Dances With Chazzwazzers

One Week On, Another DWC Bombay Bicycle Club Special:

Just as I was about to set off for a sundowner, the rest of the Bread Lane Crew insisted I take pictures of them too….

I think, collectively, they were all thinking ‘silly Gora’ and their laugher seemed to back this up. I think they’re probably right.

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.

1st Photo: Praying for an England win or that my guts don’t explode after all those raw chillies.
Toni is the lady with me and Peter took the photo. This was at Vishalla, after our epic tour of the National Utensil Museum of India
What a lovely couple, they were great company.

2nd Photo: Taken some day during the first day’s play. Or was it the second day? Or third?
Not the fourth, we did ok that day.
Maybe it’s the fifth?

3rd Photo: Dispensing some lessons in the art of conjuring to a gentleman just before the grand final of Gujurat’s Tribute to Tommy Cooper.
Here I am offering tips on the “spoon-jar-jar-spoon” part of his act. A staple of any Tommy Cooper show, the judges will have been looking for top marks there and I’m doing my best to ensure our boy nails it.

A feature of this world tour, and indeed the previous one, was the ability of your correspondent to take off, at will, on a random walkabout of my current location and its surrounding area. Half Alan Partridge visits the BP Garage for tungsten screw tips singing Goldfinger, half fitful Ron Burgundy, searching for himself and an ill suited lactose based isotonic; the walk usually begins with plenty of one and ends with plenty of the other.

Today’s bucked the trend (Hello Eats!). Setting out with every intention of discovering Gandhi’s Mumbai base from 1917-34, the Mani Bhavan. I fell out, once again, with my taxi driver and found myself at the peacefully ornate Kamala Nehru Park in the midst of one of the city’s more well to do spots, Malabar Hill. It transpired that, once again, the driver had misunderstood me and, once again, I was miles from where I should’ve been.

I don’t know what Maharastri for ‘wanker’ is, so I called him it in English instead. Now, I appreciate there is something of the pot and the kettle to this shouty aside having worked in banking for over ten years, but seriously, in my experience the world over (well for the most part) taxi drivers really are the absolute pits.

Determined not to lapse into Burgundy territory, I summoned the reserves of my inner Partridge and had a stroll around this eminent area of Mumbai instead. Set overlooking Chowpatty Beach and the smog smothered skyline, this leafy, lofty area of the city is a breath of almost fresh air, a relatively tranquil spot perched on high.
I began my descent back towards Churchgate and Colaba taking in the many facets of Mumbaikar life. From the Malabar mansions, to the poverty battered beachcombers, you don’t need telling this city of immense contrasts has it all.

Needing respite from the melting pot and the melting heat I repaired briefly to the acceptable face of chainstore coffee franchises, a branch of Coffee Cafe Day. The Eskimo Iced Coffee (with matching air conditioning) was not a bad choice.
With the inner Burgundy still at bay, I headed down the promenade, past the maidens and Maidans, the hardy swimmers and paddlers, the more refined club bathers, the passive fishermen, the Gymkhana players, the coy canoodlers and the gora greeters and back towards the madding crowd…

Journeys to gigs are usually not straightforward, in fact, the more complicated the journey, the better the gig. Yesterday’s experience added to this generalisation.

Moving up to Bandra, through the exotically monikered Mahalaxmi, the imperial Grant Road and the slightly silly Dadar on the early evening train, then on into the district itself. Taxi drivers wouldn’t take my money, tuk-tuk drivers less so. An occurrence in India as rare as an England cricketer at home on a raging turner. So I stumbled on through Bandra, with its famed nightlife and contemporary bars as well hidden among the rubble, mess and poverty as subtlety in a Little Britain sketch until I reached my destination; Bonobo Bandra.
One of my favourite bands from the UK, the aptly named Bombay Bicycle Club were due to end their Indian Tour on Sunday. Owing to the expiration of controversial politician Bal Thackeray on Saturday evening, this gig was cancelled as (most of) a city mourned. With the rest of the band flying home to fulfil prior engagements, lead singer Jack Steadman stoically stayed behind to headline a hastily convened acoustic session that took place on Tuesday night.

Bonobo Bandra was well primed for its brush with greatness, owing to the numbers queuing for entry and service, to pay tribute to one of the current greats of Britain’s indie scene. Or it could be like this every night. Overpriced drinks served by overfamiliar bar staff in an over flouncy setting.The consumer base consisting of Mumbai’s beautiful (and rich) people; the spoilt city kids, Shantaram tragics and Gap Yahs. I feared it was probably like this every night and headed to the adjoining room to where the music was.

