No Rest for the Wicked

4 hours of work. 2 cricket matches. 2 nights out. A single pub quiz and only a bit of sleep. On Friday evening, after getting home from a long and arduous day in the office, I made a vow for the upcoming weekend. With the Saturday morning alarm clock set for 7:45am, and an offer of what was to be the first of two nights out on the table, I had a decision to make. Be sensible and go to sleep and be awake for tomorrow, or bloody well go for it.

I mulled it over for a while. But not for very long. I'm Mitten. And I went for it.

What ensued was an absolutely manic weekend. I've had these in the past, but throughout this one, I simply marvelled at how I was able to just keep on going. Its as if someone had planted social viagra in my dinner on Friday as I just completely forgot about the moments in which I would potentially regret my decision of going into town on Friday night. It felt as if I was friends with everyone in the room and I was receiving similar attitudes back. Usually, in most places, you tend to keep to your own little group, but on both nights out, for some reason, I was speaking perfectly comfortably to complete strangers as if I had known them for years. I was an incredibly confident person, and it made for a much better weekend on the social scene.

I wasn't that tired on Friday despite the long day at work as I went into town, and to The Rose, with Master Kettle. We had a few drinks in there talking about this, that and the other before I went off to the Barley for a bit of camp dancing with Sarah, Will and the crew. It was good fun, as I completely ignored the prospect of an early start and just enjoyed it. For the first time ever, I wasn't put off by the idea of working in the morning. Waking up on Saturday was positively simple, (I genuinely think this was down to my attitude), as I walked to work in the spitting rain with a smile from ear-to-ear. What was going on here? I had been asleep for about 3 hours... Why aren't I deathly tired with a monstrous hangover?

Work was... Work. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad either and as I walked out at 1pm, Red Bull in hand for emergency reasons, I pondered on a positively simple stint that lacked negativity and adverse contemplation. I was still at 100% on the happiness rating, and I couldn't work out why. It obviously wasn't a bad thing, but I shouldn't be like this. I had to crash at some point. I had slept for 3 and a half hours out of the last 28. With the prospect of a 45-over cricket match and another promised night out before I reached my bed again, I wouldn't have been blamed for suddenly feeling the full force of exhaustion. But I didn't.

Reaching the Bury, I had the can of Red Bull and got on with preparing for the match. I have never really had much success with Red Bull in the past. I've found it gives you a momentary boost of energy, but after 20 minutes, you're back at square one. This time however, I must have picked up an extra sugar version, because by the time the game had started, I was switched on. Our opponents Pavenham batted first, and we bowled poor again, but for the duration of their innings of 265, my head was so clear and focused. When it got to Sunday evening, I considered what would have happened in that match if I had brought myself on to bowl... And you'll find out why in a minute... So we were chasing an unlikely 266 for victory, but after a pacey start, we found ourselves in a fairly good position at 120-3 at the drinks break. The Red Bull was still in my system, as I went out to bat at number 3 in the 2nd over and proceeded to try and rip the leather off absolutely every ball. I used the excuse, "I'm not really that fussed" as a reason as to why I wanted to hit most of the balls miles, but in all honesty, I had illusions of a monstrous hundred that would secure us a brilliant yet unlikely victory. I connected with a few, and raced to a pretty quick 41 before being bowled. Never mind.

It was at this point where I felt it. The crash. It had all caught up with me, and as I de-padded in the changing room, I was tempted to put my head down and sleep for as long as time allowed me. But a voice in the back of my head stopped me.

"What did you say to yourself on Friday evening?"

The answer? "If you're gonna do this, you're gonna do it properly. All or nothing".

I had already committed to the weekend to end all tiresome weekends, and was nearly halfway through, so I decided to carry on. I went back outside to cheer on the rest of the batting line-up, who did very well indeed in getting so close to the 266 required to win. We fell 27 short.

