The victorious media team (credit: Nick Dillon)
This Sunday I took part in the UKTJPR Volcanic Ashes cricket match – PRs v Journalists. Here the match report…
The legend of Volcanic Ashes is more than the mere tale of how a modest trophy found its way from a Chinese workshop to a shelf in leafy South London. The story of the Volcanic Ashes is a dramatic chapter in the ever-evolving history of cricket; adversary against adversary, bat versus ball, the clash of leather on willow that crashes like thunder under a bright blue English heaven.
The story is told that somewhere in a green corner of the greatest city on earth gathered two uneasy partners – the scribes and the publicists – met to test each other’s skills at cricket. The prize – kudos, honour, pride, the tiny Chinese cup. The price – pain, battered pride, aching limbs. For the victor – vindication; for the loser – consolation in the cold comfort of ‘if only’.
A crowd gathered by a humble embankment, basking in the sun and finding refreshment in the generous provision of alcohol and sustenance from their hosts, dual benefactors named Gorkana and MiLiberty. The scribes won the choice of bat or ball through the toss of a two shilling coin. They opted for the bat, and the scribes’ opening pair – noted as Vandervell and Renowden – like the two Pillars of Hercules etched their names into history with a heroic stand of 71. Then followed confusion and chaos! A dark vale fell across the scribes’ innings, as the ball found its way to hands or clattered into stumps. The publicists’ chief destroyer, whom historians record as Townsend, twice found himself on the brink of a hatrick, but was twice denied as the scribes nudged, edged and stole every possible run.
111 – a ‘Nelson’ to the superstitious – was the target asked of the publicists who set about their target with dogged determination. The crowd – now imbibed and increasingly vocal like the baying crowds of the Coliseum – demanded entertainment, and they were not to be denied. Another classic stand built a platform and the target appeared comfortable as the scribes failed to catch as pertinently in the field as they had in practice.
Yet, as the wind gathered and changed direction, so did fortune. Runs were strangled as the attack was altered; the publicists were not allowed to settle. Balls would thunder towards them, or jump up at myriad angles, spinning like dancing fairies off a turning pitch. The runs stumbled towards their target until the publicists required just three to win from the very ultimate ball, recorded by writers of the era as ‘Nuttall to Qureshi’. Witnesses record the ball took slow flight, pitched two yards from the stumps where the batsman flayed, knowing only a valiant heave would suffice, the ball turned, caught the edge and spun high into the cloudless sky. Up there it held, almost as if determined to singlehandedly defy Newton’s law, before dropping into grateful hands at gully.
Writers of the time record the elation of the victors. Images of the time depict arms flung into the air, beaming smiles and eye witnesses record screams of delight, hugs and handshakes. The scribes had claimed the most dramatic victory imaginable, fanciful drama they themselves would dare not to write for fear of ridicule. The publicists, honourable in defeat, congratulated the scribes, culminating with Qureshi handing the tiny cup to Lee of the scribes, who carried it home to rest it on his bookshelf.
Historians note the scribes thus: Vandervell, Renowden, Dye, Nuttall, Gibbs, Stapley, Tuffin, Savov, Lee and two ‘side changers’, McGregor and Dalrymple.
The publicists are recorded thus: Townsend, Smith, Ross-Tomlin, Qureshi, Ahmed, Fisher, Russell, Walsh and Sutton, along with aforementioned side changers.
Historians also give special credit to the real heroes of the day, McGregor and Qureshi, MiLiberty and Gorkana, plus all those in attendance, without whom the Volcanic Ashes would have never have written itself into history as the most enjoyable of May Bank Holidays.
And so the sun set, spreading long fingers of shadow across Regents’ Park, and the Volcanic Ashes came to settle. But will the ire of the volcano be stirred once more upon another perfect summer’s day…?