The support act were five local lads, Something Relevant. They were good. Drawing on inspiration from Sly & The Family Stone, Curtis Mayfield and Marouane Fellaini, these youngsters breezed through their act and were cheered on by family and friends throughout. They reappeared to a chirpy ovation and finished the evening alongside Jack to take part in a rapturously received Always Like This.
Steadman himself was superb. Strumming on manfully despite the lack of support, the bass section in the end was formed of the audiences’ loudest clappers, he gave an assured performance and took them through the band’s growing back catalogue as well as taking on a couple of specially selected Blues standards for himself. Listening to him it’s clear that he owes not just Bombay Bicycle Club’s name to his love of India, Leaving Blues, it transpires was written in tribute to his first visit here. It’s also clear he revels in the kind of über-geek indie minstrel persona that so turns people away from this genre. Each of the songs were performed with the rough n’ ready touch associated with an acoustic set, yet with the confidence of a musician at the very top of his game.

The journey home was less frenetic. Indeed, almost alone among the carriages, peering out across the Mumbai nightscape, I thought of the beautiful ending to the album, Flaws and Swansea. I was among the trains, pawing into the wild, wild night…

One for the plumbers, especially Cousin Tommy and his mate John, both avid subscribers to Dances With Chazzwazzers.

I know what you’re thinking. The designer’s taken his inspiration from Noel’s House Party there. I knew that programme had to be good for something, but I didn’t expect to find its legacy right here in India’s fourth biggest city.

Also, as you can see, for the busy Mumbaikar, the feature that lets you combine the act of two of the ‘The Three S’s’ simultaneously. Time for one extra methi paratha in the morning, maybe?

I’ll have a word and see if they can put a shaving mirror in somewhere to enable the user to do all three.

Meanwhile, the cistern of choice is an “Egret Commander Watertech”, offering residents of this great city, “The Seal of Trust since 1961.” Apparently.

Give me a Dudley Duoflo any day, eh fellas?

*…..of one, probably.

In dear old Blighty, the Health & Safety chaps would have a fit with their collective legs in the air; “Britney-Jade, don’t touch that! I know your bruvva’s annoying you but there’s no need to scald his ears on that hot grill….” Welcome to family dining, Indian style.

No messing about here. Order food. Get food. Grill food (on your own grill). Eat.

Yes, your own grill. Marvel, as like a Frankie N’ Benny’s style Tracey Island, the middle bit of your table comes out and your very own grill slots seamlessly into its place. Marvel again as your waiting staff, perversely dressed in the yellow and green of World Series Cricket Australia or Justin Fashanu era Norwich City, place sharp skewers laden with warming meat and vegetables on to your own personal furnace. Then, for good measure, apply your own baste with the brushes and drizzles and sauces provided.

At least, that’s what I presume they are. Following on (that was really harsh typing that- today of all days…) from our dining experience last week at Vishalla and the National Museum of Utensils, they could be put to use for a quick impromptu Impressionist composition of your fellow diners as you wait for your paneer angara or jhinga lahsooni.

Barbeque Nation. We’ll never see its like in the UK, which is a bally shame, because as dining experiences go, it is thoroughly recommended. It’s as random as a Reeves & Mortimer duologue, and as welcoming as an England middle order to an Indian spin bowling attack. I was left feeling very impressed by my first visit.

Sadly though, you just couldn’t get it past Health & Safety. There’s more chance of England winning the next Test Match (Sorry non-cricket fans, this is a really bitter post, you’ll understand one day. Maybe.).

Essentially; you rock up, have your barbecued starters finished on your grill (the faultlessly enthusiastic waiters will keep refreshing your grill, unless, via the medium of table-mounted flag, you specify otherwise), take in the Indian staple main courses buffet before returning later for dessert. All this is washed down by one of the restaurant’s mock-tails (in other states, alcoholic drinks are available) and accompanied by copious amounts of loud Beatles or Jerry Lee Lewis tracks over the jukebox.
Families are seduced by the ‘Early Bird’ offer (we sat outside, obliviously, for ten minutes on the plastic patio chairs with other patrons waiting for the doors to open) and all the other stuff that goes with a trip to India’s improved take on The Harvester.

In fact, we’d still be there now if we hadn’t joined in with singing Happy Birthday. Apparently, ‘Why Was She Born So Beautiful?‘ doesn’t translate to well into Gujurati….