The season has building up to this. One will triumph, one will fall. A city divided. Three points, but much more pertinently, pride, all consuming pride, at stake. The title may not be decided here but today’s result will go some way to determining the champions.

Welcome to The Salt Lake Stadium, venue for the Kolkata derby, the third biggest match in Asian football, East Bengal versus Mohun Bagan. It’s Super Sunday and it’s Live.

…ly. Very, very lively.

Our taxi scrambles on through the gathering storm. Tightly packed truckloads of fans are ferried in from all over the city. Flags draped around shoulders, shops, bus stops. Supporters bedecked in club colours, knock-off replica shirts and the local fan wear of choice, the official un-official bandana complete with inevitable hari-kiri connotations, swarm anxiously around the stadium as kick off looms.

Not for the first time, if you’ll forgive the travel writing cliche, India takes the breath away. And not for the first time it’s in the unlikely spots that don’t make it into the travel guide that do this.

Salt Lake Stadium is a hulking, ungainly concrete bowl of a place; Cold War Soviet era in its construction and design. To my left East Bengal take two thirds of their allocation while Mohun Bagan half fill their end.

That’s ninety thousand football crazed Kolkatans, going absolutely bananas for their team. Comfortably outstripping the, by contrast, sedate following at Eden Gardens in terms of numbers as well as fanaticism.

Mohun Bagan are the earlier established, mainly Muslim team, dating from the late nineteenth century and the port area of town. Resplendent in maroon and green, their colours are reminiscent of Rio’s Fluminense. “Mariners on The Move” and other such banners, firecrackers and hysterical support marks their territory.
Lucky Paul, Matt and I are in with the home team fans, East Bengal. Established in 1920, more white collar than blue, the arriviste team are the side to beat in The I-League again this season. More firecrackers, banners, more hysterical cheering. The colours of East Bengal, meanwhile, evoke for the romantic, Melchester Rovers, for the cynical, Galatasary, or for the sadist, Watford.
Yes, that’s right, as a Luton Town fan of some years standing I’m going to be spending the next hour or so cheering on a team in yellow and red. And, to add to things, they’re also the team of Kolkata’s Hindu population….
It’s not just the asphyxiating atmosphere that’s causing the mildest sense of discomfort here.

After the entirely pointless display of the FIFA Fair Play banner, the inevitable presence and presentation of some dignitaries or other and the lumping of training balls by the substitutes in to the stands, we’re almost ready. The police force in their phalanxes take their place sitting cross-legged by the side of the pitch. The referee gets the match underway.

The football is honest. Early on, both teams trade long balls in search of their gangly strikers (I’m saying nothing here Watford fans…) before settling to try and get the ball on to the almost-lush astroturf. It’s apparent, fitness isn’t a priority here. Balls are brainlessly pumped down the channels to no-one in particular with no one following up, let alone making the running off the ball. East Bengal look the better side. For Mohun Bagan, a couple of corners and half-hearted efforts are as good as it gets then, near side, their diminutive attacker gets possession (they love an old fashioned left-winger down here in Socialist Bengal), beats two men before squaring a dangerous looking ball across the East Bengal six yard box just out of reach of the on rushing number nine.
The home team shrug this off and begin to exert the pressure through a higher corner count and possession. Mohun Bagan’s keeper tips over but his team mates keep gifting the ball back to their rivals. The free kick tally begins to tell too as the Mariners start to lose their opponents and, tellingly, the plot. Forty minutes in, a set piece on the edge of the area the ball is floated into East Bengal’s number ten whose flick header takes an age to drop tantalisingly just inside the post.
Delirium. The firecrackers like gun shots ring out around the stadium. Sixty thousand East Bengal fans celebrate wildly. It’s like being at a wholly inappropriate, sulphurous Last Night of the Proms. On acid.

Mohun Bagan try, comically, to take the restart while the opposition aren’t looking. The referee pulls them back. Then infuriates them further by giving yet another free kick to East Bengal on the far side. It becomes too much for the mardy Mariners. A twenty two man brawl ensues and it all kicks off. An ambulance drives on to the pitch, Mohun Bagan’s centre forward gets red carded for dissent, their keeper takes his boots and gloves off in protest, riots break out in the away end, there’s baton charges and even more firecrackers before a moments peace manages to squeeze in the last thirty seconds of play of the half.

