Sunday 11 July 2021 was an auspicious time for British sport. After isolation laid low England’s white ball squad, the 3rd XI had just demolished Pakistan in an ODI series. The final shipment of colourful fireworks for The Hundred was on its way to London for sport’s most lurid new tournament. And the football team were about to take a leaf out of the Hendrick’s XI playbook with a wildly entertaining, crushingly disappointing and entirely predictable defeat in the World Cup final.
Far away from all that excitement, somewhere in the 100-acre estate of Buscot Park on the outskirts of Oxfordshire, Hendrick’s captain Tim Saunders was sleeping between a couple of groundsman’s huts, surrounded by an assortment of sizeable groundskeeping equipment. Each piece displayed progressive signs of age and rust, signposting a different bygone era in the great art of pitch maintenance. It was as if the sleepy skipper had chosen to lie down in some sort of cricket museum.
But why was he, and 12 more of Hendrick’s finest, reclining by a cricket pitch in the grounds of a historic neoclassical country house?
The team had returned to one of the country’s most idyllic cricket venues, some six years on from a famous victory and even more famous string of six ducks in a single game here. The magnificent thatched pavilion that had so captured their hearts all those tours ago remained (and even since improved, the opposition captain having pointed out a number of upgrades to the beloved structure). The grass was as luscious and the wicket as immaculately maintained as before.
The only thing missing was, regrettably, the opposition. Apparently a combination of “injury, match fatigue and football fever” had so gripped their hosts that a late decision was made to pull out of the Hendrick’s Sunday fixture. It made an already shortened tour even shorter, and threw an already chaotic two days into the realms of complete and glorious farce.
Far away from all that excitement, somewhere in the 100-acre estate of Buscot Park on the outskirts of Oxfordshire, Hendrick’s captain Tim Saunders was sleeping between a couple of groundsman’s huts, surrounded by an assortment of sizeable groundskeeping equipment. Each piece displayed progressive signs of age and rust, signposting a different bygone era in the great art of pitch maintenance. It was as if the sleepy skipper had chosen to lie down in some sort of cricket museum.
But why was he, and 12 more of Hendrick’s finest, reclining by a cricket pitch in the grounds of a historic neoclassical country house?
The team had returned to one of the country’s most idyllic cricket venues, some six years on from a famous victory and even more famous string of six ducks in a single game here. The magnificent thatched pavilion that had so captured their hearts all those tours ago remained (and even since improved, the opposition captain having pointed out a number of upgrades to the beloved structure). The grass was as luscious and the wicket as immaculately maintained as before.
The only thing missing was, regrettably, the opposition. Apparently a combination of “injury, match fatigue and football fever” had so gripped their hosts that a late decision was made to pull out of the Hendrick’s Sunday fixture. It made an already shortened tour even shorter, and threw an already chaotic two days into the realms of complete and glorious farce.
In another Euros throwback, it was reminiscent of the England football team during those heady days in ’96 – under the laissez-faire stewardship of Terry Venables when players stayed out all night and consumed liquor as if having their teeth examined. When fights between players and with locals were commonplace, but sporting brilliance somehow never far away.
With Saunders eyeing up his impending exit from the club, he had slipped comfortably into the role of supply teacher on an especially raucous school ski trip. Needless to say, it all descended into carnage. Rarely has such a monument of incompetence been created with such efficiency of action. And we’ll tell you all about it. But first, there was some cricket. Day One. The Bodlean Library CC. First Innings: Hendrick’s to bat. The annual pilgrimage to Oxford started much as it usually does. A random assortment of hatchbacks sailed into the carpark of a particularly gorgeous ground some miles north of the city. Owez Madhani arrived with his customary lack of punctuality, like a bride proudly strolling down the aisle at her wedding, blissfully unaware of how long anyone else has been there for. |
In a departure from their usual approach, Saunders elected to bat first after winning the toss. He opened alongside the Madhani, despite the latter’s complaints of being “fucking knackered” having turned up straight from a campsite in Pembrokeshire. But he looked sprightly enough as the two recently qualified medics built a solid foundation.
Saunders was fresh from a career-best 74 not out while Madhani continued a quietly decent season averaging over 20 with the bat – a stat made all the more impressive considering his constant attempts to miss games he was scheduled to play, notably hiding out in not-particularly-local B&Q for the start of the team’s previous fixture.
