I like to move onto the ‘pitch’ or hitting area.  For some reason this is 22 yards in length, nobody seems to know why and there is no mention of the width of the hitting area.  Please note, the hitting zone must never be confused with an area called, ‘the ground.’  This can be any size you like apparently which doesn’t seem quiet fair to me as what would be a score of four at one ground might be a six at another, ab-so-frigging-lutely ridiculous.  Have no fear there’s more stupidity to come playmates.

If you look carefully at the pitch you can’t help but noticed that it’s never really in the center of the ground moreover the pitch doesn’t look as if it’s a grassed area at all, and you’d be right.  Since the early 40’s the pitch has in fact been  fashioned from Rice Crispies.  You’ll also notice that most modern grounds have a spare Rice Crispie patch, two or more in some cases as it all depends on the weather.  After all you wouldn’t like to run up and down on soggy Rice Crispies would you?  Okay, let’s move onto some of the other equipment and terminology applied to this pastime should you ever feel the need to play the game yourself. 

‘Bat’ or ‘Ball basher.’  Tricky one this.  Originally the MCC struggled to find a uniform length and width for the basher to please the sides of the day but fortunately fate was on the side of the up and coming gamester.  A boat docked at Chipping Ongar one day baring spices, Abbot Ale and fruit from foreign parts or Waltham-on-the-stow- market as it was known back then.  Along with this rich cargo of goods came a solitary Flying Fox which had snuffed it during the returning voyage.  After a rest and a wash the captain, Lars Tharp went on the town looking for a grog shop and a top class shag under the pier but no slappers did he find.  Unhappy with his lot he got rat arsed in the Slut and Gusset and returned to his ship groatless.  As he waddled up his gang plank he spied a very salty sea bitch idly hitting an unripe orange with the very dead and stiff Flying Fox from one end of his galleon to the other.  The captain bellowed, “Oi, put that bat down and swab me nadger with yer trout trench,” and the name stuck.  It’s all true I swear.

Oooh it’s teatime…

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 4th, 2009 at 1:07 am and is filed under Neils Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.