The Reverend Clarence Catchpole, BA, MA, Dphil, was in somewhat of a quandary. It had just been pointed out to him that as the new Vicar he was expected to open the batting for the village in the forthcoming match against Dimchurch, arch rivals from across the river. The trouble was Clarence didn`t know the first thing about cricket.
     `We`ve `ad some fine batsmen over the years your reference,` enthused Johny Presspram, the resident village idiot. `I can`t remember one `as `asn`t done us proud on the day - apart from Reverend Featherbarrow. but `e were nearly ninety!" (Johny shook so much with laughter at his little joke that the wing nuts from the village bus shot out of his pocket and bounced noisily down the church steps)
      As always in a crisis Clarence turned to his wife Mabel. `What on earth am I going to do dear? They`ll probably have me ducked in the village pond when they discover I don`t know a googly from a silly-mid whatever it is."
      "Don`t be silly Clarry," boomed Mabel. "For a start there isn`t enough room in the pond for you AND the village bus."
      "Yes you`re quite right dear, " whimpered Clarence. "I suppose I`ll just have to go out there and do my best."
      "What about that odd cousin of yours, Bernard or was it Basil" Mabel chipped in. "Didn`t he once play for Hampshire - or was it Basingstoke?"
      "Yes of course Bertram!" beamed Clarence. "Berty Jolliphant. "played a bit for one of the counties, dashed if I can remember which one though. Never mind, I`m sure he`ll show me the ropes. Jolly good idea of yours old girl."
      So it was that a week later, in a meadow strewn with buttercups and cow shit, Bertram Jolliphant, sometime opening bat for Somerset, and part-time ASBO anger-management councillor, was seen instructing Clarence Catchpole in the finer rudiments of the national game. 
      "Straight bat old sport, you`re swinging it about like a nigger with a bloody great spear."
      Clarence winced. No wonder Berty`s wife had run off with a wicket-keeper from Derbyshire.
       "Perhaps if you didn`t bowl quite so fast I`d be able to hit a few," Clarence ventured timidly.
       `Fast!" exploded Bertram `Wait `til you`re facing a seven foot threshing machine hurlin` one down at you after h`es just been chucked out the Claret and Pincushion for goosing the young barmaid."
        Cold sweat erupted on Clarence`s brow. Why hadn`t he taken his father`s advice and become a missionary instead of coming to a place full of failed writers and a bus in the village pond..
       
      The day of the big match arrived. Bertram had returned to his turreted mansion in Hull - and Clarence still couldn`t hit a ball.
        We`ll just have to pray for a miracle dear, "Clarence muttered resignedly to his wife, as he sat on the pavillion steps watching the village idiot playing with himself.
        "Just go out there and don`t let the village down Clarry," boomed Mabel.
  With Johny`s stiffled moans of delights ringing in his ears Clarence trailed out to the wicket. In the summer heat his starched white shirt clung to him like a vice. Taking up his position at the crease he stared down the pitch to where a giant of a man was rubbing the ball slowly and deliberately up and down his groin. The last thing Clarence saw before he closed his eyes was the threshing machine`s evil lear..
       His arm felt as if it had been wrenched out of its socket.
       "Good shot rev! show the piss head ya` can`t be intimidated." 
  Clarence opened his eyes to see the umpire waving his arms.
        "Six!"
  Feeling braver now Clarence kept his eyes open for the next delivery and was rewarded with a ball that, hadn`t he ducked, would have taken off his dog collar, complete with his head. 
         With the crowd screaming obscenities at the bowler Clarence squared up to his next ball. As the thresher started his run Clarence felt the first few spots of rain on his already glistening face.
         It was the longest spell of rain anyone could remember in the village. There was some argument as to how long it actually lasted but the Verger swore it was exactly forty days: and nights....
         And Clarence?  Well anyone walking by the old aircraft hangers during the following few months would have seen him disappearing inside with a gentleman wearing a pair of grass-stained flannels but sporting a rather nice Somerset Cricket Club tie...