AMONG the things which were obligatory in the first form at King James I Grammar School were algebra, boiled fish and cricket. The first two were indigestible, the third inescapable.

Arbitrarily, they divided us into “counties”. Our lot were Somerset. It explains why, almost 60 years later, Somerset cricket remains not so much a cross to bear as a world weight. Atlas got off lightly.

In 125 years, Somerset have never once won the County Championship and until 1979 hadn’t won anything at all.

Those were the days of the great West Indians Viv Richards and Joel Garner and of I T Botham, who was from Cheshire via Scunthorpe United. Unaccustomed to success, management declined to renew the contracts of the first two and saw Botham walk away in fraternal protest.

The Battle of Shepton Mallett, they called it. Somerset have had more battles than Bernard Montgomery, and rather fewer medals.

On Monday, not so much ne’er-cast-a-clout as add another top coat for comfort, they were at Chester-le-Street in the season’s opener – Durham 256 not out overnight, Somerset 30-3.

That night Shildon were at Morpeth in a match which could have a huge bearing on the outcome of the Ebac Northern League championship. Shildon haven’t won that one since 1940. I really know how to pick them.

MASOCHISM Monday is positively perishing, the Emirates Riverside the meteorological opposite – a wind tunnel? – of a sun trap.

The coffee stall – “Roasted in Milan,” it says, chance would be a fine thing – proves populous. The ice cream van – “freshly made for you” – chills out alone.

The Northern Echo:
HARDY SOULS: Spectators watching Durham v Somerset on Monday

Old friends greet one another, wonder how they’ve wintered, talk about the football. “Eighty million pund,” protests a Newcastle United fan. “Eighty million pund and I’ve got better bloody manure in me barrer.”

I may be the only Somerset fan on that exceptionally attractive cricket ground, and certainly the only one from Shildon.

Briefly Somerset do OK. If you’re a cider county fan, doing OK is as good as ever it gets. They’re 73 before another wicket falls, lose the fifth with the next ball and two more on 85, new skipper Rogers run out by Stoneman’s direct throw. He looks displeased. Verdict: suicide.

Trego, eternally enthusiastic, rallies them. At lunch they’re 122-8, have at least avoided the follow-on, and I’m in the members’ lounge by virtue of knowing the Durham twelfth man’s granddad.

A pint’s £3.80, the membership unamused. “They’ve a new carpet,” says a lady member, defensively. “They have to pay for it somehow.”

Others in out of the cold include a group from Hartlepool – “You look taller out of print” one of them says – and John Maughan from Wolsingham, who last appeared in these columns after enduring the Ken Dodd Show at Darlington Civic until 12.45am.

John’s carrying one of those little foam cushions, with the Durham County crest. “I have to,” he says. “After Doddy, me backside never recovered.”

Unlike the visiting batsmen, the day never really gets out. Somerset are dismissed for 179, bowl again and are carted like a barrow load of manure to all parts of the outfield. Durham folk applaud; I can’t bring myself to it, not even as a means of warming the fingers. Durham are 65-0 when I have to leave. It’s going to be another long season.

ON the shelf at home there’s a book called 100 Somerset Greats, published in 2001. Three are from Teesside.

Most are afforded but a single page; the top 20 have two. The double-headers include Harold Stephenson, former Haverton Hill shipyard worker, Billingham Synthonia footballer and reckoned the county’s finest ever wicketkeeper.

Stivvie was also captain in the early 1960s, frowned upon in some west country quarters simply for being a professional and in others for, as the book has it, liking a pint or two. They fell out; it’s a familiar story.

Colin Atkinson was born in Thornaby, grew up in Stockton, attended Roman Catholic grammar school in Darlington and represented Durham at cricket, football, hockey, squash and athletics.

A master at Millfield School in Somerset – if ever a man looked like a public school master it was C R M Atkinson – he became headmaster and was appointed county captain in 1965, leading the county to third place in the Championship. At the time, they’d never done better.

Mickey Walford was born in Norton-on-Tees, is said to have been “somewhat aloof”, but had a betting average of over 40 from 52 matches. How Somerset could do with him at the red-cheeked Riverside.

It’s a book of Braund, Botham and Bertie Buse, of Richards, Roebuck and Robertson-Glasgow. Who since 2001 might demand to move over to make room?

The mighty Marcus Trescothick was already there – “a magnificent future beckons,” it said, presciently – while Peter Trego would certainly have to be accommodated and, perhaps, the persevering batter James Hildreth.

Jos Buttler would probably catch on but, in turn, left unhappily. Craig Kieswetter promised much, but had his career wrecked by a facial injury. Save for Trego’s all-round ability, not a single 21st century bowler comes to mind. Perhaps Somerset should return to the NYSD, or to the press-ganged playing fields of Bishop Auckland Grammar School.

SHILDON last won the Northern League when the country was at the start of a six-year war with Germany, when the league had just six clubs and when they only managed 10 matches.

Is there anyone alive who remembers the occasion? It would be wonderful to hear from them.

Before Monday’s match they lead Morpeth by 20 points, but the FA Vase finalists have six games in hand. Marske United, the reigning champions, are also in contention. Victory in Monday’s game might not exactly put Shildon’s name on the trophy, but still tempt them to nip into Boyes to ask about red ribbons.

They win 4-0, the lustrously-named Corey Patrick Wilhelm Greulich-Smith – just Billy to his mates – firing two, as might be expected of one of the few double-barrelled players in the league.

With Hartlepool United from 2009-11, the rangy Greulich-Smith never quite made it in the Football League, but is a latter day saint in Shildon.

Excitement builds; old men positively tremble with it. Shildon have flattered to deceive before. Surely not this time, not lip and cup again?

Their form is impressive, their lead commanding. Experience behoves caution, nonetheless: as we surrogate cider men are given to suppose, you really can’t win them all.