Mohun Bagan refuse to to take to the field for the second half. Their fans wreak their revenge for their perceived injustice by ripping their part of the stadium to shreds. The police get stuck in again.
Pitch side, the referee pompously stands with his assistants in the centre circle. Carnage, but no communication. The East Bengal players amuse themselves and their fans by doing performing some keeps-puppy and an impromptu rendition of Oops-Upside-Your-Head.
Still no word, despite the jostling journos and TV crews training their equipment on anyone who looks important for some kind of clue. Fires are lit in the away end. Police charge again. Nothing, not a word, spellbound, we watch all this unfold. The Maroon and Green banners start to be withdrawn. We make educated guesses as to what will happen next. Then fires in the home end. East Bengal’s crest depicts a hand holding aloft a flame and tradition dictates this is what the home fans do in victory. It looks like a hallucinogenic Tory Party Conference. Enough’s enough. We turn down another cup of tea from obliging East Bengal fans and decide to get the hell out of here.

On our way out of the ground we encounter other inquisitive English cricket fans who have popped into take in the I-League’s big fixture and have got a lot more than they bargained for. The match has been abandoned, officially. We wander aimlessly in among the crowds, the dust and the dusk in search of a taxi and a route out of this Bengali bedlam.

Solace, eventually, is found away from the madness in a couple of cold beers on a roof top bar trying to make sense of the last few hours.

It’s not like this at Gresty Road says Matt.

Last Ball Drama Downs Five Man Elstow

Tom Wisson’s Elstow arrived at the Bunyan Centre for a prompt and early start at 9am, against the Biggleswade Town. Frantic calls to ‘Hoggy’ were made. (Personally there is only one real Hoggy and as our Secretary is the 14th member of his fan club I am sure he will agree. There is only one Hoggy). The calls were too no avail, it was down to the Elstow V to win this game.
With the toss lost, Elstow opened with El Capitain and Dave Riddle, with Rob Tebbutt being the square leg umpire…. where was that unshaven man? The vital cog in the Elstow machine, without him, I am not sure where we would be, but certainly we would not be in a better state. This was his moment, he could have played and made us VI. (Seriously mate, thanks for all the unwarranted acclaim and everything, but you would have got on a lot better without me regardless… Ed.) But no, he is out there in some corner of a foreign cricket field, living the dream, whilst envious men read on through http://www.danceswithchazzwazzers.com

The excellent opening partnership was only separated when faithful scorer and Club President Ali Milne called ‘retire please’. Elstow were 90 plus for nought with Phil ‘Jonty’ Johnson striding to the wicket. The scoreboard kept ticking and soon Tommy Wiss retired on 41 not out. Jonty made a dashing 8 before departing. Dan Wisson joined the fray, after a few balls being met by leaden feet, Dan Wiss was soon driving 4s and lofting 6s… Elstow managed 166 for 2 off the alotted 12 overs, with Dan Wiss 21no and the faultless Ridds 40no and Tom Wiss 41no.

Elstow opened up with Tebbs and Jonty. Both bowled good lines, but the missing fielder made 3s easy to achieve for the Waders, the opening pair soon started to erode into the target. The Waders were on target with only the loss of one wicket (thanks to Tebbs). However, now both Tebbs and Jonty had bowled out. It was down to Elstow’s premier spin bowler* and Tommy Wiss to stem the tide.
Jimmy Hart could only score runs off the occassional wides but the straight ones were bamboozling and he was put out of his misery when Riddle straightened one and bowled Jimmy through the gate. Kevin Wright came and went courteousy of Riddle, though not before a lofted six, but the second attempt saw Jonty take a neat catch on the back wall. Another Biggleswade bunny was had, bowled off his pads through the gate and Riddle had three for not many, the game had turned (figuratively speaking only).

Kelvin kept the scoreboard ticking, and soon it was squeaky bum time. Have no fear we had Tommy Wiss. A caught and bowled meant it was “Kelvin v Wisson” to see who won this game.

Wisson was on top. A tidy over and it was soon 6 required from the last ball. A play and a miss, and Kelvin disconsolately walked off, Elstow V were over the line….
But wait….
The umpire stretched his arms and to Elstow’s disbelief a wide was called. Kelvin returned to the wicket. Waders had 4 runs and an additional ball. The tables had turned.

It was now 3 from 1 ball required. A decent ball was squeezed out to the side wall and the Waders ran a single to win by one run.

Heartbreaking stuff.
However, the Elstow V should take great heart, a great show.

MOM: A cat in the field, an effortless knock and a spell of guile and flight. David Riddle
DOD: Only one person and I shall not disgrace Matthew James Hoggard by referencing him by his nickname here.

* When Jacko, JT, Danny Course, (for those who remember his bowling) Matty Stevens and Harps are not available.

