The BCCI are doing their damnedest to appear the most loathsome and odious governing board in world sport* and their clampdown on photography in the ground is the latest example of this. However, exclusively for DWC readers, here are some pictures of today’s action from inside the Sardar Patel Stadium, session-by-session. Enjoy.

Does anyone have a number for Jocelyn Goldsworthy? Or that bloke who does those natty sketches from the High Court? Or Leonardo Acropolis? They could make a fortune out here….

*Five days before I can start slamming certain hierarchies in other walks of life. You know who you are.

I meet my buddies Pete & Toni when picking up the match tickets from our source (Thank you unreservedly big fella.) late afternoon and we immediately hit upon the plan of going for dinner.

“The lady at our hotel recommended this place…. Vishalla.” Pete and I both concurred and the Sinfield’s driver Vijay took us on a tour of Ahmadebad by dusk, Divali illuminations stoically shining through the enveloping smog and spent firecrackers as we made our way through the city.
Our destination is on the cusp of an area of town Vijay cheerfully nicknames “Little Pakistan” and to the only dwelling in the city almost entirely uncontaminated by light. We’re greeted by a variation on the theme of fog; great swathes of asphyxiating incense that add to the mystical theme. It’s no surprise to find Ravi Shankar is one of the many notables to have dined here down the years.
So too has Sachin. And an old bloke with shoulder length hair who’s in lot of adverts out here.

Tonight we’re joining the great and good of Indian public life to have dined here, but as with such a lot of things in this wonderful country, not as quickly as we’d like.

“No food till half seven, but for an extra hundred rupees, you can see our museum till then, please pay here, now, thank you.”

So off we went. And not to just any museum. No dear reader, for an extra £1.40, we’d scooped the museum lottery jackpot….. The National Utensil Museum of India.

What followed was a combination of an Anglo-Indian game of Going For A Song with that Spanish Inquisition bit in Blackadder II; “Oh, it’s a scythe/ knee rest/ back scratch/ front fastening camel flask….” And an almost endless selection of receptacles- jugs, pots, colanders, pans. All that was missing was Didier Deschamps. Having spent more time there than was probably sensible we headed for some much needed tucker.

“No food yet, watch magic show, enjoy music, look at puppets.”

The latest hors d’ouvres was some chap with a limp, balancing bell-topped bamboo canes on his top lip, before attempting to simultaneously hit these bells through a pea shooter. I feared for him, I really did but our co-diners seemed to lap it up. Which, presumably, is how the poor ol’ boy got his limp in the first place.
It reminded me of the post credits sequence at the end of Phoenix Nights. I imagined it was the one-legged Preity Zinta tribute act’s night off.

Finally food and a feast of raw chillies, spices, dals, traditional Gujurati fayre, rotis, pickles, dumplings and sweets. Infact, all the other stuff they tell you to avoid in the guide books till at least six weeks into your Indian adventure. All that sat cross legged (“so that’s what those knee rests are for….”) and fastidiously waited on. The ever present incense and the fact that we could have been filming one of the night scenes in Bridge on the River Kwai added to a unique dining experience and a truly original taste sensation. Yes, really. ( See http://www.vishalla.com for details.)

I thanked Vijay for his driving (I know tuk-tuks are the real way to see Asia, but you never turn your nose up at a lift in an A/C Tata MPV) and thanked Peter & Toni for their generosity and bid them farewell until the morning and my raison d’être, the first day of the Test Match….

Postscript. I’m merrily tapping away now, but there is no way I’m going to be match fit after all that lot. So near yet so far. You’ll have to go on without me chaps.

Hello hotel telly. Hello plain roti and bottled water. Hello toilet.

Great food by the way. The batada vada that is.

Not the donkey.

Dryer than Gandhi’s flip flop goes the well worn expression. So fittingly Mohandas K’s home state, as well as being predictably arid, is alcohol free as well.

It’s what the great man would’ve wanted.

Not ideal if you’re an English cricket fan though.

Does anyone know where I can get a beer from in Ahmedabad?

I’d even take Lion Strong at room temperature*, the Sri Lankan pisshead’s drink of choice, at this stage.

Pull yourself together Wiss, things aren’t that bad. Maybe I can learn something about myself during this spontaneously enforced spell of prohibition.

Fresh water melon juice could be the future……

Happy Diwali everyone!

* Hello Phil, China, Tom, Pat & Ben!

“Air India?”The raised eyebrow was Roger Moore, the frown all Jeremy Paxman. “Seriously? Ha, ha. Good luck mate! My company stopped flying us with them years ago, they’re hopeless. And you actually chose them…..”

That’s how Dances With Chazzwazzers works ladies and gentlemen (for ease of use, let’s go with DWC from now on, shall we?); keeping tourism real so you can just read about it, hopefully laugh about it then make your own informed decision. So I was pumped. Ready for it. Bring it on. This half arsed approach to customer service and safety wasn’t going to flour any chapatis with me. I was going to delight you, first post up, with a withering critique of the aforementioned airline and their cackhandedness.

The truth, rather disappointingly, is nowhere as entertaining as fiction. The food was good, (well, for airline standards….), the choice of entertainment was ok, the attention to safety and security was every bit as complicit as it should be. I ended up with quite a lot more legroom than shut-eye as it happens, as my immediate co-passengers turned out to be an obliging young family with a teething newborn (those sleepless nights aren’t overrated are they brother?) and the very manifestation of a charming English rose who had come to India to get away from it all. While the complaisant, jolly stewardesses could have come straight from the second verse of a Neil Hannon song. So from expecting to damn, instead I have a modicum of praise for this seemingly embattled venerable elder statesman of the aviation world.

They were bloody late though. Or, if you go by the phenomenon that is India Time, perfectly punctual….