Day seven reflections

“Eight hours play and it’s a tie? You are kidding me!?”

I’ve been hanging out a bit with an American journalist, sent to India to see if he gets cricket. He did. He loved it. He was even hooked before yesterday’s game, now I think he will be a fan for life.

Wright works for one of the big sport magazines in the States. He has five weeks to write one article about the Cricket World Cup. I wish I had his job.

I met Wright in the hotel I was staying in, in Delhi. He’d just arrived from Dhaka where he’d watched the build up to the tournament and the opening game between Bangladesh and India. He described the excitement in the country as unlike anything he’d ever seen, even after their team had lost: not a bad statement from someone who’d done Superbowls, Ryder Cups and World Series.

Wright had clearly done his research before he came out to India. He’d never seen a game before, had no real interest in it before this assignment, but I’d tell him about, for instance, Saurav Ganguly and he’d say “oh that was the guy who took his shirt off at Lords…” For someone so new to the game, he knew plenty and was keen to learn more.

He also knew Test matches last five days and can end in a draw. He gets it.

So his statement, above, was partly tongue in cheek but also it raised a good point. How could such a magnificent game end up with both teams only getting a point? If it had rained all day, and both teams had stayed in their hotels playing darts and playing Playstation, they would both have had they same reward: a point.

A few years ago, England would have been declared winners of that match, having lost fewer wickets than India. I reckon that’s probably a good rule and I’m not sure why it got changed, especially when Duckworth Lewis (the obscure formula that decides who wins rain effected matches) takes into account how many wickets are lost.

By the way, I’m not suggesting England woz robbed, etc. Had England needed just one to win, instead of two, India would have set a different field and England may not have been able to scramble the dramatic single they did. Rules are rules and a tie was fair.

I digress. What a game. It was cricket at it’s best. I hasn’t justified me coming here (I was brought back down to earth with a bump afterwards when I called home and heard my son bawling) but having given up and put so much on my family, at least it wasn’t an awful game. It was everything cricket can be: thrilling; electric; both teams taking it in turns to lose winning positions; and it contained two brilliant innings. I’ve seen a few Tendulkar hundreds, that was the best.  Complete control, able to do exactly want he wanted to do to every ball. And when Sachin bats, India comes alive. Every single greeted as if it’s the winning goal in a Wembley final.

Then Andrew Strauss produced an even better innings. If you were making a highlights package it would have been far more difficult to put together, but if you were producing a DVD masterclass in how to keep your head when chasing a massive total, there would be no editing required. Unflappable, knowing his strengths;  It summed up this England team: not flamboyant but totally aware of how to get the most from its parts and prepared for every situation.

Then the drama: Zaheer’s inspiration; the guts and skill of the England tailenders. The silence of the crowd as England looked set to win: thee half hour of utter madness at the end; the wall of noise; and three sixes in the last two overs that made the impossible almost possible.

If every game of cricket was like that, I wouldn’t just hook America, it would signal the end of their ridiculous sports.

__________

Am on a beach in Kerala. No cricket to be found anywhere. Will start a game tomorrow.

Day 7. Bangalore. England 338 tie with India 338.

Wow. Unbelievable game.

Will write my thoughts tomorrow on the plane.

Day six. Bangalore. Pakistan beat Sri Lanka by 11 runs.

 Another match watched on telly, I’m afraid, but what a match and what a funny night. First of all, I hooked up with some of the Test Match Special team for dinner in a very swanky restaurant. I spent the last England tour of India with them as a cameraman, so it was nice to hook up again.

I then met up with Paul, a friend who shares the misfortune of supporting the same football team as me. I’d only met Paul a couple of times previously, (hey, that’s plenty to be Facebook friends), but had seen that he’d moved to Bangalore as part of Tescos’ latest attempt at global domination. I also noticed from his Facebook photos that he had somewhat of a partying lifestyle out here. And so it proved.

Bangalore is a funny city. It has a large, young, and definitely upwardly mobile middle-class. It also has a huge and hard drinking culture. The bars are swanky, full of extremely beautiful and glamorous people, pissing god knows how many lakh and crore of rupees up the wall on expensive drinks. Paul told me he once bought a round of five vodka and tonics and didn’t ask for locally brewed vodka. The bill came to £105. The average monthly Indian salary (skewed upwards by some incredibly rich people, earning billions) is £40.

