The de la France 24/7 Boulangerie. As French as a hastily prepared ferry blockade yet staffed almost entirely by Chinese people, where George Street crosses Goulburn Street, Sydney. An unusual grip of homesickness has engulfed me, tinged with a certain sadness. One of my heroes, Sid Waddell passed away last year.

When you speak of the all time greats of sports commentary, very few could match Sid. Unparalleled for his peerless powers as a wordsmith, his unflagging passion for his pet sport and his ability to inform and entertain, the genial Geordie had it all. His passing last summer was a sad day for darts.

As I scrabble and scroll back and forth between Twitter, BBC Sport, emails, phone, books, there’s absolutely no doubt tonight’s PDC World Darts finalists are serving up an absolute treat.
Dear old Sid would’ve loved it. Michael van Gerwen, from the one of the now traditional outposts of darts, Holland has been in outstanding form throughout the competition. The future of the sport and a man for whom Sid would’ve been rolling out the well-worked one liners flies into an early lead, first two-nil then four-two. Phil Taylor, a Titan of the tungsten and the subject of some of the greatest Waddell-based commentary begins a fight back so typical of the great man.

I can’t see it nor hear it. There’s thrice as many people that will be lapping this up at Alexandra Palace that have walked past me, completely oblivious to another great day for this great sport happening on the other side of the world. Stony faced commuters at the end of their holidays, bronzed or burnt or both backpackers somewhere in between theirs. Efficient waitresses flit round with Lattes and Long Blacks. As the morning’s gone on, the swelling traffic has drowned out the Edith Piaf. Chase The Sun? Chase the bus more like.

Through my iPad I’m back home. Feet up in front of the fire, slippers on with a Glenmorangie (Hello Wiss!) in hand, looking towards the heavens as Taylor piles on the genius. Tweets and refreshed updates replace the looks of admiring disbelief from Dad and the brilliant Sky coverage from the Pally. Taylor hits back hard. From a perilous position of four-two down and the ‘darts is a young man’s game now’ platitudes doing the rounds, the grandad from Stoke on Trent, once again, prepares to amaze and inspire as only he can.
Four-two becomes four-three.
Four all. Brian Moore introduces me to a splendid new word on Twitter downplaying darts’ cynics and nay-sayers.
Four-five. We think we know what’s coming. Tweeting cricketers of all generations and abilities get behind the Stokie, the oft maligned Colin Murray is doing a great job in tandem with the live-blogger on the Beeb’s website.
Four-six. The young man, van Gerwen, judging by the commentaries, appears to be a broken man. Taylor’s experience and ability looks to have won him an unprecedented sixteenth world title.
Four-seven. Taylor’s trophy again. An outstanding achievement whatever your viewpoint on his sport. Van Gerwen’s time will come.

I well up at the mention of Sid’s name in the online post-final Taylor interview, a fellow tourist looks on quizzically. Lost in my memories and reminiscences I don’t bother to try and explain.
Sydney’s loss. Through Sidney I have gained.

Like something out of the Fosters ads, Jesse talks me through his cooking apparatus. Built by his father-in-law, the engine is an old windscreen wiper motor and powers the Heath Robinson like contraption. The chain looks as dated as the car the engine came from. The structure, a sparce, unforgiving looking device, looks like a warm up act for a Spanish Inquisition re-enactment society.

Debate ensues as to the best way of firing it up. A combination of everyone’s ideas does the job. The coals whiten invitingly. Then comes the lamb.

Jesse has been a busy boy. What looks like half of a Welshman’s conquest list appears on a giant skewer. The Caaaaald Ones come out. The route to midnight has started.
It’s just gone one.

The Caaaaald Ones continue to come out. The jokes get filthier. A huge hunk of chook appears on another skewer. The lamb looks like the greatest thing in the world, the chicken isn’t far behind.A combination of impatience and hunger kicks in and diners try to pluck opportunistically from the meat.

For the finishing touch, Symo symbolically squeezes lemons to add to the flavour. The flames lick higher.

Then the carving begins. Blokes take it in turns to act the role of their favourite man in the world come closing time. Eschewing the obvious ‘cheeelllleeee zorss’ and ‘Hello Boss’ comments in favour of warm encouragement, the lamb, five hours after the operation started is ready to eat.

My taste buds explode in orgasmic raptures. This is some New Year’s Party. This is some meat.

Thank you Symo and Carly, thank you Jesse. Happy New Year everyone.

The Saturday afternoon sporting fix. The cricket finished a day or two early and all the local league matches are taking the traditional seasonal two week break. Melbourne Victory beat Emile Heskey’s Newcastle Jets last night and there’s no football until Monday.
Not the weather for rugby. Aussie Rules doesn’t start until March.
Golf? China’s keen but I tell him it’s probably best we don’t. I love the sport, but nothing brings on weeks of savage self-loathing more than a bad round of golf, which, as we’re technically still in the season of being jolly, is not ideal this time of year.