Madhani’s departure, clean bowled after one aggressive swipe too many, brought the reliable if heavily medicated figure of Tom Nowlan to the crease. It was a reassuring sight for the Hendrick’s contingent lazing beside the pavilion, as James Gilbert’s early noughties punk-rock blared out on a portable speaker. But his dismissal prompted a truly sensational collapse, even among the extensive pantheon of Hendrick’s achievements in that field, soundtracked by such classics as Sum 41’s chart-topping ‘Fat Lip’ and Incubus’ nu-metal anthem ‘Pardon Me’ courtesy of Gilbert’s 20-year-old playlist.
They descended into a G-Force-inducing tailspin, dropping from 54-1 to 54-5. Nowlan’s chest-thumping, pre-season talk of “turning it on, batting properly and scoring a century” this year continued to go unfulfilled as he was clean bowled for six, Martin Bolt’s long wait for his first Hendrick’s run continued, and Josh Peffers almost made his name as the middle wicket in a hat-trick. An ignominious honour, but one he was nevertheless robbed of by Olly May, who – in true Olly May fashion – obstinately blocked his first ball, as well as many subsequent balls.
Saunders was fresh from a career-best 74 not out while Madhani continued a quietly decent season averaging over 20 with the bat – a stat made all the more impressive considering his constant attempts to miss games he was scheduled to play, notably hiding out in not-particularly-local B&Q for the start of the team’s previous fixture.
Madhani’s departure, clean bowled after one aggressive swipe too many, brought the reliable if heavily medicated figure of Tom Nowlan to the crease. It was a reassuring sight for the Hendrick’s contingent lazing beside the pavilion, as James Gilbert’s early noughties punk-rock blared out on a portable speaker. But his dismissal prompted a truly sensational collapse, even among the extensive pantheon of Hendrick’s achievements in that field, soundtracked by such classics as Sum 41’s chart-topping ‘Fat Lip’ and Incubus’ nu-metal anthem ‘Pardon Me’ courtesy of Gilbert’s 20-year-old playlist.
They descended into a G-Force-inducing tailspin, dropping from 54-1 to 54-5. Nowlan’s chest-thumping, pre-season talk of “turning it on, batting properly and scoring a century” this year continued to go unfulfilled as he was clean bowled for six, Martin Bolt’s long wait for his first Hendrick’s run continued, and Josh Peffers almost made his name as the middle wicket in a hat-trick. An ignominious honour, but one he was nevertheless robbed of by Olly May, who – in true Olly May fashion – obstinately blocked his first ball, as well as many subsequent balls.
True to character, he had barely made it to the crease in time having been midway through his usual pre-match sun-creaming ritual, which involved applying Factor 100 to every surface, orifice and crevice of his person. He was, of course, contractually obliged to do so, having recently signed a lucrative deal with Ambre Solaire to promote his new bespoke brand of suncream: Olimae. Non-plussed at being interrupted during this most sacred process, May manfully stepped into the breach all the same.
As he has been charged do so many times over the years, the ginger maestro once more had to dig them out of a hole. He found an able partner in Jack Gelsthorpe, who nudged and nurdled while May increasingly found his range and, even more increasingly, the boundary. As so often, he accelerated gradually, like a vintage Mercedes that struggles up to 60mph before finding itself hurtling uncontrollably down the motorway at well over 100. |
He departed after smashing another memorable half-century to add to his collection, most of which unsurprisingly came without the need for any running between the wickets. Resident Kerrang DJ Gilbert provided some useful late impetus, swinging for the fences with his usual degree of latent aggression, hammering a couple of fours and six to see the Hendrick’s XI up to an almost-respectable 162 all out.
Second Innings: Bodlean need 163 to win.
It was a new-look Hendrick’s bowling attack that took the field. They were lacking the unerring consistency of Ed Robinson and the searing left-arm of Ross Quest, who, much like the England squad, had fallen victim to the NHS’s pingtastic app.
Fortunately they had unearthed a fresh face new to both Hendrick’s colours and the sport of cricket in general. Jamie Swift Drake (or “Fast Duck” – an appropriate monicker in this team) had never touched a cricket ball prior to collecting his club cap, but had quickly emerged as the season’s stand-out bowler.
Already with eight wickets at an outrageously low average to his name before tour begun, he added to his tally when he snaffled one of the Bodlean openers without scoring and chalked up another wicket-maiden in the process. Gilbert operated from the other end, sending balls whizzing agonisingly past the outside edge, with the odd beamer thrown in to keep the batsmen honest.
