No. 1345: The winners

Jaspistos reports: Competitors were given the two opening lines of Sir Henry New- bolt's 'Vital Lampada' and asked to con- tinue the cricket story in verse, but not necessarily the same metre.

The bonus for me this week was the odd information you kindly supplied. I now know that the Close referred to was Worcester. I also know that A. E. J. Collins, educated at Clifton and killed in action in 1915, in 1899 scored the highest number of runs in a single innings: 628 not out. And I was told a glorious story of Sir John Squire, who used to captain a hard- drinking team that toured village greens of the Home Counties in the far-off Georgian days. In one match a Newboltian crisis occurred, the other side in. A tail-end batsmen skied the ball and two equidistant fielders ran keenly towards its probable landing point. Fearing a collision, the beer-sodden Captain shouted authorita- tively, 'Yours, Perkins!' The two men froze a yard apart and the ball made its way to the ground. Sir John had dropped Perkins from the team that week.

'Tonight' and 'in' simply asked for 'tight' and 'gin' as rhymes and you obliged with a variety of alcoholic scenes, Jean Hayes's the most colourful, ending: `Theres a breathless hush in the Close all right — We've two dead men. But the match is won.'

The five winners below get £10 each, and the bonus bottle of Pol Roger White Foil Champagne (NV), presented by the distri- butors Dent and Reuss, goes to Andrew McEvoy for a sporting occasion fit for the annals of Beachcomber's notorious school, Narkover.

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight —

Ten to make and the match to win .

Or so it seemed. I'll put you right —

That game was as bent as a safety-pin. , The Captain of Gore's was a fearful blood, But owed his bookie a couple of thou.,

Which gent had 'made it understood' He wanted settlement — and now.

The Captain of Gutt's was equally strapped; He'd got no tin for smack or booze. So he fiercely hissed, as he faintly clapped

Each batsmen in, 'You play to lose.

For each of these blazered oafs had put

His silken shirt on the other's side.

Last ball. A wide. 'We've done it!' — but

'Hit Wicket' too. The match was tied.

(Andrew IVreEvoy) There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight — Ten to make and the match to win As our number eleven squared up for the fight. The first ball reared and grazed his chin, And the second one jumped and split his thumb, But little he cared for life's hard knocks Till the third ball beat him and struck him plumb In a place where wiser men wear a box.

He thought of his honour and thought of the School And thought of the threat to his manly twitch, And a voice inside said to him, 'Don't be a fool', So 'Sod this!' he muttered, and limped from the pitch.

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight — Harrow won't play us again, they say. 'What bounder was that?' hissed the Head, death-white.

Matron blushed: 'It was Bond, sir, J.' (Noel Petty) There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -- Ten to make and the match to win; But the thirsty teams are out of sight, For the Sixth Form Bar is serving gin. When the School Clock strikes they pull up sticks; And if somebody says, 'It seems a shame. • The voice of his Captain cries, 'It's six! Drink up! Drink up! and hang the game!'

The sands of the desert are brown with dust; If the Regiment charge, the foe will fly; But the Mess Bar's open, and go they must, For the Gatling's jammed, and the Colonel's dry.

'Fight after six?' they cry; `no, thanks!' , And if somebody says 'We'll be to blame The voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks: 'Drink up! drink up! and hang the game!' (Paul Griffin) There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight Ten to make and the match to win.

The bowler's known for his devilish flight And sly, unreadable, subtle spin, And Striker Smith's fifteen not out, And I, I'm waiting for my first ball, And though I'm game for a careless clout I can't play this slow stuff at all.

The ball arcs through and I take a swing, And I hear the gasp, 'Oh, that's the ticket! As I accidentally stun the thing, The yorker that should have gained my wicket.

The next I slash — a lucky four, And it's 'over'. Now it's up to Smith. His shut-eyed slog hits the Chapel door, A glorious steepler! The rest is myth. (Gerard Benson) There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight ' Ten to make and the match to win.

The first ten batsmen have played it tight,

But now we're down to the rubbish bin,

For number eleven's a mother's boy And not the type for a last-ditch stand.

Somebody shouts, 'I say, McCoy, Do you want your Mummy to hold your hand?'

The bowlers who is a big yahoo,

Bowls a quickie to Teacher's Pet.

It beats the bat and 'keeper too — Four byes signalled and six to get. Two more quickies — the selfsame thing Occurs, and the game is won. Bravo!

McCoy is chaired and the Fourth Form sing,

'For she's a jolly good fe-e-llow!' (Stanley Shaw)