Dances With Chazzwazzers

You can tell a city by the club it keeps. Kolkata has the Tollygunge. Mumbai has the Taj. Nagpur, well, Nagpur has The Skylark.

Looking for a venue for our last night together, myself and the lads plump for Lucky Paul and Simon Nos’s hotel. Treading gingerly into the facilities, past the battered door marked “Bar & Grill” in neo-Tudor lettering and into a world that shrieks Phoenix Club.

All that’s missing is Brian Potter.

The Maharashtran Les Alanos are there, snuck steadfastly in a corner of the room, the circling disco lights and sound system are their protection from the outside world.
The room is a noxious mix of brown painted panels, dirty white tiles, dirtier mirrors, rust clad twisted iron grills and cream and ruby tiger striped seating. Tottenham versus Swansea carries on regardless. Two signs on the walls grab the eye. Firstly, and quite arbitrarily, Medium Of Cooking Soya Bean Refined Oil. Secondly, Smoking Zone. The reason for this becomes clear soon.

Eyes shut tightly, India Idol-that-never-was croons his way through another Hindi classic, buoyed on by Les Alanos and their wall of weird sound. I never even saw the choir. Our Marvin is joined by his Tammi Terrell. Another song falls on deaf English ears.

The bar begins to fill up. Regular faces from my hotel’s breakfast melee join the scene. Two middle aged chaps minus their mindless, shirtless Cockney pal come in to steal a glance at the telly. Simon Nos’s contact and our transport coordinator aka Nagpur’s Eighth Most Unreliable Man takes a seat at our table. Seedy looking single men filter towards the corner.
A fellow hotel guest, face like a melted Richard Nixon mask, a moaning, bullying shower of a Scunthorpe resident and probably the man who put the cu…. Anyway, he’s here. Complete with his monosyllabic bearded tit of a mate. I’m embarrassed to be from the same country as them. No black coffee or hot water to complain about now, just the Kingfisher. And the noise. Obviously.

The receipt roll from the clerk in the adjoining booth clacks slowly into life as the music fades. Is it part of the act?

It doesn’t matter. The music goes from Maharashtra to Mariarchi. The club from Phoenix to Coco Bongo. Those magicians in the corner on their keyboards have done it again. The reason for the upturn in punters suddenly becomes apparent.

The most beautiful girl in Nagpur takes the stage. The locals have their Tina. The Smoking Zone. This striking chanteuse strikes up a number. Collars are loosened. Pulses quicken. Repressed but shabbily dressed. Eyelashes flutter. Hearts pound. Warm applause greets the conclusion to the plaintive posturing.

I smile upon this scene, one of the only times I have in this armpit of a place in the last few days, and await the arrival of the one-legged Elvis. Or maybe Jerry’s Free N’ Easy Night?
Talent Trek?

Deciding I’m getting none of this. I head back to my hotel, for, hopefully, a decent night’s sleep. And the conclusion to an epic series of Test Cricket.

Hope, damn hope….

‘How lucky you English are to find the toilet so amusing. For us, it is a mundane and functional item. For you it is the basis of an entire culture.’
Baron von Richtoven, Blackadder Goes Forth

Well, yes. That and there’s sweet FA to write about in Nagpur (though, having said that, thanks to Swanny’s batting and Jimmy’s bowling, there may be something very pertinent to report on soon), plus the WiFi connection’s not great here.
Stand by you plumbers. Following on from the much viewed Bathrooms of Bombay post comes the inevitable follow up.

As luck would have it, I didn’t have the fortune to stay at this particular hotel. James and Vicki did. They thought I’d like a picture for my blog.
If the cistern’s Slimline, I’m not quite sure what that makes the seat…..

Have a great weekend all.

Nagpur. Unforgettably forgettable. Not warranting a whole page to itself in the Rough Guide, home to two million people and famous as the orange capital of India.

Oranges. Orange juice. A glass of locally produced, Vitamin C enriched, fresher than a dip in the Ouse on Christmas morning jus d’orange.
What a wonderful start to the day, the first day of the fourth and final Airtel Test Match.
I’ll just reach for the Room Service Menu….

Now then; Mineral Water, yep, Fruit Punch, non-alcoholic you’d imagine, Mango Shake, hmmm ok, Pineapple Shake, obviously, Strawberry Shake, uh-huh, I think I know what’s coming here, Juice-Tinned, riiiiiiiiiiiiggggghhhhtttt. Lemon Tea? Oh for Goodness sake….