Swift continued his strong debut tour with a majestic diving catch in the deep, his enjoyment of the clinical grab dampened by the fact that it came off the bowling of Wickham, who was miraculously challenging him at the top of the wicket-taking leaderboard. But breakthroughs would prove harder to come by as a solid third-wicket partnership began to develop, with an increasing number of deliveries drilled forcibly at fielders and bowlers alike.
Peffers took a crunching blow to his already injured ‘shoveller’s shoulder’ while Nowlan was struck millimetres from his gentleman’s equipment, which had sustained a heavy blow in a testicle-related disaster during a net session earlier in the season (the culprit, Robinson, has not been spotted for the Hendrick’s XI since. Read into that what you will).
Second Innings: Bodlean need 163 to win.
It was a new-look Hendrick’s bowling attack that took the field. They were lacking the unerring consistency of Ed Robinson and the searing left-arm of Ross Quest, who, much like the England squad, had fallen victim to the NHS’s pingtastic app.
Fortunately they had unearthed a fresh face new to both Hendrick’s colours and the sport of cricket in general. Jamie Swift Drake (or “Fast Duck” – an appropriate monicker in this team) had never touched a cricket ball prior to collecting his club cap, but had quickly emerged as the season’s stand-out bowler.
Already with eight wickets at an outrageously low average to his name before tour begun, he added to his tally when he snaffled one of the Bodlean openers without scoring and chalked up another wicket-maiden in the process. Gilbert operated from the other end, sending balls whizzing agonisingly past the outside edge, with the odd beamer thrown in to keep the batsmen honest.
Swift continued his strong debut tour with a majestic diving catch in the deep, his enjoyment of the clinical grab dampened by the fact that it came off the bowling of Wickham, who was miraculously challenging him at the top of the wicket-taking leaderboard. But breakthroughs would prove harder to come by as a solid third-wicket partnership began to develop, with an increasing number of deliveries drilled forcibly at fielders and bowlers alike.
Peffers took a crunching blow to his already injured ‘shoveller’s shoulder’ while Nowlan was struck millimetres from his gentleman’s equipment, which had sustained a heavy blow in a testicle-related disaster during a net session earlier in the season (the culprit, Robinson, has not been spotted for the Hendrick’s XI since. Read into that what you will).
The closest they came to a wicket was Bolt who, bowling tidily, dived forward to attempt a caught & bowled before celebrating wildly while the batsmen, umpires and fielders watched on in bemusement. He continued to vociferously claim the catch well into the following day, arguing that “it definitely carried” despite the rest of the team and several casual bystanders in a neighbouring field declaring it to have bounced comfortably in front of him.
Against all the odds, the breakthrough was made by Madhani, proud holder of two of the club’s three all-time longest overs. When he was tossed the ball, fielders could be seen visibly preparing themselves for an elongated stint, with the over likely to sail well into double figures at the very least. But it proved an inspired piece of captaincy by Saunders as his unconventional pick – knees pumping waist-high in a run-up that resembled a 1920s calisthenics instructor – not only landed ball on pitch but sent it gun-barrel straight onto the stumps. And the scenes of rapturous celebration were surpassed moments later when he repeated the trick, clean-bowling yet another bamboozled Bodlean batsman. A third wicket would follow shortly after, as the Hendrick’s fielders clasped hands to mouths in transports of delight, reminiscent of Stuart Broad reacting to Ben Stokes’s famous flying catch at gully during the 2015 Ashes. |
Amid all the chaos Gelsthorpe bowled with his usual fizz, rewarded with a well-earned LBW decision, before May contributed his usual late wicket to keep the run rate under control. There was even a rare run out, as Minchinton, Wickham and Nowlan combined to eventually get the bails off with the batsman still somehow short of their ground. With Bodlean needing to up their scoring to more than 12 an over from a shade under three, the match meandered towards a pleasing conclusion – Hendrick’s taking the win by 23 runs.
About last night…
They hit the clubhouse bar with as much vigour as they had fielded, local ales flowing serenely before Wickham realised he had one minute to achieve the required group check-in time at the B&B – which was located approximately a 35-minute drive away. He and Peffers were spotted shortly after hurtling down the A44 at a dangerous velocity. It set the tone for a night of relentless and unrepentant carnage across Oxford town centre, as the team hopped from venue to venue with fraying control over their faculties.
