Six days earlier, hiking through the South Downs, enjoying a nice break from work and London and, yes, even Ploughmans CC, I check my phone at lunch. People are messaging me, congratulating me. What? What’s happening here? Am I pregnant? Did I beat the, um, allegations? As it turns out, I’ve been made captain for this game — the first time I’ve captained anything since the age of about 11, and that was bloody hockey.

As I walk through luscious verdant Hampshire pastures, trotting along paths laden with daffodils and dead wild garlic, serene-looking cows and sheep adorning fields either side of me, the soft rustling of rural life all around, I’m now just thinking about my batting order. Who opens? Where should I bat myself? How do I make sure everyone gets a game?

Jesus, I think. How do Spence and Dooz do this every week? How do they, like, maintain jobs and relationships? I’m consumed by this damn thing, and it’s only a meaningless friendly. By the time I’ve got my tent set up that night, I’ve still got more questions than answers.

Thankfully, as Sunday rolls around, my head is vaguely clear. But where is everyone? It’s half an hour before the official start, and only myself and Azharul Haque are here. God, I’m so skittish, like a cat with a firecracker up its arse. I’m pouring sweat, mind racing. I need to be medicated, or maybe just slapped round the face, which Aza would never do.

Eventually everyone does turn up, including the oppo skipper, who Umar Iqbal believes looks a bit like a South Asian Jarvo, and now I can’t get it out of my head. He really does: same build, same kind of facial structure. I think I almost call him Jarvo at one point, as we stand in the middle doing that captain small-talk, very deliberately making the boys in the sheds wait anxiously for what they’re going to be doing for the next two and a half hours. Turns out he's the man who smashed Simon Carson in the face last season. Grant Wolledge asks to shake his hand. I offer to buy him a pint.

South Asian Jarvo wins the toss and sends us into the field. “You had ONE JOB” booms Jon Ryves from the sidelines as I make the gesture, and somehow I feel guilty for calling tails now, despite the toss famously being a strictly 50/50 equation..

“Everyone goes heads, you prick,” I mutter to myself. “Trying to be all hipster with this tails nonsense — idiot. Babbling FOOL.”

At least it means I can spring the surprise on them nice and early, I think. My plan, during the week, had been to open with the left-arm LMS wizardry of John Walton and the delicious flight and guile of Justin Cash. Sadly John isn’t here yet; he’s zooming down from Ipswich, of all places, after being at a wedding the day before, so Aza gets the new ball — hardly the worst back-up option.

It’s a vicious combo. With Aza’s first over sending the batters cross-eyed, just absolutely jangling their minds, the Energy Exiles captain can’t get his head round Justin Cash, whose first ball has him stumped, trying a ridiculous sweep. The perfect start. Captains can get some stick for opening with spin; they could easily go for a 20-run over. Thankfully, this season, Cash Up Front is a sure thing. Always Cash in early. With the pronounced seam and extra bounce, he’s a nightmare to get away. He goes on to take three more wickets, including their No.3, finishing on figures of 4-35.

I’m having a wonderful time. With Umar as my chief counsel — the Steve Bannon to my Donald Trump, if you will — we’ve got some mad fields: two blokes catching in cover, another close on the onside, a leg slip, silly point, no mid on, three slips and a gully for John Walton. It’s a field that tells the batter: we don’t respect you, we don’t rate you, we can smell your fear from here and, goodness, it smells good — now GO ON, HIT DOWN THE F*CKING GROUND, I DARE YA.

Alongside Walton, at first change, is Simon Crane, and it’s the best I’ve seen him bowl, by some distance. As he’ll be the first to admit, Crane often shits himself in a game situation, which is deeply sad, because in the nets, he may be the finest bowler to have ever walked the earth. His best ball, in the nets, would make prime Wasim Akram consider quitting cricket and taking up badminton instead. But now the same balls are on show here, in this game, and it’s pulsating stuff. His 1-35 off 7 overs hardly does him justice.