Report courtesy of Dan Wisson, aka The Bury Avenue Bugle. Thanks fella, for stepping up to the plate and filing such a comprehensive and enjoyable account of Sunday’s match.
For anyone new to cricket, Bedfordshire, or indeed The Mighty Elstow, please see our website for details; http://www.elstowcc.co.uk
Like us, retweet us, tell your friends about us. We are a small village club with big goals run by dedicated, welcoming people passionate about our great game and our growing community.
Get involved, you’ll be pleased you did.

Every so often, in life, you do things you’d much rather not for the greater good.

Like not handing back your pint when the clueless round-buyer unwittingly gets you a lager. Or pretending not to notice baked beans have been put in the chilli in place of their kidney counterparts (Hello Mum. Love you! X). Or putting up with horrible, horrible dance music when you’re a passenger in someone else’s car.

Earlier today brought about such an example.

Despite being outrageously talented, one of the finest batsmen of his generation and most probably a really nice chap as well, I’ve never had the time of day for Ian Bell. All the ability in the world, yet no ticker, guts, cojones etc when the going gets tough, which usually means on any turning track or against opposition in the sub continent.

The ‘atters used to have such a player. Jean Louis Valois. A magician from across The Channel. He had opposition defenders in his pocket, a wonderful ability to ghost past players, put crosses on to the head of Big Stevie Howard and a shot like Napoleon’s best Carabinier. He also had the propensity to go missing when it got a bit physical. Especially on a cold Tuesday in the dark North West or on other such challenging weather and well ‘ard full back based situations. For all his shortcomings, I still loved him.

I don’t think I’ll ever love Ian Bell.

But at 8-3 and the slightest threat (or ruddy great big threat, if you’re a natural worrier like me) to England wrapping up a potentially series deciding win in Kolkata with Alastair Cook, Jonathan Trott & Kevin Pietersen all out, I R Bell stepped up to the plate and, making short work of a potential banana skin, deployed all the aforementioned class to see his team home, quite comfortably in the end, by seven wickets. Cue delirium among the travelling faithful.

Today England sealed a memorable victory on one of cricket’s greatest stages. It had been a long time coming. Cook (outstanding), Trott, Steve Finn, James Anderson and Graeme Swann helped set this up, yet it was the much maligned (by me and a few others within Eden Gardens anyway) Bell who took us home.

Respect to you sir. Grudgingly or otherwise.

Now go and do it again in Nagpur. Please.

The minutes are counting down before the start of play. Nervous, I’m passing the time by talking to a delightful lady about her experience with the police today (they banned her glasses case because they thought it was a missile….) and Mackem Rob about his team’s prospects against Chelsea.

Still no sign of him.

Seconds before the players take the field, Matt turns up. He’s on his own.

Shit!

There follows a salient mixture of James Corden and Karl Pilkington. The features amiably the former, the delivery starkly the latter.

“Err, Paul couldn’t make it….”

Since Day One of the Mumbai Test my pre-play handshake with our mutual friend has formed the cornerstone of my match day routine.

Couldn’t make it?

“Err, no, he’s come down with a fever or bug. Thinks it might be too much sun or summat.”

Bad portents, bad, bad.

No bounding, grinning, ginger Yorkie, hand outstretched, smile resplendent under the type of beard you could hide a series of Last of the Summer Wine scripts.

The handshake that extols assurance. Have no fear. We’ll be reet lad, thar knows.

I puff my cheeks out and take my seat. Two balls later Graeme Swann edges behind to leave England seven down for 294. They’ll soon be all out for not many more.

Lucky Paul? Where are you? Get off your sick bed fella. We need you.

Then Virender Sehwag tucks into England’s attack in that way if his. Flashbacks. Ahmedabad. Howl! Monty Panesar gets the treatment. The lunch break can’t come quick enough. Neither can the return of Lucky Paul.

Matt treats me to his lunch time staple, Bhel Puri. A snack concocted of baked rice, spuds, chillies, onions and deep fried bits. I’m not very keen on it but Matt is really quite sad at having to leave this obscure hors d’ouvres on his return to Blighty next weekend. So much so that he’s considering making his own recipe using Rice Crispies and selling it to the unsuspecting people of Cheshire.

Swann gets Sehwag first ball after lunch. Then the rest of this rather unloveable Indian team get in a bit of a pickle against our lads. Steve Finn is rampant. Ian Bell reminds us he has something to offer English cricket still by running out Cheteshwar Pujara. Jimmy Anderson splatters Yuvraj Singh’s stumps. Tendulkar and Dhoni are back in the hutch too at tea. England sniff victory. The Barmy Army give it some in response.

Lucky Paul, schlucky Paul. Silly comfort blanket superstitious nonsense. Still, shame the ol’ boy can’t be here to see it though.

Play resumes, no-one tells Zaheer Khan and Virat Kohli. Then comes R Ashwin.

