Thankfully, today's weather is not the absolute furnace of last week. But unfortunately Leo Nieboer has other problems. His ears are blocked. He spent last night absolutely lashing himself into Shadwell Basin, head first and at great speed, and now, on this muggy but manageable morning, Nieboer feels like he’s still underwater, at terrific depths, the water all around him silent and dim and the same temperature he is.

Despite this unfortunate impediment, Nieboer can still make out what Benny Cobbett is saying to him, out there in the middle at the Griffin.

“REALLY strong argument to bowl first today,” he’s saying, looking down at a greenish pitch with a touch of moisture, the clouds above hanging low.

Nieboer never really knows what a pitch means, actually cringes when Stuart Broad’s on Sky Sports talking about footholes and ‘how it’ll quicken up’, or whatever, but nonetheless he’s listening closely to Benny and thinking hard about what to do. He lets others weigh in. Nicko Dowell, one of the most militant bat first merchants around, says he “can see an argument for it”. Steve Britto says it doesn’t matter. Matt Spencer says he always wants to bowl first, no matter the circumstances, which we already know. Chris Butlin, still beleaguered by some sort of virus that peaked on Tuesday, is not saying anything, his skin sickly pale, dead behind the eyes and staring deep into the distance, the man we know as Chris Butlin barely even there, inside that bald head.

Winning the toss, Nieboer does decide to bowl first. Their skipper, Gurpreet, a nice bloke who we’ve played against a fair few times, is extremely surprised. They were almost sure we’d bat first, like we’ve done all season, so far. It kind of feels like 1-0 already.

In the changing room, Nieboer shows the two balls to Spence and Benny, and asks them which one they like.

“This is the better ball,” Spence says, pointing at one.

“I like this one,” Benny says, pointing at the other.

“Up to you, then, Skip,” Spence grins at me, handing them back.

Nieboer goes off to a quiet corner and looks closely at each one, pondering what the bowling sages have said. It’s a real headf*ck, actually, like choosing whether you want chicken or lamb in your shawarma. Nieboer goes with his gut.

Six overs in, Nieboer is quietly worried. Sinjun’s openers are teeing off, racing to 54-0. The pitch seems perfect; the outfield, unlike last week, is rapid. Definitely doesn’t feel like 1-0 anymore. To make things worse, Joey Anderson is not here. He told Nieboer he’d arrive before 13:00, but now we’re 30 minutes in and there’s no sign of the guy.

Just as things threaten to really spiral, Spencer takes a wicket maiden, smashing the opener’s stumps in true Spence fashion. Nieboer takes him off.

Now the tide has turned completely. Out of nowhere, Sinjun can’t score a run. Qammar Jamshaid and Benny Cobbett come on and give them absolutely nothing to work with: the former homing in missiles from round the wicket, the latter darting them through, a steely glare of cold determination somehow still visible behind those obscene speed dealers of his.

The pair both take two wickets, reducing Sinjun to 76-5 at drinks, Qammar also with a fantastic run out that turns us all into hyenas. It’s the captain, and it’s comical, so it’s the sort of thing that gets the boys really screeching — that rare and beautiful high white sound of 11 simian creatures revelling in their opponent’s sudden unexpected descent into chaos and failure.

At drinks, Nieboer discovers that Joey has come off his bike, badly twisted his knee. We’re playing with 10.

It hardly seems to matter, though, this numerical disadvantage. We’ve got them by the balls; the boys are so Up and About that I can see the bulges in their trousers. Spencer comes back on and finally manages to take more than two wickets. At the other end, Nicko Dowell — quite the Joey bowling replacement, just another Aussie who gets it down there and doesn’t respect you — has perhaps my favourite spell of the lot, mainly because so much happens.

To start with, he takes a wicket, caught by Butlin. Then he nicks a bloke off — one of those that everyone hears — and the guy, of course, doesn’t walk. A few balls later, he smashes the guy’s back foot and it just quite simply could not be more out. It’s one of those that doesn’t warrant an appeal; just go straight to celebration. But the the umpire — you guessed it! — reckons it’s going down leg, or something, and Nicko is so apoplectic with rage that it’s actually kind of fascinating, seeing the Aussie red mist spilling forth, eyes almost bulging out their sockets.

“It might have been going over,” Britto offers later. “You are quite tall.”

Nieboer decides to give him a little break, then brings him on at the other end. Two catches go up; both go down — one from Umar Iqbal, one from Britto, who juggles the thing for about five minutes before finally escorting it to the floor. In any case, it doesn’t really matter. Nicko bowls their No.11 and Sinjun — 3rd in the league Sinjun — are all out for 143. It’s been a remarkable effort.

So remarkable, in fact, that our dear tea lady, Claire Hood, isn’t here with our teas yet. Sinjun players are making enquiries. Nieboer mutters something back at them about maybe batting their overs next time. In any case, it does arrive eventually, along with Jess (Spence’s fiancee) and Sienna (Benny’s girlfriend). There’s lovely sandwiches, some sort of coffee cake (but sadly not Alex Julienne), and even gazpacho, which Nieboer can’t stand personally but gets a real nod of approval from Spence, as well as those lollies we had a hard time with last week.