Hang on a minute this is turning in to the Maharastrian version of the Cheese Shop Sketch.

No orange juice. In Nagpur. The orange capital of India. Really?

I’ll settle for an Immodium and a slice of Ma Wiss’s Christmas Cake instead, then (Thanks Mum! Xx Thanks for bringing it out Pete. Top man).

Let us hope England’s day bears more fruit.

An email plopped disconsolately into my mailbox a fortnight or so ago. My intended digs for Kolkata, it informed me, were actually full, and consequently, due to this oversight, I was homeless, or hotel-less to be precise. A further email an hour or two late from the same embarrassed source gave me the option of taking up their next best thing.

I took the next best thing.

Then I noticed on the Rough Guide map, the distance from the cricket ground, the distance from my co-travellers and fellow England fans and the nearest bar and cursed my luck.
The best part of a week later, I reckon, not for the first time on this trip, I may have misjudged things slightly. In fact, despite the haplessness of the substitute hotel, my stay in Kolkata is made for a number of other reasons.

The morning stroll to the nearest Metro station is one of the favourite parts of my match day routine. Locals look on dumbfounded as I purposefully stride through their early morning nuances. It’s a novel way to see the backstreets of this area of south Kolkata and all the nooks and crannies, the street sweepers and shopkeepers crank slowly into life.

I am enjoying the tranquility of solitude out here in the suburbs away from the bulk of the travelling England support bunkered down in Sudder Street. And there’s no pubs, so I can save up for at least one overpriced golden pint of horrible, tasteless- “aw mate, but it’s caaaaald mate”- Australian guff for when I get there soon.

Then there’s the evenings, my favourite part of my day. Sat in the hotel’s adjoining restaurant, The Wise Owl, half way down the Punya Das Road. Rooted to my wicker chair, captivated by my fellow diners, a Bollywood flick of a cast list of passers by, time slips enjoyably by as the unintentional soap opera plays out before my eyes.

The gossips are out in force. Joining me in the al fresco dining area, wrapped in jumpers, are the local beautiful people. Slipping seamlessly between Hindi, English and Hinglish, my ears prick up at the salacious stories doing the rounds between sips of lassi and pulls on Gold Leaf cigarettes.
Turning my attention away from Kolkata’s tangible take on Sex And The City and to my meal, vegetable lasagne served in a bowl with a spoon. The novelty value is augmented by the taste. It’s delicious. I nod approvingly at the waiters who wobble their heads back in gratitude.
The tiny Nepalese security guard, in between ambitiously asking for ‘teeps’, introduces me to, firstly his son, then the rest of the waiting staff. To a man; endearingly smiley, obliging and utterly hopeless. A happy band of Manuel-esque brothers.
The hotel manager presides over all this. A rotund man with a pencil moustache, attired in trainers, shirt and tie, like an off duty umpire with all the overbearing pretence, while an over-worked minion scuttles around doing the work of five men.

Peering out from behind the freshly painted picket fence and patio plants I study the form in the Punya Das road race. The contraband tuk-tuks full of workers heading to the night shift, weary blokes wheeling tradesman’s bicycles with cumbersome gas bottles strung to the front. The endless blue striped yellow taxis and their retarded hooting, the barefoot ice cream sellers wheeling their wares, wandering in hope rather than expectation.
A zeitgeist Raj-era gentleman in cravat, epaulettes, combover and immaculate moustache breezes in. Elegant women in luxurious pastel shaded saris destined for a nearby wedding head the other way. Their evening is about to begin, gathering up my notes and books I think about retiring for the night.

All Kolkata life is here. It’s been a pleasure sampling it.

Rubbish day, rubbish. All part of the grand scheme of things in travelling I suppose. A long ol’ journey from Kolkata to Nagpur that was hours later getting in than it should have. Then the obligatory heated exchange of views with Nagpur’s taxi and tuk-tuk drivers over their horrendous fares before a Basil Fawlty-esque stomp off to my hotel. Which was miles away.
Other stuff too, it’s not important.

Anyway, I intended to get a picture last night of some residents of Kolkata boarding a train under the caption, Bengalis On Platforms, a bit of a Morrissey tribute via the medium of photo. This hasn’t come out well. Sorry about that.

In the mean time, please see below a photo of my time in Mumbai. I’m afraid to report I don’t know who won.
Photo credits, Vicky & James, proper photographers.
(Hello chaps, hope all’s well? See you for a few beers in Paggers on your return home.)

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.)