As the pub gave way to the curry house, the curry house made way for the cocktail bar, and finally the cocktail bar led to infamous after-hours haunt Hi Lo’s, discipline deteriorated exponentially. A blurry haze of events has since been cobbled together from various half-cut eye witnesses and unreliable secondary sources – too extensive and explicit to be fully retold here. These are some snapshots into the off-pitch pandemonium.
Irate regulars. An increasingly violent owner. A couple of buxom young women. Ejection from the establishment. A drunken brawl between two teammates.
Gilbert and Swift found themselves in what would later be summarised as a hilarious set-to, coming to sort-of blows over what we can only assume was Swift’s dynamic arrival on the scene and disturbing of the balance of power. With Robinson still MIA and the new man making waves in the Fast Bowlers Union, the bad blood spilled over into an unbecoming physical confrontation resulting in ripped shirts and bruised egos.
One petrified onlooker said of Gilbert, “As soon I saw him that night I knew. I just knew. Something was wrong. He was sparing for a fight and baying for blood. You could see it in his eyes.”
Harrowing.
Saunders attempted to smooth over much of the early morning fracas with his usual degree of head-in-the-clouds diplomacy, firing off a WhatsApp message just after 9am, “We’re all alive, life is just so beautiful, the ground is stunningly beautiful and we love each other, so we should savour every moment that we have in this magnificent world.”
A number of the team remained AWOL until well into the day, with arrival times at breakfast being exactly proportionate to the hour at which they had returned to their rooms. Madhani was not located until around midday. When pressed on his whereabouts, he merely replied, “Oxford”. Gilbert had to be shaken awake by the apologetic proprietor a few minutes after checkout. James Hewlett, on tour as specialist scorer with his foot in a brace, had retired to a local coffee house and was enjoying a particularly serene spot beside the river, far from the madness of the crowd.
About last night…
They hit the clubhouse bar with as much vigour as they had fielded, local ales flowing serenely before Wickham realised he had one minute to achieve the required group check-in time at the B&B – which was located approximately a 35-minute drive away. He and Peffers were spotted shortly after hurtling down the A44 at a dangerous velocity. It set the tone for a night of relentless and unrepentant carnage across Oxford town centre, as the team hopped from venue to venue with fraying control over their faculties.
As the pub gave way to the curry house, the curry house made way for the cocktail bar, and finally the cocktail bar led to infamous after-hours haunt Hi Lo’s, discipline deteriorated exponentially. A blurry haze of events has since been cobbled together from various half-cut eye witnesses and unreliable secondary sources – too extensive and explicit to be fully retold here. These are some snapshots into the off-pitch pandemonium.
Irate regulars. An increasingly violent owner. A couple of buxom young women. Ejection from the establishment. A drunken brawl between two teammates.
Gilbert and Swift found themselves in what would later be summarised as a hilarious set-to, coming to sort-of blows over what we can only assume was Swift’s dynamic arrival on the scene and disturbing of the balance of power. With Robinson still MIA and the new man making waves in the Fast Bowlers Union, the bad blood spilled over into an unbecoming physical confrontation resulting in ripped shirts and bruised egos.
One petrified onlooker said of Gilbert, “As soon I saw him that night I knew. I just knew. Something was wrong. He was sparing for a fight and baying for blood. You could see it in his eyes.”
Harrowing.
Saunders attempted to smooth over much of the early morning fracas with his usual degree of head-in-the-clouds diplomacy, firing off a WhatsApp message just after 9am, “We’re all alive, life is just so beautiful, the ground is stunningly beautiful and we love each other, so we should savour every moment that we have in this magnificent world.”
A number of the team remained AWOL until well into the day, with arrival times at breakfast being exactly proportionate to the hour at which they had returned to their rooms. Madhani was not located until around midday. When pressed on his whereabouts, he merely replied, “Oxford”. Gilbert had to be shaken awake by the apologetic proprietor a few minutes after checkout. James Hewlett, on tour as specialist scorer with his foot in a brace, had retired to a local coffee house and was enjoying a particularly serene spot beside the river, far from the madness of the crowd.
Day Two. Coupling Up. (formerly Buscot CC.)