Nicko has a tea break shower. The boys head for the shade. And Umar and Britto head out to the middle. Almost immediately, they look totally comfortable, in complete control. Umar is graceful, surgeon-like; Britto is commanding, busy. The ball they’re using — the one Benny ‘liked’, because he knew it would die and perhaps restrict Sinjun — has indeed completely died, forming a great crack down one side. It feels like a complete procession. Nicko, out there umpiring, is giving wides and refusing LBWs with the same joy of someone scoring 100 on a flat deck, really middling those signals, every time.

“I’m about to fall asleep,” Butlin says.

“You do look a bit unders,” Nieboer replies.

With Umar and Britto seemingly doing this themselves, the pair veer off into a bizarre strain of conversation.

“This kind of cricket,” Butlin says, motioning at Sinjun players dropping the ball as it goes round the circle, “it’s like a pantomime. We’re wearing our costumes and doing a sort of cricket cosplay, aren’t we.”

Nieboer nods. “We’re basically like the people who do those civil war reenactments.”

Butlin smiles for perhaps the first time all day. “Yeah, they go to the woods, don’t they, so that nobody sees what they’re up to — this f*cking perverse habit.”

“People can’t know.”

“I mean, look at me,” he says, pointing at himself standing there in pads and whites. “Why the f*ck am I wearing this? Anywhere else in the world, this attire is genuinely insane.”

“It’s not actually too far from what they wear in asylums, isn’t it,” I agree.

Butlin nods. “Really grim.”

“Also,” Nieboer adds, “why don’t showers have those big baths anymore, like they did at Wembley in the 70s?”

“Imagine what that would look like. Everyone’s pathetic sports cocks floating to the top.”

“Looking kind of like fishing lures.”

“Exactly, just bobbing around.”

Our conversation is abruptly ended by Umar hitting one back at the bowler, out for 46 (56) — a dismissal so out-of-the-blue Nieboer can hardly believe it. The boy has looked peerless. The score is 93-1; it’s pretty much done. Heading out there with Britto, Nieboer notices how the Sinjun players have clearly given up. They’re laughing and joking with each other, setting silly fields, which I kind of respect. The next few overs are basically like a net, then, Nieboer (19* off 24) and Britto (59* off 79), knocking them off easily. 20 points and a bloody song.

We hang around for a bit, waiting for beers to be brought out to us. There’s another function at the Griffin, so we can’t go near the main building. I speak to Stuart, head of the Griffin, and he’s stressed, because it’s 18:00 now and the catering hasn’t arrived — nor has the actual person the party’s for. I peer inside and indeed it’s a decidedly awkward vibe in there: people sweating, holding drinks, leaning from one foot to the next, every now and again some mum absolutely screaming at her kid.

I decide it’s not my problem, and we head to the DSG to watch the 1st XI successfully chase down a total themselves — albeit in more chaotic fashion. Duray Pretorius barbeques Dom Scott, then Ritik Jaat comes in, starts defending for some reason. I spill beer on Jess’s bag. Duray tells Ritik to have a go, so he takes off his lid and smokes a perfect square drive for… 1, which wins the game.

Duray comes off and he’s covered in blood. His finger, all splinted and bandaged up, looks awful, really quite hard to look at, like some canape from hell.

Sean McGurn is doing fine physically but has some mental scars after doing the wrong type of leave earlier, having got to 30 and apparently looked imperious. Jess tells him that “you were good last season”, which is technically true. Sean bites back by calling Butlin a “lispy, fat, speccy, noodle armed, ******* twat” (last word redacted because it’s really quite awful, albeit very very funny). The three of us reflect on how approval from Champion Boss is, like, a lot better than approval from Dad.

“There’s just much more of Boss,” Sean points out.

“Yeah,” Nieboer nods. “A man and three quarters in all directions.”

“A handshake from him — it feels like being a tree in a storm, or something,” Butlin adds.

Nieboer is sad to leave this chat behind, but he’s got a birthday gathering on Hampstead Heath to get to. Butlin is convinced he’s off to do some dogging. It turns out to be looser than that. One friend gets pushed on a swing so hard that she falls up, down, and lands on her back so hard that the ambulance is called. A bunch of girls I’ve just met are playing this game that involves trying to take a lit cigarette out of my mouth with their toes while standing up, then putting it in their mouths. One girl burns herself; another falls over. Some other girl rolls down the hill, filming herself the whole way, and we don’t hear from her again.

It’s been a real UK summer day: hospitalisations, leaving straight ones, gazpacho, bleeding captains, bacon fries, falling off Lime bikes, baseless slander, icy cider — and, of course, 20 more points for Ploughmans 2nd XI. Bloody roll on next week.