The joy of watching cricket at The Oval never pales. A number 36 bus chugs by outside, as Blowers, Johnners and others mutter their way through a whole days play. The giddy sweet joy of lunchtime drinking. The intoxicating jangle of nerves when opening the batting, flags at half mast for Sir Len Hutton.Spilling out onto the backstreets, weaving across open ground. The lure of the Queen Anne. Young men flocking on a Sunday lunchtime to the sanctuary of the pool table in the back corner. Peeling portraits of Messrs. Osgood, Hudson, Webb, Bonetti, Hutchinson, Harris and Houseman cling to the wall by virtue of a mix of sweat, nicotine & misplaced lust.
The Danish girl, unfamiliar with local bye-laws, is still spoken of in hushed/embarrassed tones. The pint pot comes round again and it is time to leave. The sun is still shining and the trains rattle overhead, underneath in the Sweeney arches counterfeit money battles for space with a drug factory. It's going to be another interesting day in South London....
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