'Where are they going?' asked Aubrey as Stig, Grunk, Dorf and Warg ran off to find shelter.

'It's a Neanderthal thing,' I explained as the rain increased dramatically to a downpour, the water streaming down our armour and on to the turf. 'Neanderthals never work, play or even stand in the rain if they can help it. Don't worry, they'll be back as soon as it stops.'

But it didn't stop.

'Fifty-yard penalty,' announced the umpire. 'O'Fathens for the Whackers and Mr Warg for the Mallets.'

I looked at Warg, who was sitting on the bench under the stands, staring at the rain with a mixed expression of respect and wonder.

'He's going to lose us the game!' muttered Jambe in my ear. 'Can't you do something?'

I ran across the soggy green to Warg, who stared at me blankly when I implored him to come and take the penalty.

'It's raining,' he replied, 'and it's only a game. It doesn't really matter who wins, does it?'

'Stig?' I implored.

'We'd work in the rain for you, Thursday - but we've taken

our turn already. Rain is precious; it gives life — you should respect it more, too.'

I returned to the fifty-yard line as slowly as I could to try to give the rain time to finish. It didn't.

'Well?' demanded Jambe.

I shook my head sadly.

'I'm afraid not. Winning has never been of any interest to the Neanderthals. They played only as a favour to me.'

Aubrey sighed.

'We'd like to delay the next penalty until it stops raining,' announced Twizzit, who had appeared holding a newspaper over his head. He was on legal marshland with this request and he knew it. The umpire asked the Whackers whether they wanted to delay but O'Fathens stared at me and said that he didn't. So the next person on the list took their turn at the fifty-yard line — me.

I wiped the rain from my eyes and tried even to see the peg. The rain was coming down so heavily that the cascading droplets created a watery haze a few inches above the turf. Still, I had the second shot - O'Fathens might miss too.

The Whackers' captain concentrated for a moment, swung and connected well. The ball went sailing high towards the peg and seemed set to hit it fairly and squarely. But with a loud 'plop' it landed short. There was an expectant rumble from the crowd.

The word was relayed up the field — O'Fathens had landed four feet from the peg. I had to get closer than that to win the Superhoop.

'Good luck,' said Aubrey, giving my arm a squeeze.