Paying homage to an oft-forgotten joy, the cricket picnic

THAT’S LUNCH. AND HOPEFULLY TEA TOO

“Play!” The bowler storms in. The batsman braces. The fresh fielders crouch or walk in expectantly. And somewhere in the crowd there is the crinkle of tin foil being peeled from sandwich, of paper wrapper unfurling from scotch egg. Plenty of sports have their food links – tennis (or Wimbledon, at least) has its strawberries and cream, baseball has its dawgs, football has its pies – but there is something quite special about the sustenance required for a day peering over the boundary. So forgive me if I pay brief tribute to that oft-forgotten joy … the cricket picnic.

First, the all-important question of timing. There are some who will begin tucking in at the instant his buttocks touch rug, grass or plastic seat. They are the fortunate and the damned. Fortunate enough to be unencumbered by concern for the many nourishment-less overs to follow, damned to watch on enviously as the more circumspect tuck in hours later.

The waiting, though, is the hardest part. There those culinary delights sit under your seat, nagging away at you like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. “Hang on til midday,” you tell yourself. Then: “Hang on til lunch.” The latter mantra tends to be over-optimistic for all but the most iron-willed. Alone you stand a chance. If in a group your hopes are slim – at some point in the opening overs someone in your party will say, innocently enough: “Does anyone fancy a sandwich?” To which the only truly honest response is: “I’m at the cricket. Of course I want a sandwich. I want a sandwich more than I’ve ever wanted anything before in my life. Give me a sandwich. Give me a sandwich right now.”

The organised, of course, will be utilising a cool bag. Though if you’re at an international game or evening T20, it is important not to use a cool bag of which you’re overly fond, such is the ale, sweat and general unidentifiable-stand-filth that is certain to be soaked into its heat-resistant lining by the end of the day’s play. A carrier bag is the high-risk budget option, particularly vulnerable to a dousing, misplaced foot or, on rare occasion, seagull raid. A rucksack is, for me at least, a poor third choice – there’s something about a picnic that leaves a rucksack with an unshiftable musty odour somehow reminiscent of a damp mid-90s north Derbyshire youth hostel.

The actual physical contents of the picnic are entirely open to personal interpretation, but if we were playing Fantasy Picnic I’d rather like a couple of cheese and pickle cobs, a pork pie (and, if space allows, a small Tupperware of English mustard), salt and vinegar crisps, some sort of cold cut (preferably yesterday’s roast chicken) and a generous slab of carrot cake with icing so thick it could be used as loft insulation.

Everyone’s ideal picnic will, of course, be different. It’s a construction of one’s own taste, much like a fry-up, and as such it’s not right to judge anyone else’s choice (though, for the avoidance of doubt, if your ideal full-English has chips anywhere within a five-mile radius I’m afraid we can’t be friends). And by no means is it one-size-fits-all. The time of year, for example, also plays a role. Mid-summer is peak picnic. Too far either side and some of the joy is admittedly lost – it’s difficult to get too excited about a tuna and mayo bap while you shiver under the floodlights at Hove in May.

Size obviously matters. Ideally the cricket picnic should be substantial enough to involve one large hit that acts as the day’s main meal and then provide necessary grazing for the rest of play. It is rare, perhaps even impossible, for a cricket picnic to be too large, though those fortunate to have experienced such a thing will know only too well that the magic of a soggy sandwich disappears almost as soon as you’ve left the ground and the sad binning of the remnants is not something one particularly relishes.

Even in expertly proportioned pack-ups there are likely to be decisions to make – the banana that is probably too bruised, the half-eaten crisps that have just had too much lager sprayed in their general direction, the cheese-and-raw-onion affair that you could’ve sworn you didn’t make earlier and seems to have appeared in the bag by the process of sandwich-osmosis but is now the only vaguely edible item left. In these circumstances it is important to remember you are not alone – we have all faced these tough choices. We’ve been there and we’re all with you, whatever your decision.

Not every late rummage brings misery. Just on occasion, deep into the evening session, there’s the chance of a forgotten gem – the ham cob in some obscure rucksack pocket, the pork pie slice that has somehow survived untouched at the bottom of the cool bag, the lonely mini-scotch egg popping up unexpectedly in a clear plastic tray long thought empty. These are moments to be cherished, savoured, as satisfying to the peckish as a well-struck cover drive or a fizzing outswinger.

It may be under threat – T20 has reduced the need for prolonged sustenance; Lord’s has a food village that, in addition to chips, burgers and burritos, now flogs “gourmet pies and scotch eggs” – but as the only sport whose sessions of play are intersected by meal times, why shouldn’t we pay homage to the tin foil and tupperware, the salad cream and sausage rolls, the odd unwanted and surprising radish? Keep your pulled pork baguettes and pizza slices. Make mine a pickled onion.

• This is an extract taken from the Spin, the Guardian’s weekly cricket email. To subscribe just visit this page, find the Spin and then follow the instructions.