I get to the concourse at Waterloo station and Giordy Diangienda is standing there, looking at his phone and then into the far distance, then back to his phone.

“I know that guy,” he says, pointing at a lanky member of staff who’s walking aimlessly back and forth, also on his phone. “He loves the F1 too. Good guy. He’s calm. Likes all motorsports, like me.”

“Right.”

This being my first game as 2nd XI captain — a task so senior and important it still at this point doesn’t feel quite real — I’m a pit of nerves, even more so than usual. So in a way I’m glad Giordy’s here: just let the man run his mouth and listen, like putting a podcast on in the background, to cut through those vicious morning howling fantods.

He’s recently started work at Selhurst train depot, so he’s got a lot to say about the trains in front of us.

“Class 455, this one,” he nods, looking at our train. “Old train. Remember the Milk train? Used to take the same route.”

“Right,” I nod, picturing a train exclusively for umpires, each seat with a specially built in cup holder for a nice pint of cold milk.

Rattling through Vauxhall and Clapham Junction and Wimbledon — god, I know this f*cking route in my blood — more Plough trickle onto the train, including Jo Hockings. He makes the good point that we all forget what April cricket is really like: pictured, during winter, as dreamy golden hues and long evenings, when in reality it’s basically still winter, today. Today’s forecast says highs of 13C.

Hockings is talking about how he needs to get baptised, to much amusement.

“Confirmation as well,” he says. “I have to convince a f*cking priest that I’m ‘sincere in my beliefs’.”

“And give confession as well, no?”

“Yeah, f*cking confession. I’m not admitting to anything. I haven’t done anything. They can forget it.”

As soon as we get to the ground — a beautiful large place with a classic clubhouse, encircled by a busy road — everything starts to go wrong. They have an umpire for us, a designated penguin, fresh from the morning Milk train, and this guy wants to implement fielding restrictions. Leo Nieboer loses the toss, calling wrong, and gets sent into the field on what looks like a good deck and rapid outfield. And Qammar Jamshaid, with 20 minutes till start time, is still at Waterloo station. We’re starting with 10.

It’s a brutal start. They’re 42-0 off 4 overs. Everywhere I look, there are gaps. The ball is absolutely racing to the boundary; even edges find the rope. It feels like wherever I put fielders, the ball just manages to bypass them. Joey Anderson drops a couple of catches. Others go painfully just wide.

Damon Greeney pulls out some magic to bring Plough back into the game, bowling their dangerous opener and removing their LBW first ball — triggering high pitched screeches from all corners and allowing me to implement a hat trick ball field for the first time, which of course is tremendous fun.

Even so, the field still feels like a black hole, a gaping chasm sucking the ball away from any of us. By the time Qammar arrives, 13 overs in, they’re 92-2. It’s way too many runs for this stage. We’re not bowling well, for the most part, and it’s clear none of us have done any fielding for a long time.

We’re in danger of Weybridge moonballing their way to a 300+ score — absolutely spreading us on a cracker like some bloody hors d'oeuvre and just biting down on it — but Plough fight back impressively. Niraj Thakker, taking 2-31 off his eight overs, is absolutely spot on. It’s pretty much the only time where I feel vaguely in control of things, his metronomic accuracy allowing for an impenetrable 9-1 field. Qammar also bowls impressively, taking two wickets, along with two catches grabbed with an almost Champion Boss-like level of nonchalance.

At 147-6, we have a real chance of bowling these guys out for under 180. But once again it swings. Despite some handy bowling from Joey Anderson and Rehan Raees, they keep the scoreboard moving — another f*cking partnership, my brain getting hotter and hotter, now lapsing into an almost manic fatigue.

It’s not helped by the fact that nobody seems to know what over we’re in. The scoreboard says 31; the umpire, scribbling away in his little book, reckons we’re on over 33. I shout over to the scorers. They’re adamant that they’re right. The umpire then comes up to me, adamant that he’s right. At this point, I don’t trust either of them. My temper is hovering dangerously on the far edge of control now. It turns out the penguin is right. In any case, they’ve finished on 219-9, which we would have taken at 93-2 off 13 overs, but also feels like 50 too many.

