It’s a gorgeous day. Perfect heat; no humidity. Before leaving his flat in Shadwell, Leo Nieboer, sipping at his green juice and only half-listening, his mind on field placements and other such totally normal Saturday considerations, chats with his flatmates about their plans for the day. Jambo is going on a date; Lotte is going to B&Q, then hiking. And Nieboer, he tells them, will be facing Chris Roden-Smith on the Hollies.

Opening the batting is a nerve-jangler, but there’s an added veneer of dread attached to knowing exactly who you’ll be contending with in those first few overs. This ominous thought, among others, serves as the only company for Nieboer on his Lime bike to the ground, because once again he has lost his headphones, the third time in about a month, which is probably a sign that he just doesn’t deserve to own any.

Thankfully, there are some extremely early birds at the DSG: Ajit Prasad, CRS, Damon Greeney, Aman Jain, and Dom Scott, who is horrified at Nieboer’s predilection for a £5.35 Redemption Roasters iced latte, nearly faints at hearing there’s oat milk in there.

“Utter, utter woke nonsense,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

We head over to the Hollies — a rare thing in April; it’s still usually marshland at this time of year — and CRS asks Nieboer what he’d like to do. Nieboer fancies a bat, to get ahead of the game and perhaps put some pressure on these highly capable but possibly flimsy cricketers. That had been the message during the week: all the pressure is on them, and none of the pressure’s on us.

As it turns out, all the pressure is firmly on the 2nd XI, so powerful it reminds Nieboer of that Titan submersible implosion in 2023, when all those millionaires were squeezed to oblivion in a second. Nieboer and Prasad are under a relentless assault of unwavering line and length from CRS and Greeney. After 8 overs, they only have something like 12 on the board. And four of them are byes.

Trying to break the inertia, Prasad goes for a drive against CRS and misses it. Simon Carson raises the finger. At the other end, Nieboer endures a torrid battle with Greeney on a pitch that’s spitting sometimes and keeping low most of the time. It’s kind of mesmeric, standing there, watching him come in. Damon Greeney: a prince in movement and a sage in repose. You can tell he understands the often ignored notion that treating things — from cricket balls to his garage door — in the gentlest most controlled way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way, treating them as if they were sentient beings too.

Nieboer and Tom Elmslie manage to negotiate these two unconscionably accurate openers, taking Plough to 30-1 off about 15 overs, but then Dom Scott comes on and Nieboer’s brain, strained from the last hour of total focus, somewhat short circuits itself. He’s bowled for 10 (45).

And then things fall apart. Jo Hockings is run out for 0 — a direct hit from Aman. He’s spent five hours on a train from Devon to face 12 balls and get run out. He texts his mum that he got a duck, and she replies saying she doesn’t know what that is. A collapse so cataclysmically bad ensues it becomes less like a cricket game and more like a neutron star falling into a black hole. Four ducks in a row. Six people in total make no score. Only Nieboer and Elmslie (24 off 47) make double figures — the latter a rare shining light, looking composed and correct. The 2nd XI go from 30-1 to 64 all out. Standing on the sidelines, Nieboer feels like he should be wearing a black dog collar with silver spikes sticking out of it.

Some credit to Aman and Dom, who finish with figures of 3-2 and 3-6 respectively. Not a bad return at all.

By this point, any of the essential rage and bite of that cagey arm wrestle of an opening has dissipated into thin air. The entire contest feels absurd, like an aberration of nature of some kind — an octopus with dildos for tentacles; a flower that does your taxes. Matt Spencer didn’t even get a chance to ask all his questions, so I’ll note a few below:

Do you think we all see the same green?

Do you think seals dream?

When did you last have a ribena?

Do you think A4 paper has a better side to write on?

Do you think moles are scared of the dark — but because they’re blind, aren’t aware? (One to ask Elmo)

Are you a member of any Facebook group?

Would you rather jump from a moving train and land in a piss filled paddling pool or a pile of gravel which might hurt a bit?

In any case, despite the now-empty vibes of this contest, the 2nd XI conduct themselves superbly in the field. Giordy Diangienda bowls excellent line and length, drawing an edge from Umar Iqbal. Leo Kelly, on debut, looks very tidy, delivering tasty inswingers. Qammar Jamshaid bowls exceptional heat. Everyone throws themselves in front of everything, not giving up, playing for each other.

Angus Osborne and Umar knock off the runs in 12 overs, and we all head over for tea. It’s still only 16:00. Some people are happy to forget about this foul sport and have beers; others want to keep playing, so we head back over and concoct one of the most disgustingly village spectacles of live sport ever witnessed in the post Pangea era. CRS is umpiring at square leg but also fielding. “You won’t believe what this umpire does next!” Nieboer somehow takes three wickets — Leo Connolly, Dom Scott (so 1-1, basically), and Suri, who refuses to walk. Tom Elmslie starts walking out to bat despite no wicket falling, striding to the crease mid delivery, like some glitch on Cricket 07. He then starts running after the ball, pads and gloves on. Jon Ryves is falling about laughing.

During shower beers, we debate whether it makes sense to have shower beers at home. Aman reckons it’s absolutely fine. But then again, he thinks bed beers are good, which, as Chris Butlin often points out, “ruins the bed and ruins the beer”. Michael Ainslie reckons shower beers at home are sad, not worth it. Nieboer reckons his girlfriend Livia would be concerned if he had shower beers at home, especially when he started singing ‘We’ve Conquered All of Surrey’ and banging on the tile. That would need to be discussed.

Speaking of Italian girlfriends, Hockings, outside, is reflecting on how he actually doesn’t like Italian food, which is problematic for a man who lives in Rome with his Italian girlfriend and whose half-Italian baby is imminent.

“It’s always, like, just four ingredients,” he’s saying. “I need more than that. They never have any dips for anything. Just dry salty *shit*. Like, spaghetti alle vongole, right? Her family love that, but I always tell them: it’s wet salty pasta, with a few morsels of meat in it. It’s mainly shells. Pointless.”

A brief image flashes across my mind: Ploughmans tour to Italy. Aperols at sunset; kissing men on the mouth, smoking on the toilet; the boys belting out *Che La Luna* in the dressing room; ordering a Hawaiian pizza, just to get under their skin. One day, perhaps. The only problem, Ajit says, is finding a hotel big enough.

“I mean, Trent doesn’t even need a room,” Elmo points out.

The horrors of earlier start to feel like an abstraction, a bad dream, some hallucination experienced under a stormcloudy sky that bulges and recedes like a big gray lung. None of that here. We are into stranger and more palatable subjects, like the perils of surfing at Bondi — being slammed by a wave and only coming up in time to be slammed by another, growing more and more breathless. Actually, that’s a little too close to home. Other topics include donating sperm and what Angus Osborne will have for dinner. He feels like Indian; Umar recommends Ugandan, which is a bit of a departure.

More jugs arrive; the wide empty darkening sky above feels bigger than usual. Life is good again. Ah… the DSG — this wonderful soft play area for neurodivergent adults with alcohol problems. How good it is to be back.