Hang on. Horse Racing? Cracked it.
Moonee Valley Racecourse, situated in Moonee Ponds twenty minutes outside Melbourne city centre is the venue for our excursion. It seems we’re not the only sport famished folk who’ve decided to go from the ‘G to the gee-gees as the train empties scores of Victorians into this quiet satellite town. We follow the crowd into the impressive looking grandstand and hit upon the idea of a couple of Caaaaald Ones while China gets his well-trained racing brain around the scorecard.

If Channel 4 still haven’t found a replacement for John McCrirrick, our man could be up there. He knows his stuff does China and routinely picks the winners and places out going using his tried and tested formula. My methods are less scientific, Billy Ocean’s When The Going Gets Tough sounds out over the PA while the name ‘Primitive Man’ in the card tells me all I need to know.
Amazingly, mine wins by a head in a field of eleven over 1600 metres. I then correctly place the next race.

Hope, damn hope. A familiar theme here (Hello Welsh Andy!).

Couldn’t it have been the other way round? Lose first, give up completely, then enjoy watching China and Rebecca getting rich. I start unwisely chasing the races like an errant Sri Lankan batsman after an Aussie quick. The inevitables begin to pile up. The sun gets hotter, the beer tastes better, the bookies get richer.
The standard of racing is good, as are the MVRC’s facilities and we are treated to an impromptu tour of the place by an obliging receptionist. My luck worsens and I end the afternoon only seven dollars down.

One less Caaaaald One for later then? You’d have thought so. The day does not end well however and alcohol will be off the menu for me until at least the end of January.

Tomorrow night excepted, of course.

As Boxing Day traditions go, it’s a bit of an odd one. Since the installation of satellite telly in our house a few years ago, my Boxing Day begins earlier than most people’s. A four-in-the-morning start. Downstairs, light fire, brew tea, sneaky bit of pâté on toast (with maybe some blue cheese and cranberry sauce) from yesterday’s festive spread, put on telly.
The imported broadcast from Channel 9. Australia versus whoever. A time to savour one of the marquee days in world cricket, a world away, from my living room.

Why? Indefensibly, I’m a Test Cricket tragic. One of my objectives as part of my current world tour was to get to the Melbourne Cricket Ground on 26th December for a day doing what I love doing most.

Sometimes my cricket fix works out really rather beautifully (2010- got downstairs just as our brave lads had skittled out the home team) and other times it doesn’t (2006- Bill Lawry nearly spontaneously combusting through paroxysms of high-pitched pleasure as Shane Warne took his 700th Test Wicket and our brave lads took a bit of a beating).

If I’d been back in Bedfordshire yesterday rather than in person at the ‘Greatest Sports Stadium Ever Built. In The World. Ever’ as a friendly local (Hello Rebecca!) keeps referring to it, I’d have probably gone back to bed.

Sri Lanka all out for 156. An inspired display by Australia’s pace bowlers and some horrid, horrid batting by the Sri Lankans meant The G was on a roll.

Yep, I’d have definitely put the half-done toast back in the bread bin, let the tea stew and trudged disconsolately and dozily back upstairs. As it was, I was there, so I had to endure all the Aussie grandstanding from close up. They bowled well, so they deserved it.

Tier 4, Bay Q18, Row D, Seat 10. An outstanding vantage point (Thank you again Gooders!) for an outstanding exhibition of pace bowling. Mitchell Johnson had one of his good days so we didn’t bother with the song. Jackson Bird showed great promise on debut and Peter Siddle loves playing in front of his home crowd as much they love him.
Sri Lanka were terrible though, Kumar Sangakkara excepted. The openers both got out stupidly. And early. Mahela Jayawardena had an off day. There was no tail to wag.

In reply, a rather dim-witted half hour from Australia almost made things interesting for the visitors, them being three wickets down but only six runs behind at the close. Michael Clarke and Shane Watson look in the mood against Sri Lanka’s pop gun attack. One of the travesties of our wonderful sport is that the preening, lazy but very talented Lasith Malinga isn’t out there giving his all for his country with his hooping, Yorking deliveries. Instead, he’s happy getting more money for less work playing in Australia’s Twenty20 competition. (I can understand it to a point, but it’s not right really is it?) The Melbourne crowd are being denied through Malinga’s greed, as are his rather forlorn looking Sri Lankan teammates.

This time next year, England are back at the MCG. My Boxing Day experience lived up to all expectations, a real highlight of what has been a rather wonderful year for me in one way or another.