After cleaning up, collecting the match fees and writing up the scorebook and team cards, I was off home. At this point it was about 8:30, as the post-match rigmarole takes a good hour to complete. I had told Abigail that I was to meet her at 9pm but this was literally impossible. Once again, I let my guard down and contemplated an early night. I text Abigail saying, "I'm tempted to give this one a miss". However, I sat myself down and started talking to myself again:

"All or nothing boy. All or nothing. You'll be fine and dandy with a few JD's down your neck".

2 minutes later, I had texted Abigail again. "Scrap that, I'll come anyway. I won't be ready for 9, but I'll meet you in town at 10.30!"

This gave me enough time to have a shower, have some food, enter the full scorecard on to the league system, (a job that apparently takes "5 minutes", but in practice, takes about 30), and head off. I was all done by 10pm, so headed round to the local pub on my own for a couple of quick JD's before getting a cab. I do this sometimes, as they only charge £2 for a JD and coke. Plus, being local, I tend to see someone in there I know and can chat to. Sure enough, I had a brief conversation with a fellow cricketer about the season so far over a couple of drinks and half an hour later, I was in a cab.

Here we go again.

I met Abigail and her friends in Chameleon for what was an incredibly strange start to the night. I got on well with Abigail's friends as I bought a round in, (naturally!), and we danced downstairs to various songs. We were pretty mad, but not as mad as two ladies who were going absolutely mental on the dancefloor in front of us. At one point, one of them grabbed my drink, (at this point, a JUG of vodka red bull which Abigail bought me to help "wake me up!") and proceeded to pour it over my head. Being that drunk however, she only succeeded in tipping the ice on top of the jug over my left shoulder, which was a relief and a half. Momentarily, I was annoyed but almost as quickly as the feeling of annoyance had hit, it was replaced with an attitude of, "it really isn't worth kicking up a fuss about", and we just carried on. The lady had stumbled off in fear of social repercussions.

We went to loads of places on Saturday night. We went to Yates and burned to death in the warm atmosphere before moving on to Hi-Fi which put me off a bit for unspeakable reasons, before Abigail's friends decided to call it an early night. Clearly they didn't have my stamina, as me and Abigail headed off to the only place where you can pretty much guarantee a sociable and enjoyable night. The Barley Mow. Of course. It was a good night as we spent it in the company of an extraordinary mix of friends, both old and new, and danced and chatted the night away until the witching hour. I had forgotten about my tiredness thanks to a mixture of enjoyment and "that" jug of Red Bull. However, as the clock struck 3:15am, the music turned bad, and it was time to call it a night. We walked to the high street, where there is usually an assortment of taxi ranks and a splattering of late-night revellers falling over, with Subway in hand. What greeted us however when we turned the corner on to the main road was absolute chaos. All the taxis, bar a few, were on strike. Somehow, this knowledge had escaped me, so after buying a bottle of Oasis, I got my walking boots on and prepared for the hour long walk home.

It was laughable. Literally. At this point, I did not know that the taxis were on strike for a perfectly good reason, (a taxi driver had been attacked, so all of them decided to stop as their safety was not guaranteed - fair enough), but at the time, I saw it as a bit of karma. "Serves you right for coming out whilst being very tired!" I was absolutely exhausted, but I thought and thought and thought about how well I had done up to this point. When I finally walked in the front door, at 4:11am, (I remember the exact time for some reason), I went upstairs and crashed on my bed.

And before I knew it, the alarm was going off. It was 11am on Sunday morning. The sun was up, and another cricket match lay ahead. We only just scraped a team of 11, against high-flying Clifton who lay 2nd in the league, and I got the feeling that it was going to be a long, long day. We have struggled much more than I had anticipated in the Sunday division, as we lay in the relegation zone before the start of play. Clifton are not renound for their ... Etiquette... Putting it lightly. We've had trouble with them in the past. None of this added up to a good day of cricket.