Coming off the field, I say hello to Mads, Nicko’s wife, who’s with her daughter and Nicko’s dad — all of them looking calm and happy. And why not? They’re in the middle of a long weekend and it’s a beautiful day, and I briefly get this sensation that I’m peering through the window at a life that couldn’t be further away from my own. Saturdays are not for being serene, or taking it slow; Saturdays are now for binge drinking and wondering whether you should have a first or second slip.

Tea looks lovely. There’s pasta bake, garlic bread, millionaire shortbread, but I can’t enjoy any of it. I have no stomach. I’ve got an empty expanse where my stomach ought to be, now deep into the little hell of my own nauseous pre-batting nerves. Nieboer and Prasad have much to do.

We don’t get it done. Despite feeling pretty good out there, Nieboer gets a leading edge in the 5th over and is caught impressively. And Prasad, not feeling particularly good out there, gets bowled an over later. Nicko Dowell holes out early on, another good catch.

Jesus, these guys are taking everything. And they’re bowling much, much better lines. They do not look like a team playing their first game of the season. They’re unbelievably well drilled, and we’re not, in all honesty. Rehan Raees, in at 5, suddenly cramps up in a truly vicious manner, and has to come off.

Jesus, I’m thinking. This is absolute unmitigated f*cking chaos. I’m learning a lot of lessons today, and one of them is that even the most meticulous planning can very easily unravel in the face of objective reality, which appears to be getting some real joy out of pulling my pants down today.

Hockings and Rob Mead offer some good resistance, but it’s nowhere near enough. Being 19-2 off 10 overs is hardly a platform when chasing 220, so really we’re just going through the motions, now. Death throes. Prasad tells us that a 14 year old has just hit his first ball in the IPL for a monster six, and it really makes me wonder why we bother with any of this. Nicko and I, in a moment of pure reflexive anglo-centric arrogance, both claim at the same time: “He’s not 14, mate.”

Giordy agrees. “Show me a birth certificate,” he insists, shaking his head.

Mead is dismissed controversially, Hockings navigates all the hard stuff and gets bowled by a child, and now Qammar is in, using my bat. He starts cracking some delicious boundaries, making sounds with my bat I’ve NEVER heard before, before he is also dismissed controversially. I keep singing his name to the tune of Karma Chameleon by Culture Club. Nicko reckons “Lizard” would be a good nickname for him.

“Flat out, mate,” he chuckles.

He’s a great find, Qammar. Just need to buy the guy a watch. A month ago, he was some bloke working at my local off license. Now he’s the best player on my 2s captain debut. Life is weird sometimes.

We really should look more into bossman recruitment. Perhaps, one day, we can field an entire Bossman XI, captained by Hari Vignesh.

The game ends feebly, Qammar top scoring with 29. It’s been a hard day, to say the least. We have a sit down in the changing room and I say a few words, but it doesn’t come out right. Another thing learned today: it’s really hard to actually think; there’s always so much going on; you're just reacting, not leading. I wonder how Matt Spencer managed to always appear so cool and gathered.

The debrief completed, we turn to the beers, and stand around chatting complete nonsense for a while. I can’t tell whether Hockings, who got a blow to the head earlier, is drunk, concussed, or both — or perhaps cognitively challenged in some other way. Giordy makes some serious accusations about my search history, and I assure him that my mirrors are firmly checked, in that regard, and that generally it’s better to do that stuff manually, anyway, which he clearly doesn’t understand. Nicko gets a big nibble from me on the subject of Ben Stokes. Giordy cannot for the life of him find his gloves — keeps going round asking people to check their bags, muttering to himself, repeating the same interaction with us, over and over.

“Literally had them coming off,” he shakes his head. “What the F*CK, bro?”

We sink more beers. Our humiliating electronic scoreboard is still up, despite the game ending two hours ago, and Nicko and I both agree that it’s a pretty unnecessary punch in the gut, but also quite funny. We rush to get the train. Joey, Niraj and a clearly psychologically hampered Hockings don’t make it.

We head back towards the Smoke, Giordy and Nicko talking about something or other, and in my mind I start to pick over the bones of just what the hell happened, out there. Then I realise we’re playing the 1s next weekend and the dizzyingly tantaslating prospect of sticking it to Duray’s boys, and an evil grin returns to my face. Roll on next week.