Resilient. Redoubtable. Really, really annoying.

Slowly the momentum drains from England towards India’s unsung number eight, who has been better value with bat than his main role with the ball in this series. So it proves again. England plug away. Ashwin resists. And how. The boundary count goes up as the deficit comes down. As it becomes clear England will need to bat again to win the Test the Indian support goes up several decibels. Fever pitch stuff. They’ve made England bat again, judging by the ferocity of the celebrations you’d have thought they’d reclaimed the Number One World Ranking spot. Every shot, whether there’s a run from it or not, is cheered boisterously.
Either Bengalis have taken the concept of irony to new levels or, as most of the travelling support tend to believe, these people really are mad. A mother next to me who has been jabbering on in Hindi throughout Ashwin’s heroics suddenly switches tongues and knowingly tells her brood, “For India, Nothing Is Impossible.”

Time stands still. The balmy, hazy dusk is replaced by an Arctic chill.

Forget Ivor Emmanuel in Zulu, forget Russell Osman in Escape To Victory, this shit just got real. England come back tomorrow needing one wicket plus however many runs.

All three results are still possible. Looking for sanity, for salvation, I glance round to Matt….

I don’t care what state he’s in tomorrow. For the love of God, we need Lucky Paul.

“Four-more-to-the-Ingerlund, four-more-to-the-Ingerlund, four-more-to-the-Ingerlund, four-more-to-the-In-ger-lund. Four more…..”

Day Two, Eden Gardens, Kolkata, Third Airtel Test Match. Sometime near the close of play.

Left to right: HW, Vicky, James and Lucky Paul.
Photo credit: P.T.Johnson Esq (Hello Phil! Thanks very much for the photo fella.)

Towards the close of play at Eden Gardens, the stadium’s big screen zoomed in on England’s new captain standing in his usual languid style at the non-striker’s end. His face both contemplative and determined. Another Test Match century, his 23rd. The record books continue to be rewritten.
The stadiums watchful hawks performed their last swoop of this famous old arena. The cooling westerly breeze and the ever present smog and drawing dusk doused the last of the Bengal sun’s power. Billy the Trumpeter played Rule Britannia.

Am I doing the right thing? Quitting my steady if soporific job in the middle of a recession to gallivant un-worriedly around the world? How the hell am I going to get a job when I get back? How long before the money runs out?

It didn’t matter. That moment. My raison d’être.

England are still one hundred runs behind with nine wickets in hand and three days to play. All three results still possible. As an England fan, I’ve been here before. Hope, damn hope.

A moment to savour though.

The queue for the eagerly anticipated Third Airtel Test Match stretched around the walls of this iconic old ground. The promise of a day’s play at the home of Indian Cricket, the redoubtable Eden Gardens.
Rather than looking contemplative, the emotions etched on the faces of the gathering crowds was of collective resignation. What was it going to be today?

Every morning of every Test has been the same. A farcical inspection of your possessions and a full-on frisk of your person, rigidly carried out by at least four gopherish police officers, one after the other, each with their own take on the rules of confiscation, as their overbearing, weasel faced Colonel Blimp-like superiors look on, and occasionally join in (especially the frisking). Next in line to the BCCI come the Indian Police Force.
Utterly loathsome. Together they form a horribly tyrannous alliance.

Cameras? No, you’ll sell your pictures to unaccredited sources who will print them thus undercutting any BCCI profits. Bottles of water? No, you’ll use them as missiles. Insect repellant? No, could be used as missiles and you could spray people with it, thus inciting a riot. Barely read copies of The Times of India? No, you’ll set light to them and use them as missiles. Bottles of suntan lotion? No, you could use them as missiles and inadvertently slather someone with it, thus inciting a riot, albeit a nicely bronzed one. Bananas? No, sorry sir, missiles etc etc.

Yes, really.

Everyday, the same scene. According to Lucky Paul’s mate Mark, the police in Mumbai, to their great amusement and his great embarrassment, made him eat a samosa he was cunningly trying to secrete into the ground in his pants in front of them.
What next, as one tour veteran opined in Ahmedabad, shoes?

So imagine my thoughts when I see a gargantuan stash of these being sold in the ground earlier today…..

So, we’ve got the idea here. Missiles are out. Right?

And, presumably, water bombs are definitely ok then?

Will the last sane person at the BCCI please turn out the lights?

Post Script: They tasted foul. The blue dye that came off on your hands as you drank made it worse.

Having said that, there are a few thousand England fans who would happily drink them all day for the next four days in return for more days like today. Superb start to a big, big game.

Plucking at the great daisy of travelling thus;

I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not….

