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Quite a few seasons back we played a game against the Nat West Bank. It was played in monsoon conditions. To get a good length you needed local knowledge of the tides. Putting sawdust down helped to assess the speed of the liquid pitch. It was like a Turner’s painting rather than a turner’s pitch. Even Handel would have had difficulty in calling the tune. We lost the toss and the coin. Our skipper reckoned their captain had pocketed it. It wasn’t him who should have been upset; it was me that had lent him the pound coin.

It was a low scoring match. I got wickets so did my mate, though I didn’t feel anything but cold. We only had to get ninety. Neither captain would agree to abandon the match. Our batting dissolved in the wet. My mate was number 10 and I soon joined him. We had 87, he was 10 not out. He walked towards me as I came in.’ It’s easy here.’ He said ‘We only need 4 runs and we’ve got ages.’ The previous pair had crossed so I was down the non striker's end.

The first ball my mate tickled around the corner straight to the fine leg who was up to save the one. ‘Yes!’ I bellowed setting off through the swamp. In the absence of high technology I was given out only a foot short despite my despairing aquaplaning dive. They ran off celebrating. I picked myself up and plodded off with my mate making sure that the mud that I picked up stuck, and that my name was Mudd in the changing room.

Sod the result I thought as I joined my mate in the shower. He wasn’t foaming anymore, so I offered him my shampoo with peppermint kick. ‘Cor!’ he shrieked ‘This is a bit tasty' as the peppermint kicked in. 'You’re not putting more on surely?'. He said as he misinterpreted my motives in me turning my arse towards the direct flow from the showerhead to ease the pain I was feeling. The stuff was in a set of toiletries I had been forced to bid for in a ‘Promises Auction’ at work. The woman who had made up the lot ‘With you in mind.’ had a red hot ass herself which she was obviously keen to share. A different sort of tasty.

I noticed their captain who led the charge off the paddy field without any handshakes heading towards the shower. He looked the sort who would have no compulsion about nicking somebody else’s shampoo. ‘We’ll leave this here then’, I said to my mate, who nodded as I put the bottle on the shelf. The shout wasn’t blood curdling but it sufficed. I wasn’t the only one to aquaplane that day but it was a different sort of crease he was reaching for. I didn't see it. At the time I was reaching for his whites to get my pound coin back. ‘Quid pro quo’ Clarice.

Yes the print is for sale.