So I met Paul and his harem of foxy friends in a bar in the centre of town. They drinks had clearly been flowing and they continued to flow at a rate. Here’s why: All bars, pubs, clubs, private drinking holes…everything has to stop serving at 11pm. There’s no lock-ins, no late licences, no clubs open to the small hours. Everything finishes at 11.30. This is a fairly recent law introduced to stop fights and crime (this from the same local government who until recently had banned dancing) – what it appeared to encourage was fast and furious drinking.

It was a fun night, and the backdrop to the evening was a fabulous game of cricket between Pakistan and Sri Lanka, that was in the balance until the penultimate ball. The restaurant and the bar both showed the game as the drama unfolded, with cheers every time Sri Lanka hit a four, and groans whenever Pakistan took a wicket. The first really exciting game of the World Cup ended with Pakistan winning by 12 runs and me being invited back for a house party.

So, six of us (plus driver) squeezed into Paul’s car and drove off to this house, stopping in a part of town where apparently alcohol could be bought. Lo and behold, we pulled over, a man ran out of the shadows, took an order, and two minutes later 12 large Kingfisher, a bottle of vodka and four tonic waters appeared in the boot of the car, in exchange for a fistful of rupees.

We drove off to the house, which was an enormous villa on the outskirts of town (I have no idea really where it was, but it seemed a long way away), with a guard on the door, and found a fairly civilised scene with pop music blaring, but all the guests eating quiche and apple pie in the kitchen, and of course drinking heavily.

The hosts, a middle-aged couple, were leading the way and were quite the social animals. The father runs some sort of company that makes some sort of electrical something, the English mother baked exceedingly good food and had the only dishwasher I’ve ever seen in India.

The guests were a collection of Bangalore’s well-to-do, who despite being in various degrees of leathered-ness, were all most welcoming to the English visitor and determined to offer future hospitality should I ever visit again. One even arranged for me to stay free in his hotel in Kerala on Monday and Tuesday. I imagine it’s going to be a lot nicer than Sri Laksmi Comforts (or Sri Lacking Comfort), my £7.50 a night cell in Bangalore.

Another guest told me he was the presenter for cricket on one of the subcontinent’s leading Sports TV channels. He told me this at around 2.15am the night before potentially the biggest game of the group stages of the World Cup. It could make interesting viewing – in every sense.

Day five – Delhi-Agra-Bangalore

Agra-do-do-do

Sometimes I think I prefer sorting out a holiday to actually going on it – and that’s not to say I haven’t really enjoyed going on this one. I love the challenge of plotting a way through a far off land, using whatever public transport is available, and always trying to squeeze in as much as possible into whatever time I have available. The internet has made everything easier, there are websites now where you can book all your Indian travel needs and check timetables etc to your hearts content. Electronic Anorakalysis.

So, given that anal streak, I was really pissed off with myself for not spotting much earlier that the Taj Mahal isn’t open to the public on Friday.

I found out late on Wednesday night that it would be closed, and spent about an hour on Thursday trying to cancel my train to Agra and then the first part of my Agra-Delhi-Bangalore flight, without any success. (My attempts at trying to spell out my booking reference caused much amusement with the cricket fans around me…”K for Kevin, P for Pietersen, X for, er, er Xavier Doherty…? Z for Zaheer, erm V for VVS Laxman?) So I’m here in Agra basically to catch a flight that goes back to Delhi then on to Bangalore.

But it’s been a good day out.

The 0615 Delhi-Bhopal Express arrived into Agra at around 9am, a bit late but generally pretty comfy. I got escorted through the station by a policeman who wielded a baton at anyone who came within three feet of me, then found myself a rickshaw man for the day. First stop Agra Fort. It’s obviously not nearly as gobsmacking as it’s better known neighbour, but its still pretty impressive, and on this sunny, but hazy day, it offered dreamy views of the Taj.

Next stop was the bank on the other side of the river from the Taj, to get a decent close up view. The light was so bright by this point, I couldn’t see the camera screen, so I have no idea whether the few pics I took came out ok or not. Point and press.

It was here that my brother played a game of cricket with a few young kids a couple of years ago. To my great disappointment, the lads weren’t still playing now because I reckon that would have been my best bet for getting a game in today.