Today was one of the latter. A day of endless asphyxiating bureaucracy, of maddening misdirection. Straight, straight, left. Left, straight. Straight, straight, straight, left. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

No.

A day of no. A day of pointless queuing. Of getting nowhere supersonically quickly. Up and down Park Street and Chowringhee Road and the corridor of uncertainty that passes for the tranche of tat-shifting market stalls stuck immovably over the pavement. In among the chasing gutter kids and the hounding stall holders wanting their pound of foreign flesh.

A day that ended among the thousands of thousands of Kolkatan commuters on their way home in darkness. Midnight? Early evening. The smog leads in the night quickly out east. The Metro carriage is packed to its last square inch. And the next one. And the next one.

I’ll get the next one.

My stop. For the only time in India no one wants my money. Tuk tuk and taxi drivers both refuse to take me the relatively short distance home. Honour among thieves? So I take a ragged stroll back through the busy back streets to my hotel. The gutter kids and stall holders aren’t as persistent out in the suburbs but they’re an ever present reminder of India’s great disparity. I wipe the turd from my shoe on an angry jeweller’s door step. I fist pump a well wisher. I shake my head through disbelief at the never ending cacophony of horns and ponder, just, why? Its always worse on days like these.

I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not, I love India, I love India not….

Hotel. Supper. Elbow. Bed.

A day tomorrow watching the cricket.

Third Tier A/C, it sounded slightly different, but I expected similar to my previous experiences on Indian Railways. Rock up, get your bunk, wobble your head at your compartment travellers (a little less wobble for the other passengers and their curious gawping, you don’t want to get too friendly too early and you certainly don’t want to share bunk space). Cling on to the surface, try and get comfortable. Take it in turns to hang out the open door. Try again to get comfortable. Press your face up against the window rails for a view if you can’t get near the door. Regret never ever having been to Pilates in preparation for this type of carry-on. Try once again to get comfortable.

As soon as we entered Coach B-2 for the De-Mille-esque journey ahead of us, everything looked the same, but different. The carriages from the outside looked as I remembered them, a sort of sky blue and darker blue appearance that once upon a time Coventry City may have used for their home kit, with a tinge of yellow that they probably wouldn’t. The bunks with their gloomily unwelcoming chains, the fans set at rakish angles (Hello Michael!).

Then it struck me.
Tinted windows. Sheets? Pillows? Blankets? Sockets.
And yer actual A/C Unit.
This wasn’t exactly how I remembered it.

How naive. I presumed A/C meant doors and windows open 24/7, dust on demand, get your fresh air when you can. I’d lost something in translation, or, as is often here, application of the translation.
A kindly Merchant Seaman, on his way back to ship for another voyage (and we thought Mumbai- Kolkata by train was a bit of a wrench) to wherever work next took him, corrected me on my assumption. Explaining that Third Tier A/C meant a modicum of comfort we bunkered down for the 34 hours journey ahead of us.

Smart arse me, feeling over qualified (knob) through my extensive (knob) adventures of this wonderful country, I took it upon myself to explain to my fellow travellers exactly (knob) what would happen on these over night excursions. Turns out I got things a bit wrong. What James and Vicky (an absolutely delightful couple who I’d spent the last day or so with) did get was two nights of reasonable sleep and enough A/C to hoodwink a Polar Bear into putting another layer on. And reasonable food for a very reasonable price. They got somewhere to plug in the IPad to watch Borat (thanks James) and somewhere to stoically, and relatively untroubled, finish the latest Marion Keyes novel (kudos Vicky). They also got to play I Spy (see below).

What they didn’t get was the thrill of hanging on outside a train while it powers through Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, through Jharakand and on into West Bengal and the exhilarating sights, sounds and smells this experience allows. The wailing eunuchs, the cherubic tat salesmen, the suspicious looking vendors all will have to wait for another day.

Like buying a ticket for an Iron Maiden concert and getting Crowded House instead. Tedium rather than tangible, India through a tinted window rather than the in your face, roller coaster thriller a joyride in Sleeper Class* provides.
Out of my brain alright. Through boredom sadly.

*All these years thinking A/C and Sleeper were the same thing. That’s another great thing about India, just when you think you’ve got the place sussed, it turns round and bites you on the arse.

Spent ages doing a video clip to upload showcasing my latest digs in Mumbai.

Blog providers want £40 for the privilege. Have tried to Tweet it.

That doesn’t look promising either.

So it’ll have to wait till I get home. Sorry folks.

33* hour train journey to Kolkata ahead, so no posting now till Monday. Have a great weekend all.

*Yes, 33. T-H-I-R-T-Y-T-H-R-E-E.