Having eventually located Buscot cricket club amidst dense forest and high walls, a ground harder to harder to find than the mythical kingdom of Narnia, the promised “three or four” opposition players transpired to be only one – an affable and highly talented chap by the name of Charlie, whose pedigree as a Lancaster University player quickly established him as being several leagues above any of the touring party. So it was that a pairs game was agreed upon, Saunders wisely and eloquently decreeing that each partnership should feature “one good player and one not good player”. |
With just five overs apiece, it promised to be fast, fierce cricket, and a prime chance for players to put themselves in the frame for the club’s new Hundred franchise, the Hendrick’s Distillers. Sponsored by Monster Munch, in a Pickled Onion-inspired kit. Official merch available later this year.
Harry ‘Iron Man’ Hole, fresh from completing a Triathlon at a thunderous pace, returned to the Hendrick’s setup for the first time this year. He lined up in the first partnership of the day, alongside old companion Bolt, in a revival of their famous ‘Bolt & Hole’ micro-brewery/vaudeville double act. Batting sensibly and parsimoniously, refusing to throw wickets away and risk the five-run penalty deduction, they amassed 35 – a score that, miraculously, would not be bested for the remainder of a bizarre afternoon.
Hewlett had assumed the triple role of scorer, umpire and captain, dictating the field and bowling changes from the centre of the park like a megalomaniac traffic conductor. Meanwhile, Gilbert’s mood descended further and further into the abyss, his face visibly darkening every time he was asked to change fielding positions. He was equally irate when asked to bowl as when he was passed over. Attempting to patch things up with Swift, he sent down only gentle deliveries outside the off-stump, saving his usual pace for team members he hadn’t recently affronted.
Most notable among the meandering combination of Hendrick’s players to team up were Peffers and Nowlan – an always entertaining pair of shameless delinquents. They provided a unique mix of reckless profligacy and genuine incompetence. Drama duly ensued.
Catching is a discipline that has always proved elusive for the Hendrick’s XI, with few having ever come close to mastering this most mysterious of arts. A few exceptions exist, but those competent catchers are viewed with a healthy degree of suspicion and even hostility by the rest of the squad. One of those strange, shadowy figures who has always distinguished himself in that regard was Simon Minchinton, with a number of memorable grabs to his name.
But today he propelled himself, quite literally, into a new echelon of brilliance. Nowlan’s eyes were firmly fixed on the long-on boundary, with his only thought to hit sixes (having little natural inclination for running, or movement more generally). Aiming a huge drive down the ground, the ball arched high and long, with Minchinton on the move. It seemed unlikely he could make the ground, but he reached deep and pulled out a dive, falling to the turf spectacularly, ball firmly in hand.
Harry ‘Iron Man’ Hole, fresh from completing a Triathlon at a thunderous pace, returned to the Hendrick’s setup for the first time this year. He lined up in the first partnership of the day, alongside old companion Bolt, in a revival of their famous ‘Bolt & Hole’ micro-brewery/vaudeville double act. Batting sensibly and parsimoniously, refusing to throw wickets away and risk the five-run penalty deduction, they amassed 35 – a score that, miraculously, would not be bested for the remainder of a bizarre afternoon.
Hewlett had assumed the triple role of scorer, umpire and captain, dictating the field and bowling changes from the centre of the park like a megalomaniac traffic conductor. Meanwhile, Gilbert’s mood descended further and further into the abyss, his face visibly darkening every time he was asked to change fielding positions. He was equally irate when asked to bowl as when he was passed over. Attempting to patch things up with Swift, he sent down only gentle deliveries outside the off-stump, saving his usual pace for team members he hadn’t recently affronted.
Most notable among the meandering combination of Hendrick’s players to team up were Peffers and Nowlan – an always entertaining pair of shameless delinquents. They provided a unique mix of reckless profligacy and genuine incompetence. Drama duly ensued.
Catching is a discipline that has always proved elusive for the Hendrick’s XI, with few having ever come close to mastering this most mysterious of arts. A few exceptions exist, but those competent catchers are viewed with a healthy degree of suspicion and even hostility by the rest of the squad. One of those strange, shadowy figures who has always distinguished himself in that regard was Simon Minchinton, with a number of memorable grabs to his name.
But today he propelled himself, quite literally, into a new echelon of brilliance. Nowlan’s eyes were firmly fixed on the long-on boundary, with his only thought to hit sixes (having little natural inclination for running, or movement more generally). Aiming a huge drive down the ground, the ball arched high and long, with Minchinton on the move. It seemed unlikely he could make the ground, but he reached deep and pulled out a dive, falling to the turf spectacularly, ball firmly in hand.
