Crap Match Report
| Sunday23 September, 2007 |
Surrey 427-9d & 295-5d beat Lancashire 234 & 464 by 24 runs
 Sit down, fella |
Lancashire weren't supposed to be here either. A 196 and a 130 knock from Mr Ramps should have finished off this game by day three. Requiring 488 to win the match, AND the County Championship, the Lancastrians were cleaning up, and not a Dyson in sight either.
It was enough to make me put down my super suction nozzle, damn the nagging demands of the fragrant mrs onionbagblogger (your mess, you clean it up, luv) and witness what would be a very unlikely Lancaster win.
I wasn't alone. With Manchester City playing across town at Fulham, The Oval was full of football fans from the Blue half of the city. County Championship winners or Craven Cottage? Well, you would, wouldn't you?
I arrived at the Oval shortly after lunch with Lancashire on 217-2. Only 271 required for the Championship. Law and Laxman were in control at the crease, I was in control of the Carlsberg. Who would falter first? Who do you fucking think...?
Laxman made his century and a Northern oik sitting nearby shouted out:
'Come on Lancashire! Show some passion! This could be a special day!'
The Northern passion arrived bang on cue as Laxman was dismissed next ball. It was all too much for a Lancy Lancy Old Boy sitting behind me:
'Ee, lad - I've got t' go home. I feel reet peculiar.'
Yeah, yeah - I bet he's got some hoovering to do back in Bolton.
And so what price a Lancashire win? About �6.99, judging by the tourist tat LONDON baseball cap being worn by a Clog Wearer on his big day out in The Smoke. Best to remove the price tag first, fella.
Disaster struck shortly before tea. Not another wicket, but I progressed from the cans to the bottled beer, but bugger - I forgot the fucking bottle opener. Real men open beer bottles with their bare teeth. But don't forget I should have been doing the hoovering.
The cavalry came in the form of my cricketing companion, the Glamorous Girly Friend. She didn't bring along a bottle opener, but she must have a bloody good dentist. I felt inadequate, but relieved.
Jade Dernbach Fought the Law and Stuart Law lost, caught behind by Jonathan Batty for 79, with 183 now required for the Championship. Steven Croft went for 45 in the same over, and somewhere in Sussex, a grown man put his Dyson down as the South Coast boys were now firm favourites to take the title by default.
A slight hiccup after tea; not the players but my indigestion system. I took a deep breath, balanced upside down and drunk another bottle of beer. The hiccups remained, but Glen Chapple didn't, caught by Mr Ramps for 29, leaving Lancashire needing 131 from 29 overs
'Stand up, if you love Lancashire!' came the rallying cry from the Peter May Stand.
Sit down, mate - I can't bloody see.
Dear old Dominic Cork couldn't deliver, and the northern coffin dodgers were now more likely to see a sober onionbagblogger at The Oval than their first Championship title in seventy six years.
The tail end was polished off quicker than my efforts with the Mr Sheen. Lancashire fell twenty-five runs short, leaving Surrey finishing a respectable fourth in the table.
'How was the hoovering?' enquired mrs obb after she returned from her Self Righteousness Class.
'First class.' I replied. Just like Surrey's Championship status for next summer.
Can't come soon enough.
Northern Clog Dancing in South London