I was tired. I had slept pretty solidly for 7 hours, but it wasn't really enough. I needed more, and I just knew it was going to be an uphill struggle all day. Losing the toss and being asked to field first wasn't the greatest result either, but needs must. Here goes.

We did well. Very well. Our team - scraped together in the late evening hours of Saturday - were all playing well. We took regular wickets, with only their opening batsman scoring any runs and we had them at a very good 130 odd for 6 before I ran out of bowlers. We only had 4 players in the team who had bowled at all that season, and two of them had used their allocations, another had picked up a slight injury and the other was starting to get very wayward despite a good start. We still had 15 overs left. Who should I choose to bowl?

My mind went back to a saying of my Dad's. "If you want a job doing, do it yourself". And then Hodgy, number 3 batsman and team joker, ploughed into the deliberations, confirming my brief and comical thought.

"You should bowl a few overs mate, get the ball nipping about a bit!"

That was it. I would bowl. For the first time since the beginning of the 2011 season, I had ball in hand. I could feel the slight scepticism from within the ranks. The thoughts of, "Oh, we're now going to throw our good start away" circled the now grey skies in thought-bubble form. My first ball was leg-side, but wasn't called a wide. A dot ball. Positive.

Running up for my 2nd ball, I could not have imagined what would happen. When I have bowled in the past, it has taken me a good over or two to get warmed up. Not this time. As I released the ball, I saw the ball head towards the off-side. That's good. Then I saw it hit the pitch and nip back in off the seam. I then heard the slight noise of the ball clipping the top of the off-stump and then the screams of derision from the wicket-keeper and then the rest of the team as they realised I had clean bowled a guy with an absolute dream of a delivery. I have never seen a wicket celebrated so vociferously.

I had planned on only bowling a couple of overs, but I carried on. In my short spell, I only conceded two boundaries, both of which were outside edges, and bowled no extras. I also got out their opening batsman for 83, although that was more because of a loose shot to cover more than my excellent bowling. I finished off their innings, bowling their number 11 for a duck, leaving me with my one of my best set of bowling figures ever of 4.5-1-14-3. (4 overs and 5 balls - 1 Maiden - 14 Runs - 3 wickets).

Just call me the all-rounder.

We had bowled them out for 162, and Clifton's cockiness had taken a sudden blow as they realised they didn't have anywhere near the runs they had expected. After the tea break, I walked out to open the batting with Ben, pretty confident that we could overhaul their score. The first over of our innings was quite extraordinary. Ben despatched the first ball for a one bounce boundary before following it up with a classy flick through mid-wicket for four more. For being so good, the opening bowler decided to face up to him mid-pitch. It was a scene quite unlike ones you'd see at this level, but more in the most fiery of patches in a high-pressure international match. Nose to nose, words were exchanged before the bowler finally decided to walk back to carry on his over. Usually, I would choose to not get involved, but I was so pleased at our fantastic start that I decided to wade into the argument.

"Don't know about you, but I thought you were only supposed to chirp when you didn't bowl shit."

He wasn't happy. I can't remember what he replied actually, but he bowled the last ball of his over, (a predictable bouncer that sailed way over Ben's head), and trudged to fine-leg. We were 11-0 after 1 over. I got a single run off the next over, against a much more sedate (and handy) opening bowler, before facing the strike against Mr.Fiery for the first time.

One of my weaknesses in this sport of cricket is not reading what the bowler is thinking. It's a tough skill, but I simply cannot get one step ahead of any bowler. I don't have the anticipation of the game to succeed in that remark. However, on this occasion, I knew exactly what was coming. This idiot of a bowler might aswell have just shouted to the whole vicinity that he was going to bowl a bouncer, and sure enough, when I saw the ball pitch short, I rocked backwards and pummelled it for my first boundary. Sure enough, once again, he bounded up the pitch to have a few words in my direction.

"Lucky you got bat on that, or your fucking nose was gonna end up in Kempston"

My reply?

