the toss and somehow still convinced the Sinjuns skipper that it’s fine and he won it fair and square. Confidence, people.

The same pair open the batting together and guide us to a cautious but useful start. Barron in particular is ooooozing class, flicking and driving his way to 23 including a majestic straight six over the sight screen. He and McGurn fall in relatively quick succession, the former painfully unlucky in trapping a yorker only for it to dribble in slow motion back onto the stumps. Suri tries to get us moving but it’s hard work out there.

The bowling tight enough and the Hollies is doing its usual thing, the odd ball misbehaving just short of a length. Connello / Commonly / CowNelly, another tourist fresh off the plane, injects some impetus with a breezy and technical 32 before falling to the offspinner who is turning the screw with some fast, awkward stuff. I usually look down on darty spinners in the way I imagine professional chefs regard Brooklyn Beckham’s attempts to become an internet cooking star: what is the actual point of you, you are a disgrace to the trade, have some bloody honour. Begrudgingly it’s also very effective and proving a real challenge today, the Plough content to navigate his spell in damage limitation mode.

Dom and Duray take to the middle with the 1s precariously positioned at 87-4. One of those situations which can go from not great to really f****** s*** in no time. What follows is a masterclass in middle overs acceleration. The pair combine beautifully, quickly doubling our total and wrenching the momentum away from Sinjun. Duray copped a rough decision the week before and there’s a steeliness to him out there. He’s doing all the Duray stuff which causes the boys to exchange knowing looks and make specific noises. He’s ticking. Our South African allrounder belts 52 off 40 balls and we’re right back in the game. Along with Dom, they’ve set the perfect platform for our never-ending middle order to cement the advantage. Daley and Tunnacliffe take us into beast mode with a blaze of 4s and 6s, targeting the change bowlers and even inflicting damage on the openers forced to return early. Daley hits one so hard I’m convinced it would have landed back in Gibraltar were the big tree not in the way. Having been called up to the 1s for the first time, Callum is superb - doing what he does best and whacking balls into next week, engine room daddy style striking them at 185. Dom finishes on a superb 66, Tuna unbeaten on 34 off 19, taking us to a meaty 277. Sinjuns’ wheels fell off somewhere in the 25th over and never came back. Bickering and mopey body language tell the story: they know we’ve got away from them.

At tea, Sean discovers a new sandwich making its debut at the DSG - chicken with what is termed ‘pink sauce’. Curiously, the plough dissect the sandwich and theorise about what this mysterious sauce could be. It’s tangy and quite spicy. It makes me feel a bit ill to look at but Sean and Leo chomp it down, so keep an eye out Plough and let us know your thoughts.

Post-sandwiches, Leo and Qammar open up and deliver an equally spicy start, both beating the bat regularly with slippery pace. Qammar pins their opener dead in front, but as we’ve sadly been accustomed to in the league, the umpire simply shakes his head. It’s one of those where the whole team skips the anger stage and goes straight to laughing. Heads remain cool however, and we’re rewarded with a wicket from Connello’s end. Aman and Dom take over proceedings and the pressure continues to mount. Dom in particular is superb, a masterful exhibition of left arm tweak to spin out 3 of the Sinjuns top order, capping off a quality allround performance for the Durham man. At drinks we’re well on top but this team is experienced enough to read the room. McGurn ties us together and delivers the message - we are nowhere near done here boys, there’s a job to do. Qammar then pulls up unexpectedly with a stiff hammy and Sean is faced with the prospect of 10 men; fairly unthinkable in a 1s game, and less than ideal at this stage. A phone call is made. We wait. Over the horizon we see something coming towards us. Connello spots him first. It’s bloody Chad Mace, from bloody tour, coming over to bail us out in the field. Unfortunately for Chad the only white trousers available are designed for drainpipe legs. Unfazed, he prances onto the field like a character from Robin Hood Men In Tights, his muscular lower body threatening to burst out of his trousers at any minute like some kind of cricketing stripper. I’m fairly sure someone had to cut him out of them afterwards. He fields excellently, patrolling the boundary for 20 overs when we needed him most. The man woke up planning to drop off the tour kitbags and ended it by debuting in the field for the 1s. No chat, some bloke.

There’s no let up from McGurn’s men as the spinners continue to tighten the noose. Duray holds his nerve to prise out 2 wickets in 2 balls, one of which featuring a screamer from Sean above his head at 1st slip. The carry-on is epic, wheeling away like Harry Kane (not Harry Payne). Tuna joins the party picking up 2fer and the game is all but done. Not wanting me to miss out on the spinning allrounder party, Sean chucks me the ball for what turns out to be the game’s last over. The No.11 runs past one and Suri obliges, giggling to himself as he whips off the bails. He then tells me that the ball before he’d baited the bat with a challenge to hit it over Tunnas at mid-off, a bait clearly too juicy to refuse. Suri delivers once again.
We take in the win as golden hour descends, sinking a jug of winner’s piss provided by Harry Payne (much more like Harry Kane) who came along to support all day; another proper clubman, turning out to support the boys even with one arm strapped in a sling from a tour-related injury (few of those knocking about!).

The showers are populated. A cold setting is discovered which baffles and delights.

The beers flow as the 2s join us, having fallen agonisingly short of a win at the Griffin but full of good spirit and jugs for the boys.
Mr and Mrs Barron have come along to see their lad play. I watch as James explains to his mother why he keeps calling me the mole. Her face is one of genuine concern.

Leo orders more crisps than I believed were ever stocked at the DSG.
The jugs are so numerous they accumulate on the grass like a trough for rural alcoholics. Debut league wickets, fifties, 3fers, avoidance - it’s an unbridled orgy of jug celebration.

Damon Greeney hands me a brown paper package to take home. Foreign currency, passports and a loaded revolver is all I can assume are contained within.

A long, sweaty and brilliant day - the 1s are up to 2nd in the league, it’s 20 points and a snog please.

Plough On.

Elmo