The nurdler: The day the ringer came to play...

Every cricketer in the country is a meteorological maniac, and I am no exception. As soon as I roll out of bed I drag myself to the window. Where's the sunshine weatherman John Kettley promised me? I am greeted by torrential rain.

Even so, between the drizzle, sleet and hail – sunny spells, eh, Kettley? – we manage to get some play in on Sunday, and discover Glenn McGrath isn't the only sharp-tongued antipodean paceman making life a misery for English cricketers. Worse still, the one we're up against is a ringer.

You know the sort, the guy making up the numbers for a mate of his. Suspicions arise as soon as you see him arrive in a sponsored car, or wheel in a gargantuan coffin emblazoned with the words J Runmachine or P J Hostile-Swift. The sort of player who can ruin a friendly Sunday afternoon by scoring 678 not out in 40 overs or by sending you to the local A and E. The rain abates long enough for my opposite number and I to make our way to the middle for the toss. He breaks the news to me as gently as possible. "Just thought I'd better let you know. We've got a quickie playing – and I mean quick."

"What? I've played against your club since you were in nappies, and you've never had a quick bloke."

"He's not ours. He's a mate of our overseas player. Here from Australia on holiday for a couple of weeks, wanted a game, so here he is."

"No problem," I reply. "Heads." The coin spins through the drizzle. Heads it is. I make an extraordinary decision. "We'll bat."

Back in the pavilion, I keep the grave news from my team-mates, except for my opening partner. We emerge from the sanctuary of the dressing room looking like a couple of riot policemen. Helmets, arm guards, reinforced cricket boxes; you name it, we're wearing it.

As captain, I feel it my duty to take first strike. As luck would have it, the angry-looking Australian with "I Hate Poms" tattooed on his forehead is taking the second over. All I have to do is see out the next six balls with a series of defensive shots and leaves and I should be all right. Sure enough, a maiden follows.

"Big Davo" marks out his 45-yard run-up, takes off his sweater, hands it to the umpire and politely enquires whether I have written my will as he strolls back to his mark in Perthshire. His first delivery flies through at Mach 3. The next delivery is known by the pros as a "throat ball". In club cricket, I think it should be called the "taking your food through a straw for the rest of your life ball". It leaps towards my partner's head, strikes the gloves in front of his nose and loops to second slip, where the catch is held.

Big Davo looks disappointed. "Well bowled, cobber," I venture, trying to strike up a friendly conversation. "Nah, mate. I don't like it when they get something in the way," he snarls. Then, without warning, the heavens open once more. "Would you like to go off, skipper?" asks the umpire. "Bloody right I do."

I have never been more pleased to leave the field in my life. Better still, we never made it back on. 1.3 overs, 0-1, yours truly 0 not out. Thank you, John Kettley. I am forever in your debt.