“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.

What time does it start? What time can you make it? So goes the joke every Luton fan has to endure at some point in their supporting life.
My return to Navi Mumbai and the Dr D Y Patil Stadium and it felt a bit like living the off told gag for myself.

I half expected commemorative plaques screwed to the backsaw of the seats where Tesco Nige (Hello mate!) and I witnessed IPL 3’s epic conclusion back in May 2010. The memories came flooding back. Tangibly what hit me, as I watched the England Performance Programme XI take on the D Y Patil Academy XI, was, just where the bloody hell was everybody?

Then. Fireworks, Mexican Waves, that funny parping noise that originated at the Rugby World Cup in 2007 that stadium announcers use to gee up the punters. There was A.R. Rahman, S.R. Khan, dancing girls, a packed crowd replete with bouncing, screaming Sachin crazy locals and not as many soon-to-be-smug supporters who -wisely as it turned out- made the journey from Chennai. There was Dougie Bollinger at the peak of his powers. There was another chapter unfolding in the memorable career of M.S. Dhoni. It was all going off.

Now. Me. And an empty bowl of a stadium with rows and rows of empty blue seats, white seats, all finished off with an unloved and suffocating dusting of, err, dust. England’s fringe players were doing their best to nudge the selectors with the next Test just a week away as the game, but considerably weaker, opposition went forlornly about their business. And due to all that earlier mucking about on the trains, no sooner had I got there than the players walked off for lunch.

The interval was signalled by an ear splitting blast of that God awful noise that signals an appearance from Angelos Epithemiou on Shooting Stars. And then another burst of a similarly moronic accompaniment. It would’ve woken the dead. If they’d have bothered to turn up.
Taking this as my cue, I went for a wander of the impressive facilities the good doctor has provided to the local area. As well as an under-used stadium with practice fields, swimming pool and gymnasium, there is a hospital and a medical college not to mention something for the keen naturalist as well. “Snake, snake!”, shouted one of the local maintenance staff. I stood immediately to attention as this huge reptile slithered down a drain.
Feeling in need of sustenance, I repaired to a local vendor and picked up two bananas, a bottle of water and two packets of Parle cashew and butter cookies to help coax some sanity back into my life. Returning to my seat to catch the closing refrains of Skat Man John, my choice of brunch hadn’t seemed to have done the trick.

The teams returned and England’s middle order set about their counterparts with untroubled abandon. Their fourth wicket put on a quick hundred runs with the ease of a Pringle sweater clad Michael Parkinson interviewing Sting, Paul McCartney and Jamie Cullum from his armchair in front of a gently smouldering fire while supping a dram of Glenmorangie.

After nearly two hours and with little chance of anything approaching a contest happening soon, I gave up and left. As the score climbed steadily, I bet the Academy XI bowlers wished they could have done the same.

Post Script. As the continuing nonsense between the BCCI (yes, them again) and the independent photo agencies shows no signs of abating, and because Jocelyn Galsworthy definitely wasn’t there (I checked), if anyone’s interested, here’s a picture from today’s action.

Jocelyn Galsworthy? Jocelyn Angloma more like…..

Panvel, the usually more than reliable gentleman at the hotel reception informed me when I asked the nearest station to the Navi Mumbai Stadium.

Not even close.

It took the intervention of some laughing students at the tuk-tuk pick up that to put me on the right track, literally (I am really just Alan Partridge, aren’t I?) towards the aforementioned station.

No, Nerul, was in fact my destination.

So my going up and down the wrong line, the train in vain, had shaved hours off my day’s activity. What it had done however, was give me a unique insight into the daily trials and travails of your average Greater Mumbai commuter.

To call the carriages of a Mumbai West Coast train a meat wagon isn’t too exaggerated. Eerily reminiscent of the days as a kid when on summer Sunday mornings I used to help my farmer uncles with loading their cattle on to the truck.
Steel base. Steel grids. Steel roofs, where handles, shiny like butchers’ hooks, dangle rigidly to the salvation of those below. The seats, a welcome respite for the lucky few, in crimson wood. The paint job, newly sprayed and sparing, in dull aqua blue, conceals the old colour. That crimson again, appearing to be running from the ceiling, like, well, you know what.

Then come the crowds. After a relatively calm embarkation at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus through Sandhurst, Dockyard and Reay Roads, a seat and a further revel in the Times of India’s post mortem of their team’s horror show in the last Test, before the carriage begins to fill up.
Eager not to miss my stop (hmmm), I opt to stand up and filter towards the permanently opened doors.
The Kurla- Sanpada leg of the journey proves to be the most eye-opening. The carriage is full to bursting as Mumbaikars start their working day by jostling, shoving, pulling and grabbing their way into position. No quarter given. A feral, half mosh-pit, half cock-fight of a frenzy ensues.
My pristine white (hmmm again) shirt will resemble a Darlington home shirt by the end of the trip, my back glued to the grid and its sticky, sweaty rails. My right wrist is locked into a grip on my bottle of Bisleri and newspaper, my feet as immovable as the Indian middle order in the eye of a Monty storm. It’s a bit close.

And just as suddenly as it started, this Mumbai melee disperses into something approaching tranquil. Workers disappear to their workplaces to be replaced with the many morning views of Maharashtra. My journey goes left, right and eventually, thanks to the lads mentioned earlier, but hours later, I arrive at my stop.

I’ll never, ever complain about First Capital Connect again, promise. Or any of the other London/ South East based networks. Thanks for the ride though Mumbai, it was emotional.

Good Lord. What a win, what a performance.