I’m now sitting in Sheela’s Hotel garden, next door to the Taj, and I can hear the call to prayer drifting accress the wall. I’ve just demolished a delicious Aloo Gobi and one of the garliciest naans I’ve ever eaten, and not even the familiar sound of a man hocking in the distance can ruin what is a really blissful scene.

I’ve been to the Taj before, and it is everything it is cracked up to be. But today has been great seeing it from other angles, and I’m pleased I came.

I do think that if the ICC got involved in this idyll right now, they’d manage to balls it up within seconds. Firstly I’d probably be going though my 50^th security search (yesterday’s seized contraband: coins (seemingly only ones of value); suntan lotion); then they’d snatch my chai away, and demand I drink the official Pepsi-drink of the ICC world cup; they’d have banned all food sales in the garden except for Bhopal-flavoured crisps; and the moments where I pause for thought would be seen as an opportunity to blast out the latest Shakira number on the only technology that seems to work in the vicinity of the ground, the loudspeakers.

Making watching a game of cricket in India an un-enjoyable viewing experience takes some doing. The money obsessed BCCI and ICC appear to have managed it with ease. The World Cup matches were meant to be the highlight of this trip, yesterday’s was anything but.

And I’m not just saying that because the Windies got stuffed.

4pm update. Agra don’t-don’t-don’t

Day going wrong. The flight from Agra to Delhi has inevitably been delayed, meaning I will miss the connection to Bangalore. The next one after that doesn’t get in til about 2330, meaning I wont get to the hotel until 1am-ish – making this a hideously long day, and much worse it means I wont be able to Skype home for the second night in a row.

Now, bare in mind, I only came to Agra today because bloody Kingfisher refused to let me board the second flight on this journey (Delhi-Bang) unless I completed this part. So, I’ve now missed the flight from Delhi (where I started this morning), because I came to Agra to complete the first part. Confused? Try explaining it to someone for whom English is a distant second language.

I’ve also left Chinaman in my luggage, which is now I imagine sitting on the tarmac waiting for the plane that may never arrive. It is such a good book, which constantly blurs fiction with fact in a way that probably keeps the publisher’s lawyer awake at night. My favourite character is hard-drinking, womanising former 1981 Ashes-winning England all-rounder, turned commentator…Tony Botham. I cannot begin to think of anyone who that might remotely resemble.

As I write, news that the plane is imminent. Gotta go.

10.15pm update

Still nowhere near Bangalore. A day that started in Delhi at about 5am, is still in Delhi 17 hours later.

I’m adding Kingfisher to my list of airlines and hotels to boycott.

The one positive (and it’s a small positive) is that it meant I got to watch some cricket in the bar in Delhi Airport, while snacking on an excellent Masala Dosa.

The Ireland v Bangladesh match proved pretty exciting. When I started watching, Ireland were probably ahead in the game, they ended up losing by 30-odd runs. The win sparked wild celebrations in Mirpur…the ICC will not doubt add spontaneous happiness to the lengthy list of things banned from stadiums before long so they’d better enjoy it while it lasts.

My random cricket thought for the day – who would win if 11 specialist bowlers played against 11 specialist batsmen?  (OK pedants – 10 v 10 with identical-twin wicketkeepers on each team). Would the superstrong bowling attack skittle the batsmen for 150-odd, then scrape the runs against a new-ball attack featuring Bopara and Trott? Or would the endless-batting line up amass 500, which 11 bowlers never have a chance of getting? Come on ICC, get it organised.

Finally got in to the hotel at 3.30am.

Day four. Delhi. West Indies v South Africa

Pre-match thoughts.

I’m generally contrary about sporting matters. If people tell me somebody is ‘a great’, I’ll try and find something factual or otherwise that proves he or she is a flat track bully. If someone tells me it’s a golden generation, I’ll argue until I’m blue in the face that in fact they’re a bunch of overpaid, overhyped showponies whose technical deficiencies are highlighted every time they play in a major competition.

My other sporting foible, is that I religiously support the underdog. My football team is in the fourth division, after a recent spell in the conference. I support Scotland over England, the country of my birth, in all sports. And in cricket, I support the West Indies. My favourite recent cricketing memory was not England winning the Ashes in 2005 (although that was brilliant), but Jerome Taylor skittling England for 51 in Jamaica a year or two ago.

