With three wins on the bounce, confidence sky-high and several ales already sunk in the Anchor pub, Henleaze Old Boys set off to London on their inaugural cricket tour. Eleven men, packed into a minibus, is not a pretty sight - nor a particularly pleasant-smelling one as we would later find out.

With Old Man Clements and the Bearded Greek sharing the driving, the rest of the Old Boys were left to relax in their seats and take in the views. However, we had only travelled for two minutes before the shouts came up from the back with requests to stop off for beer and cider. Half an hour later and the Old Boys had their bounty, a stupid amount of alcohol and no small quantity of junk food. The team had reckoned without the weakness of their collective bladder, however, and it wasn't long before we were "treated" to the sight of Fillingham unfurling his member and urinating through the window of the bus, all over the M4. Classy.

Several piss-stops and seemingly countless hours later, we arrived at gaff d'ogilvie. A merry barbeque ensued, as did the handing over of an Old boys cap to Snr Ogilvie - in "recognition of services to the club, and commitment to the cause" - namely his comical mishap-strewn appearance for us in HOBs first ever match. There is an argument to say that the gift should now be retracted, in light of the events that ensued.

A wild night in O'Neil's followed, Ogilvie performing his job with cool and calculated precision. With the Old Boys lined up knocking back sambuca after sambuca at the bar, the night got uglier and uglier. What despair Davies must have felt has he watched the rest of his team-mates deteriorate into redundant drunks as the night wore on. After a brief soiree on the dance floor, the Old boys left to make their way back to their sleeping quarters. Some in tents, and some scattered around in Stu's flat.

What should have been a simple 10 minute trudge home together, however, turned into rather more of a booze-ridden assault on Muswell Hill. Joel and Jon decided to confront a group of students who were deemed to be behaving too loudly and student-like - this resulted in the campest stand-off ever seen. And by all accounts there was another incident as the rest of the Old Boys queued up for their kebabs - a cyclist of dubious gender was abused (I think for riding on the pavement) - and then threatened to "cut" someone up. Despite their collective drunkenness, the Old Boys had the gumption to point out that the shemale was not carrying a knife, or any other sharp object for that matter. In retrospect, perhaps the thing was just referring to a cycling manoeuvre, rather than grievous bodily harm.

Anyway, the Old Boys finally got back to their tents etc, and were smoking, still drinking and bantering outside when someone realised Phil was not with us - he had disappeared. Unconcerned, the OBs continued on their merry way until our host - clearly booted out of bed by a rueful girlfriend, despairing at the racket - appeared clad only in a pair of skimpy boxers over the garden fence. The lads apologised profusely, and went to bed.

In the morning, the garden looked like carnage - burnt sausages strewn everywhere, half-drunk beer cans, the sickening sight of a half-naked still-pissed Fillingham looming beside the tents, cackling wildly at the prospect of collapsing them, a trick he duly performed with great glee. Most amusingly Phil had tuned up at 4 in the morning and climbed into the tent with Nick and Matt - clearly with his conquest of a lady complete from the previous evening he had either been kicked out, or could no longer bear the sight of her (we are still yet to discover which) and had somehow stumbled back to Stu's house. Unable to get in, he had phoned Ashley pleading for help, before biting the bullet and giving himself up to the worst imaginable torture - a night in a tent with wind-masters Zographou and Clements.

After clearing up, and a hearty breakfast, the Old Boys boarded their minibus for the match. No one, in truth apart from perhaps Ed, wanted to play. The horrific smells hovering in the back of the bus were a testimony to this, and were to become a feature of the day. Captain SJ Smith lost the toss, and HOB were put into bat - their worst fears were realised, despite Smith's attempts the previous evening to dupe Ogilvie into thinking that HOBs would bat first if they won it.

Steady Eddie and Swashbuckling Sarj strode out to face the music. In truth, we were hammered, in more than one sense of the word. The Old Boys, still reeling from the previous nights festivities batted, fielded and bowled atrociously. Ed played his usual anchor innings, but still never looked in on a very bouncy track, against bowlers of real speed and accuracy. Saying that, no one got in down the other end. Sarj made a gallant 36 before being caught in the slips by Rocky off the opposing skipper, an Indian ambush - which set the trend for the day really. Ogilvie bowled tidily enough, suffering a couple of drops off his bowling. SJ Smith was in third, and never really looked like getting going, bowled after dancing down the track and then defending at the last minute. Brown looked in reasonable touch before getting a leading edge after playing across the line of late swinger, and JS Smith looked all at sea before missing a straight one. HOBs could and should have probably been a bit more aggressive a bit earlier on to unsettle the tight Octopus bowling who were clearly hell-bent on revenge after their defeat in the first fixture earlier in the season. The rest of HOBs batting was left with too much to do, and too little time to get in on a tricky wicket, and they succumbed for 149, with Davies out to the penultimate ball of the innings, having almost carried his bat for 64.

149 was never really going to be enough against a strong Octopus batting line up, but no one could have anticipate quite the drivel that HOBs would have served up to masquerade as "bowling". Captain Smith and Barrett opened the bowling, with Smith being particularly woeful and misdirected, he hauled himself off after just three overs. Anth fared a little better, and produced a beauty to dismiss S Cowling, and Joel, replacing Smith, delivered the goods with a nick through to Fillingham to account for the other Cowling. At this point in the match, HOBs had a sniff, and for a short period, the two new Octopus batsmen - Rocky and Harsh - struggled as they sought to get there eye in against JS Smith and Brown. It did not last long.

Rarely can a side have been so humiliated than during those next ten or so overs. All bowlers were dispatched to all parts as these two cultured batsmen slaughtered HOBs abysmal bowling effort. Rocky scoring an amazing 81 from just 39 balls, with run-a-ball support from Harsh and the Old Boys were beaten by the 19th Over.

Utter disaster for the tourists. There were no real honorable mentions in the HOB performance, so perhaps the shout-outs should go to those who made the effort to come, but unfortunately did not get a bat or bowl: Clements and Trahar - great commitment lads!

The journey home will be forever synonymous with escaping - in every sense of the word. Escaping our collective humbling at the hands of the Octopi; Joel escaping out of the still-moving minibus for alcoholic provisions on the North Circular, and then sprinting to catch us up near Wembley; and the foul fumes escaping from the same mans arse throughout the remainder of the journey.

Well played Octopus, and for the Old Boys, perhaps some lessons learned for future tour scheduling - play on the Saturday THEN go out!