With five runs chalked off a score already in negative numbers, Nowlan remained unperturbed. Attempting exactly the same shot almost immediately, like a child returning to a boiling saucepan having already been scalded, the result was similar but even more spectacular.
With even more ground to make up second time around, The Flying Minchinton once more tore in off the boundary, the doubters sure he wouldn’t get hand to ball this time around. How wrong they were. Launching himself at full stretch, left paw outstretched like Maradona’s famous Hand of God, it was as if some divine presence intervened in proceedings to give his arm an extra few inches of reach. Mere millimetres off the ground, he clung on the catch before bouncing to his feet, arms aloft, screaming, “Are you not entertained?!”* Minch was mobbed, almost aggressively, by the entire crew, with even genuine cricketer Charlie declaring it to be “the best catch I’ve ever seen”. *we sometimes embellish things on these write-ups, but he did actually do that. |
The fact that their figures had now sunk even deeper into the red didn’t stop Nowlan from one last hurrah, hoping for a case of ‘third time lucky’. But, to paraphrase something Albert Einstein may or may not have said, “doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results is pretty fucking insane”. Another fine catch from Minchinton would have been worthy of more words here, still being one of the best taken during a Hendrick’s outing, but as it was merely a pale imitation of his earlier physics-defying brilliance, we’ll leave it there.
After the excitement of the Nowlan-Peffers axis, the energy from the game gradually seeped away as the punishing lack of sleep, avalanche of alcohol and impending World Cup final left most players either lying on the outfield or nervously checking their watches. Peffers became a radio news reader, regularly giving traffic updates back to various parts of London (“It’s looking like three and a half hours back to south east, M25 is getting pretty backed up around junction 33…”) and repeatedly declaring his intentions to be on the road at 4pm. Sharp.
So it was that the speeding Hendrick’s wagon finally shed its wheels and ground to a halt in this grandest of rural retreats. The winner of the opposition Man of the Match award proved to be a straightforward choice, Charlie having comfortably distinguished himself as the only player to turn up – aside from also being an accomplished all-rounder, and all-round top chap, who diligently kept wicket as the rest of the touring party visibly imploded.
As he cheerfully walked away with a bottle of Ayrshire’s favourite gin, the exhausted Hendrick’s contingent hastened to their cars for the long trip back to the capital where an emotionally debilitating penalty shootout awaited.
But, with The Hundred rolling into town, a new era of sporting competition awaited. Billed as exciting, electric and unexpected, on recent evidence, the Hendrick’s XI should fit right in. To go with the garish, soon-to-be-released kit, we’ll leave you with our signature new strapline (based on the club’s undeniably pretentious Latin motto ‘Felicitas in Calamitate’).
Frequently beaten but jovial in defeat, the Hendrick’s XI are always last in and first out. Think you can beat them? You probably can.
After the excitement of the Nowlan-Peffers axis, the energy from the game gradually seeped away as the punishing lack of sleep, avalanche of alcohol and impending World Cup final left most players either lying on the outfield or nervously checking their watches. Peffers became a radio news reader, regularly giving traffic updates back to various parts of London (“It’s looking like three and a half hours back to south east, M25 is getting pretty backed up around junction 33…”) and repeatedly declaring his intentions to be on the road at 4pm. Sharp.
So it was that the speeding Hendrick’s wagon finally shed its wheels and ground to a halt in this grandest of rural retreats. The winner of the opposition Man of the Match award proved to be a straightforward choice, Charlie having comfortably distinguished himself as the only player to turn up – aside from also being an accomplished all-rounder, and all-round top chap, who diligently kept wicket as the rest of the touring party visibly imploded.
As he cheerfully walked away with a bottle of Ayrshire’s favourite gin, the exhausted Hendrick’s contingent hastened to their cars for the long trip back to the capital where an emotionally debilitating penalty shootout awaited.
But, with The Hundred rolling into town, a new era of sporting competition awaited. Billed as exciting, electric and unexpected, on recent evidence, the Hendrick’s XI should fit right in. To go with the garish, soon-to-be-released kit, we’ll leave you with our signature new strapline (based on the club’s undeniably pretentious Latin motto ‘Felicitas in Calamitate’).
Frequently beaten but jovial in defeat, the Hendrick’s XI are always last in and first out. Think you can beat them? You probably can.