I’m not anti-this England team (although the presence of four Saffers in the top seven grates a little, and the ECB’s current pact with pay TV irks a lot). I’d like them to have a decent world cup (runners-up to the Windies in a dream scenario) because I know that a winning England team will keep a certain level of interest in the sport, too.

Wthe Windies ruled the world, I didn’t support them. I supported England. But as I got older, and their powers started to wain, I saw what the West Indies had given to cricket, and to the World. It had stuck two fingers up at the old duffers who’d run the game so badly for so long, making the game staid and snobby. It had infuriated the old the insidious old farts in the commentary box who claimed bouncers from Willis was good bowling, while bouncers from Garner were intimidatory. It had proved that scoring at two runs an over was tedious and unproductive. And what’s more, in England, it proved that cricket wasn’t just a game for white kids in white public schools.

From the age of 11, when I played my first competitive game of cricket at School, to the age of about 21, I’d say at least 20 percent of the people I played with or against were of West Indian origin. At the time, England had any number of black players. DeFreitas, Small, Slack, Lewis, Malcolm to name but a few… the county circuit was similarly well represented. And, I reckon that’s because at the time of those players growing up, the West Indies team were role models. That wonderful Windies team made a sport that is inherently uncool, cool.

Sadly, far fewer black kids play cricket now in England. I spent a season a few years ago playing seconds for a team in North London, playing against lots of (often brilliant) young Asian kids, but remember seeing only three black players. That’s represented at all levels of cricket now in England…The last black England player to play more than a solitary test…?  We’re going back a few years. So a strong West Indies team is good for the Caribbean, it’s good for English cricket, and it’s good for the sport too.

Whether or not cricket will ever recover in the region, especially after the ICC screwed up that 2007 world cup their so spectacularly (the idiocy of culling grounds like The Rec and The Bourda and replacing them with soulless out-of-town Deva Stadium-esque monstrosities – aaarggh!!!) is another question, but let’s hope. If cricket dies off in that part of the world, it would be a tragedy we’ll feel in England too.

The good news is the current West Indies team has potential. Chris Gayle is awesome (I dream of a team with him and Sehwag opening). I watched Darren Bravo on Eurosport, and the boy can seriously bat. Chanderpaul, Sarwan and Dwayne Bravo are decent cricketers. Sulieman Benn can be a handful. Kemar Roach looks a good fast bowler. I’m guessing Fidel Edwards is injured but if he comes back he will add something to the attack, as would Jerome Taylor. So there’s the core of a decent team. I’d love it if they have a decent world cup.

Which is why I’m here in Delhi on the morning of the Windies match against South Africa. I wanted this to be the first match I saw on the odyssey … I’m now faced with a crisis. I really didn’t think it would sell out, but according to the ICC’s hopeless ticket website, it has. Or it might have done, Or, no-one knows. Or, they do know but they can’t be bothered to tell anyone.

 I’m ticketless but hopeful. Can’t say anymore for fear of jinxing it. Wish me luck.

Late update: Well, I got in (tickets for sale everywhere, ground half empty, god bless the ICC’s clear ticket information).  I also managed to source another way in…that’s another story. The Windies, bless ‘em, showed what they’ve showed for the previous few years, and odd mixture of brilliance, terribleness, and fallibility. Darren Bravo played a knock that few who saw will forget in a hurry, he then got out, like he always does, in the 70s.  The loss of Dwayne through injury will be hard felt, but the worry is, this team won’t be able to bowl out anyone: their best bet is to bat second and chase.

The day’s other news is about tomorrow. I’m booked to go to Agra to see the Taj…except it’s shut on Friday. But with all my onward flight booked from there, I’ve got to go, and not see the Taj. Going to Agra and not seeing the Taj is like going to Oxford and not watching United, pointless. If you wanted a report on its locked gates, log in this time tomorrow.

Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Day three. Jaipur. Run out 2.

Today I was a tourist. I got a rickshaw, and in exchange for 400 r/s, I asked Mr Vijay to take me to all the sights, (and not to bother trying to drop me off in any shops/factories/government outlets). Success.

I’d been warned about Jaipur before I arrived. My friend Phil advised me if I could get out of the station, I’d love it, but that fighting your way through the touts etc was a battle than many lost.