While England produced a sensational comeback from their nightmare in Ahmedabad, India put the “wank” into Wankhede.
It’s moments like these that I really can’t understand fans of multi-garlanded football teams who expect success on a plate.

Travel to the far ends of the earth. Experience matches that are called off and impromptu tours of Betty’s Hope scheduled in their place. Experience chemical toilets that if existed in the UK you’d get years of therapy from having visited. Experience Lion Strong, warm. Experience defeats snatched from the jaws of victory or safety. Have the hope that kills you, kill you.

Take all this like a man. Compartmentalise. Then savour such a victory when it’s delivered with such gusto.

Thank you Cooky, KP, Monty, Swanny. Thank you Clarky, Gareth, One Golden Eagle, Chairman Mao, German Postman, Frank & Bruna, Andy & Jo. Thank you Lucky Paul and your daily pre-match Lucky Handshake.

Finally, an England win away. Huzzah!!!!!!

Onwards to Kolkata.

The Second Airtel Test Match at the Wankhede Stadium isn’t the only cricket of colossal importance to be taking place in this cricket crazy city right now. Journeying to and from the stadium, past the sprawling Maidans with every square inch populated by some Test/ ODI / T20 or other taking place, every cliche you’ve ever read about cricket being the other religion in India seems to ring true.

Outside my window last evening on the Adi Marzban Marg, the local leg of the the municipal One Hand, One Bounce Championship was taking place. Featuring a dozen or so local blokes, bowling was under arm from a drain cover ten yards from the stumps (in this case a battered bar stool). Big shots over midwicket towards the Sam Ruston & Co Garage were banned. Heaving blows over extra cover towards the relatively gleaming fleet of Marutis were similarly outlawed. Running was not allowed.
You batted time. The man that withstood trial by turning tennis ball off the erratically paved street, multiple short legs and determined self discipline the longest was reckoned the winner.

The location of the Marg, within a KP six hit of the old financial district, meant play took place once a week, when the bustle was replaced with a something approaching quiet in Mumbai. Yesterday, play was suspended a handful of times for pedestrians or the odd Ambassador doing its rounds. Then it was straight back into the action beneath the Dome Palms and Padouk trees and the jutting Gothic offices.

On my way back from the ground, a few feet from my hotel I was summoned over to take guard, something of an honour I felt. The rules were explained to me through trial and error and before long I was stoically displaying the full range of my smothering forward defence technique to the street’s bored residents. Sensing their ennui, I decided to get on with it and was bowled through the gate. Celebration, or more likely, relief abounded and after the obligatory handshakes I went to field at short midwicket next to one of Mr Ruston’s Hondas where I mulled silently among the excitable yelps of “catchit, catchit” and “shot, shot.”

The BCCI are a horrible, horrible organisation. Their Gauleiters on match days, the local police force, are them personified with their over bearing officiousness and maniacal jumped up sense of self worth. Lalit Modi is still trying to do his best to own the sport too. The ICC are meant to be the sport’s chiefs, yet appear passengers to the whim of the BCCI taxi drivers.
Cricket, despite International Test Day yesterday, where four, yes four glorious Test Matches were taking place around the world, is not in a good place at the moment and seems, owing to the presence of money, TV scheduling and odious governing bodies, lemming-like to be following football over the cliff.
Thank goodness then for the sanity and unalloyed joy of Maidan and Marg cricket that proves their is still a soul to our wonderful game.

When we talk about staying power, what usually comes to mind?

The dying embers of Tony Blair’s premiership? The last Grand National winner (Neptune Collonges, wasn’t it Paul?)? Kyle Minogue or Madonna (God forbid, even Cher?) Anyone who’s ever attended a Ken Dodd show? Rommel in the desert? The Mouse Trap? Nicholas Parsons on Just A Minute? Bryan Adams in the summer of ’91?

Now consider this. During the course of today’s play, and it needs saying, what a day’s play, I got chatting to a bloke who shared a sauna with Aleem Dar last night.

Immovable. Despite the ravages of steam, sweat and pulverising heat, Umpire Dar’s hair refused to move. My chum couldn’t believe his eyes. Not just the outstanding physical specimen sat alongside him but the hair, that hair. Completely and utterly immovable.

Do they give awards for this sort of thing? If not they jolly well should. Immovable. Outstanding.

Went drinking last night at the close of play. Fell in with a bunch of lads in some cafe near the ground. Four London Pilseners* in and one of the chaps and I are comparing travelling stories. He’d come to India indirectly via China (Hello China!). In China he bought a watch.

Frankly, it’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen.

It cost about a fiver, and it doesn’t work. No matter, it’s still one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen.

The watch face features a uniformed Chairman Mao smiling broadly with his arm outstretched.
For every second that passes, his arm goes up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

While Chairman Mao smiles on serenely.

Up and down.

Up and down.

I will get a picture of it. As fail-safe as the Morecambe & Wise breakfast sketch to raise a smile. On the way back from the ground today I eschewed the cafes and bars on account of my dicky belly.
I didn’t need the Chairman Mao watch to lift the spirits, England’s performance today had done that already.
Well played chaps, more of the same tomorrow please….

*The Mumbai equivalent of Sri Lanka’s Lion beer. Horrid stuff. There’s an even more corrosive option on offer here too, Golden Eagle.

You just wouldn’t.

Made a note in my diary on the way back from the Sardar Patel Gujurat Stadium. Simply says: “Bugger.”*

*With the fondest of acknowledgments to Messrs Curtis, Elton & McInnerny.