"The ball's gone that way mate. (Points in the direction of my shot). Go and fucking fetch it."

It was quite unlike me. I don't usually use bad language when a bowler decides he's going to try a few mind games, but this guy was a literal moron. His first 7 balls had been hit for 15 runs. Any bowler with half a brain cell would know to keep quiet and maybe try and keep it tight. He didn't. He proceeded to carry on bowling short. I ducked under the next ball, and then guided the next to fine-leg for a single.

"Wanted to get off strike against me then? Couldn't handle the pace!".

"It's called batting mate. Shame your team is just shit at it."

I even impressed myself with that line. Unfortunately, with the score on 21-0 off just 4 overs, the heavens opened. I implored with our guys to get the covers ready and as the rain became torrential, they ran on and did their work as we rushed off to keep our kit dry. The rain was very bad. Without the covers, (that we only discovered we had a few days earlier), the game was off. But 20 or so minutes later, the rain relented, and we were back out there. However, the old-fashioned sheet covers meant that some of the water had seeped through, staining the pitch with unpredictable wet patches, meaning dodgy bounces. Naturally, Clifton tried to find excuse after excuse to not carry on, knowing the game was slipping away from them extremely quickly, but I kept a level head and (rightly) said it was solely the umpires call. Despite the umpires being from our side, (we don't get neutral umpires at our level!), I just knew they were going to be fair about it. Almost too fair!

The game did get back underway, and we were coasting before I lost concentration and drove a ball straight to mid-off. At 66-1, chasing a revised target of 138, I was still pretty confident of victory, but a couple more quick wickets, (including that of Ben's for 47), meant I was quickly quaking in my boots. I could not bear it if we managed to lose this game from a winning position to a bunch of morons. 66-1 quickly became 102-5 and Clifton could smell blood. However, with the pressurising words of the Clifton team ringing in my ears, the heavens opened once more. Once again, we put the covers on, (amazingly, Clifton tried to claim it was hardly raining!), and we raced out to the middle to save the pitch. As soon as we did though, the rain stopped and the players were back out again. I was now umpiring by this stage, with nerves through the roof. We had to win. We had to.

We lost another wicket fairly quickly, leaving us on 111-6. We still needed another 28 runs to win, and with 4 wickets remaining and our recent history of bad collapses, I was absolutely desperate to get over the line. Trying to keep my head on whilst umpiring was difficult. Clifton appealed vigorously for any ball that hit a batsman's pad or any play and miss. My mind went back to my refereeing days as the bowlers and a couple of the fielders posed intimidating statements in my direction, but my refereeing days also taught me to keep calm under pressure, and I carried on refusing their ridiculous pleas for wickets.

Cameron, our number 7 pinch hitter, was somehow immune to the sledging going on around him. I'm not certain he has the brain cells to process it all to be honest, but he hit a monstrous six down the ground followed up by a surprisingly gracious square drive to seal the game for us and I couldn't help but let out a muted, "Get in!" from my spot at square leg. Shaking hands with the opposition was easy, even if a few of them shook my hand a bit too hard, but it was all fine, because we had won. When I got back to the changing room, I let out a not so muted shout in delight. It was a brilliant victory, and ever more sweetening as we had beaten a team we had not enjoyed facing in the past.

The fact remained however that I was horrifically tired. Once the immediate euphoria of the win had died down somewhat, I found myself at home watching the final moments of England's defeat in the Champions Trophy final, contemplating the final item on the weekend agenda - the pub quiz. I could not let my social side down now. Not while I was so close to completing the most busy of weekends.

I was off again.

It was a good evening, even if there was only 3 of us. Plus I won some lemon meringue pie for being crap at bingo. Generally, you can't complain! I got home at 11.30pm, and after a brief stint of catching up on Facebook and Twitter and coasting through a copious number of e-mails, I shut the laptop down for the final time that week, and I smiled.

"Mitten. You're good."