Out of nowhere, it’s the 28th over. This fielding thing, it turns out, goes a lot faster when you’re thinking about your field all the time, rather than scratching your balls and wondering whether you can justify getting kung pao chicken later on. They’ve only just passed 100; I’m thrilled by the control we’ve imposed here. It’s the perfect time to introduce George Tunnacliffe, who we don’t even set a cover point for, because the man’s just so annoyingly charming and handsome and good at bowling.

He ties up one end, while at the other, Nieboer himself has a little bowl, drawing a couple of misses and getting dropped TWICE by his godforsaken teammates. The guilty parties were indeed punished appropriately later, in the safety of the showers. It hardly matters, though, because Tunna takes 3-30, and the opposition are all out for 161 — a great effort on a good wicket on this muggy late June day.

After a hastily-consumed self-brought tea, Umar and Ean Smith head out there. The latter goes in the first over, nudging one to mid wicket. Michael Scantlebury goes shortly after, cruelly bowled by a ball that just didn’t bounce. After 10 overs, at 24-2, we’re in a slightly sticky situation. Umar and Nieboer need to stick around.

For the next 14 overs, the pair add 54 runs together, most of them lung-busting twos and threes, and set the game up for an exciting little finish. Nieboer goes for 26, attempting a booming drive, but Umar keeps going. It’s a knock that encapsulates the very best of Umar: soft hands, quick running, nimble, clever hitting all over the pitch — just dissecting the field at will. Alongside Grant Wolledge, who makes 31, Umar gets his team to within needing around 50 runs from the last 10 overs before departing for 64.

What follows is nothing short of box office. We only need to go at roughly one a ball, but wickets are tumbling, the game swinging back and forth and then, in the last three overs, lodging itself in the middle. 20 needed off 18 balls. Four wickets in hand. Grant and Simon Crane add some heroic singles. Grant chops on, just when it looked like he’d finish this.

With six balls left, Ploughmans need 9 runs. Standing there umpiring, nervously sucking down a cigarette, it’s Aza on strike. They add 2. Then a dot. Crane sacrifices himself. Now it’s 7 off 3. Jesus, this is too much. Why can’t Nibblerball be more relaxed than this? I’m aware that the other two Plough games are heading for victories, and I do NOT want to be the only loser today. This is never an issue I’ve had before — an example of how cricket has a way of finding new ways to scare and humiliate you.

The heat well and truly on, Aza hits down the ground. It’s four. HE’S HIT A BLOODY FOUR. God, I love this man. Next ball, he misses. A dot. God, I hate how this man just doesn’t WAIT FOR THE BLOODY BALL. 3 off 1. The ball is wide, but I don’t call it straight away, because I’m so bloody consumed by the pandemonium of the running that follows. Energy Exiles miss at the keeper’s end, so Aza and Cash try a second. Cash doesn’t make it. Energy Exiles, the wide not yet given, think they’ve won by 1 run.

At this point, I remember that it IS indeed a wide, and signal, prompting vicious uproar from the opposition. It’s a chaotic, morbid situation. They’re all blowing up. Now Plough are 9 down, needing 1 off 1. Aza smashes it to the boundary — and that, as they say, is THAT. A victory for Nibblerball and a victory for last-gasp controversy and general piss boiling.

I’m a bit sad about the end, because it was very avoidable, and caused some gentlemen some distress, but ultimately it was a fair call — just done rather poorly. Either way, we’ve engineered a one wicket win off the last ball, and it just doesn’t get better than that. After being part of a batting lineup that shat themselves chasing 151 the day before, getting over the line here is a sweet feeling — especially since it was sealed by my oldest Plough friend, our dear Aza, the absolute starboy.

On the Northern line back towards proper London, Umar and I discuss lamb nihari, and what makes it good. He goes on to tell me about how he played alongside Graeme Swann’s brother, and that Graeme — unsurprisingly — was an awful bloke, still is an awful bloke. It then occurs to me that Swann, like Vaughan, seems to cover every bit of franchise cricket — a sure sign that their partners want them as far away from the house as possible.

I leave Umar at Oval station, resisting the urge to put my tongue in his mouth. Instead I go and get that kung pao chicken and sit down in the shower for a long time, reflecting on a day I’ll never forget — when Nibblerball made its debut, and produced one of the maddest finishes to a game I’ve ever seen.