Will I be sat beside the fire, remote control in hand, Richie Benaud’s unmistakable tones as mellifluous as any birdsong clearing away the sleepiness? Or, will I be among the Barmy Army, on to my sixth ‘Caaaaald One’ and halfway through the Doritos and Smoked Salmon & Avocado dip, roaring our brave lads on?

“Skull, skull, skull”, the lippy kids in the corner again. Bay 13, home to the most socially challenged of Melbourne’s cricket fans. This evening the Junior Bogans are in the house, on Wednesday, Boxing Day, it’ll be their older brothers, fathers and uncles.
My view from the Second Tier above the mosh pit of the Melbourne Cricket Ground means, although I can hear the words, I don’t get to see whether or not the target of their vitriolic request performs his challenge. Neither do I get to see if any of the local Sheilas less than cordially invited to remove their tops do so. Or the public misery of the other cowering objects of their raucous abuse.
I try and concentrate on the cricket, which is more than they do. But then, the game meanders on as inconsequentially as an episode of Antiques Roadshow. Having the attention span of a gnat with ADHD isn’t recommended for a Friday night at Australia’s premier sporting venue.
To be fair to the organisers, they’re pulling out all the stops to ensure audience involvement, to give the big boost to the Big Bash.
It just seems they’re trying too hard.

Tonight’s match is between the Melbourne Stars and the Sydney Sixers, a rivalry between cities and states that transcends all sports and gives the contest a welcome bit of edge. Locals back their team with the same level of ferocity as they barrack the opposition. Sixers’ Steve Smith, in particular, comes in for a good deal of abuse. Running, fielding, mis-fielding, bowling, nervously shelling catches; everything he does has the uncomfortable deportment of a man who’s recently soiled himself. His evening improves somewhat when he clings on to a miscue from Stars’ Glenn Maxwell.
Unfortunately for the away side, following a costly mis-field early on, Maxwell makes an impressive, game-changing 82 before Smith’s intervention. The Australian ODI man, with the help of veteran T20 specialist Brad Hodge has wrested the impetus back for his team following their early scare. Coming from 50 balls, his innings features seven mighty boundaries, which momentarily threatens to tear the Junior Bogans away from their synchronised crowd sledging. Stars finish with 177-6 from their 20 overs.

Meanwhile, the venue entertainment people are in full flow. A Q-Branch worth of gadgets for the easily distracted is liberally meted out on a fifth full MCG. There’s the Boom Cam, The Energy Australia Energiser, The Kiss Cam, colour coordinated fireworks to match the teams colours, green and pink balloons and, on impact, via stumping, run out or bowled, flashing stumps and bails. All of this is dutifully captured by the drone camera circling the stadium like a deranged Cabbage White, the FoxKopter.

The Big Bash has the wow-factor of the IPL but the attendances and interest levels of the English version, which is why, despite the organisers best endeavours, this pet project of Australian cricket seems as doomed to fail as the Sixers’ attempts at winning once Lasith Malinga gets given the ball.
The Sri Lankan paceman finishes with 4-0-18-1 and strangles the Sydney team’s reply despite their promising start. Steve O’Keefe top scores with 42 but the introduction of Malinga and Melbourne’s captain dries up the scoring options, Malinga’s yorking of Brad Haddin all but seals the deal as Sydney struggle to 155-6, 21 shy of Melbourne’s total.

Not that Bay 13 would know the result if you asked them. The merry mix of caps back to front, beaters, baggy pants and ill-advised, ill-fitting smarter shirts and shorts gives the impression of an ugly melange of 8 Mile and Green Street. Towards the end of the innings, Hodge fields in front of the rabble, whipping them up into a frenzy with his caustic carrying on. Hero and hero-worshippers seem well suited. The chanting continues, along English lines but with different melodies. We leave them to it and head out into the cool Melbourne night. Skull, skull, skull….

Does your mother know you’re here?

Footnote. Melbourne’s captain? None other than Shane Warne. I can say I’ve seen Warney in action at The G.
Past his best, though not, apparently, if you ask Liz Hurley, and nowhere near as monumental an occasion as when my brother and sister-in-law were here for his 700th Test wicket (Hello Will, hello Sian! X), but, nonetheless I’ve seen this iconic sportsman in his spiritual home and I’m happy enough with that.

Ian Bell, the hero of Jamtha. I liked writing that. Well played sir.
Well played Trotty. Well played Jimmy.

Well played England.

Of course, it was all down to this you know…..

Fair ye well, Lucky Paul. Go well in Nepal sir.
See you for a few Monteiths in Dunedin in about eleven weeks time and the start, just before play as custom now dictates, of the first Test Match between New Zealand and England.

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.