h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I am now at 24 hours recovery after my first game of Indoor Cricket, having agreed to stand in for my colleague Rove Hotel whose catalogue of injury looks set to challenge Michael Vaughan's. Or Harry "Pants Too Tight" Kewell's. I am faring not much better.

It all looks so easy on the television. You run in, turn the arm over and hey-presto easy wickets. If that lump Warney can do it, then so can I. Anyway, I had practised in the paddock, bowling at Fancy Reuben, with Jacaranda behind the stumps. One bruised lip, a set of nicely bent-back fingers, a bruised tibia and a toe-nail ripped rather splendidly out of its socket equally shared between the pair of them precipitated the following from Old Spice (the legendary sixth Spice Girl to whom I did plight my troth):

"I don't think you should bowl that ball at those boys anymore".

I looked at the six-seamer, all yellow and blistered in my hand wondering how a harmless tennis ball wrapped in a crazy yellow leather skin could have inflicted so much damage. I spent the rest of the weekend trying to hit a timber pallet at blistering pace, but mostly having to collect the ball from behind the compost heap. Never mind, if I can't bowl, at least my batting won't let me down I thought as I slogged yet another Jacaranda dibbly-dobbly over his head for a de facto six.

Warming up on the night of the big game, I sent down a few looseners to the unsuspecting batsman. Fast and aggressive had been Rove's unlikely motto, so fast and aggressive I tried.

Fortunately, my propensity to bowl the head-high full-toss was tempered by my ability to add a third dimension to my bowling. But for width, Mr Douglas Jardine would surely have looked kindly on my reprtoire of beam balls and been proud to put me in his bodyline side ...

DJ: How's the pitch?
TM: I don't know Mr Jardine, sir, I haven't managed to hit it yet.

I could see my team mates were worried. Short of going home immediately, there was no way I could get out of bowling two full seven-ball overs, full looking set to be the poignant adjective. My batting was still going to have to get me out of jail.

"Play" called the Umpy. And so it was that we were sent in to bat. I'd get out of jail first, and covered in batting glory my shoddy bowling would be overlooked.

You bat in pairs, and accumulate runs accordingly. Pair No. 1 batted four overs and got 46. Pair no. 2 their four overs and got 38. Then it was me and Tryfyr. I'm not sure how many times I got run-out or out for just watching three dot-balls whizz past my bat but we ended up with -6, on account of scoring -5 for every "out". When I did get something on the ball, it was the middle finger of my left hand, the first knuckle of which is now the size of a golf ball. Jacaranda and Fancy Reuben who had turned up in time to see my efforts were uncertain about whether or not to be impressed. Our final pair were less profligate with their wickets and scored a solid 16.

We had a modest total of 94 to defend.

And defend we did. Tryfyr's fiddly-but-inspired captaincy was rivalling Rove Hotel's injury toll for the mantel of "most like Michael Vaughan". Each of their pairs scored in the region of less than 20, and they scored less than 60 on the night. Even my bowling was moderately economical. 14 balls only one of which got called. I am not sure if they were befuddled by my low-pace trundlers or were just being polite.

And so it is that at this point in time, with bloody knees and a ruptured rude finger, I have a 100% win ratio in indoor cricket. I think Rove should recover from injury so that I can retire.

Did you win?

I can't quite get my head around minus batting scores! 7-ball overs I understand!

Oh DMT! You are wonderful! On another thread they were talking about 'Guess the journal' and I thought of you immediately. Yours are unmistakable.

Are you now fully recovered from your injuries?

We won.

Oh, well done!

yes oh well done DMT (erm)...well done oh bent knee one (erm)...well done oh you wrist turner you (erm)...

and i'd recognise your handiwork anywhere too...

to begin with using the tired and emotional antipodian metaphor...as some sort of a crutch for a total inability to crack even toenails would seem a bit far fetched but there you are like a rabbid old yella tearing away at the material to get close enough to see their eyes...is somewhat tired and emotional...

that said and notwithstanding cricket legends as chappello would have it - this raving maniac leapt over the car bonnet and my mates had to hold me back and then i awoke...