Cricket-Bed

On his 9-inch black-and-white portable, the Poms were two for two hundred and twenty-two, and Collingwood was at the crease, looking weary as Lee peppered him. Surely he couldn't hold out much longer.

Neville's bladder, after a case-and-a-bit of Victoria's finest (...just to stave off the heat), shifted even more uncomfortably in the other direction.

After a moment's hesitation, born of a lifetime of standing at the trough, Nev stroked the hydrophobic fibres of his latest purchase-- his already much-loved Cricket-Bed-- and let fly.

A good plume of golden fluid sprayed from Neville's nether parts, flowed down the imperceptibly sloping face of his Cricket-Bed's mattress, to the central collection channel, and thence to the bucket craftily disguised amongst a pile of old footy socks.

Nev sighed with relief, as the ceiling-fan circled above, drying the tip of his bits. Good old Cricket-Bed, he thought. At this rate, he could get in at least another four before tea.