Like the single-wicket game between two octogenarian Cambridge blues. One man, known only as ‘B’ in the story, batted first and made 12. But ‘A’ was so exhausted from his bowling and fielding he was unable to bat (there was method in the madness of that Middlesex man’s sheepdog). Therefore, to win, ‘B’ merely had to go out and bowl down his absent friend’s wicket. Lying on the sofa indoors bemoaning his lost youth, ‘A’ was startled by the return of his friends. ‘Bravo, you’ve won the match!’ they cried. ‘He’s bowled 13 wides!’