But there was no battle. Getting off the train last night was easy. I was approached by two people, just two, both of whom pointed me in the direction of the pre-paid rickshaw booth. Easy. More evidence that India has changed.

All around the various tourist sights, very little bother. Hawkers, gawkers and stalkers of India, what’s happened? (I actually dread to think what’s happened, this country isn’t noted for its social welfare polices).  

The Amer Fort was spectacular and made even more beautiful by the most perfect sunlight that lit up the day. I also really liked the Observatory, a collection of elaborate and oversized sundials from the 18^th century. Lots of straight lines and extravagant curves against an electric blue sky made for good photo…hopefully my camera conking out was a battery issue and not something more major.  Some of the dials told the time to within two seconds, others apparently measured stuff like how much godliness was in the air at that precise moment; these were less obviously less easy to verify the accuracy of.

What my day lacked though was cricket. I explained my predicament to Vijay, who said he’d take me to the local maidan, where there was bound to be a game going on. We arrived to find none. “I take you home,” said Vijay, thinking he’d had enough of this odd tourist who refused to go in any of his recommended stores. On the next corner, there it was, perfect. Five kids playing in a garden, using a bit of wood for a bat and a ball made of solid rubber. “Stop!!” I yelled. “There”.

Vijay pulled over. I only wanted to take a picture, but before I could get the phone out of my pocket, Vijay had snatched the bat from the kids and was marking his guard. If I can upload the video, you’ll see him in action (STOP PRESS - technology failure).

The kids wanted to bowl at the gora though, so it wasn’t long before I was batting. The wicket was a dustbowl, the spinner definitely had a dodgy action, the bat was literally a plank…those are my excuses for an innings of just two. I worked my first ball for a single through gully (no surprise to anyone who has ever seen me bat), squirted by second for a single to square leg, and was run out at the wrong end on my third, surprised to discover we were playing ‘any wicket’.

It was at this point the mother ran out of the house and shooed us away.  Either that or she was telling her kids off for ending my promising cameo in such controversial fashion.

I’m now heading back to Delhi on the Aijer-Jammu Tawi express, which so far is as punctual as the sundials. I’m starving but as yet no sign of the man taking orders for dinner.

I’m staying in a hotel tonight which has a bar attached called “Thugs”, recommended by Phil. Hopefully I’ll arrive in time for a pint  (and presumably a punch-up). Indian bars are funny old things, generally dark, smoky and seedy, frequented by an all male clientele, who drink way beyond their capacity, slouch on their tables and I’m guessing this bit, lament life at home. (“Oh, my wife, all she does is all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the childcare, all the breadwinning, and generally making good the balls-up us men make of this proud land of ours.”). I’ll be right at home.

Tomorrow, inshallah, I’ll be watching my beloved West Indies humbling the South Africans. Spare ticket, anyone?

Day two. London-Delhi-Jaipur

Dan’s International XI 60-4 (5 overs) (Gayle 34*)

lost to Gopal’s Indian All-stars 64 for 3 (4.5 overs) by 7 wickets. (Laxman 29*) Gopal’s Indian all-stars win the three match series 2-1.

An agonising defeat from the penultimate ball – I hope it doesn’t set the tone for the whole trip. The game was in the balance right up to the end and despite me getting rid of both Sachin Tendulkar and Yuvraj Singh for a duck, VVS Laxman saw Gopal’s team home with a ball to spare. Not a bad performance from my lot, who’d only just arrived in India on the overnight flight into Delhi, but ooh, the chai would have tasted that much sweeter after victory.

I’m on a train somewhere between Delhi Cantonment station and Jaipur. I love Indian trains, and this detour is as much about wanting to spend time on a train as it is about wanting to see the sights. So far the 19270 Mfp Pbr Express is making steady progress, (just half an hour late so far), and in chai terms, so am I (three at the last count). The sweet combo of cardamom, tonnes of sugar, tea and what tastes like evaporated milk is a heady mix…especially when you are sleep deprived. They should flog it in nightclubs.

Despite Gopal’s pleading, I can’t face another game of “’owzat” cricket. He’s now bothering his very serious looking Dad for a game, but with little success. The old fella, complete with extravagant comb over, is reading a hindi paper and tutting, and won’t be disturbed.

I’m in 3 a/c class, which is pretty posh really: you get room to think, room to play “’owzat” with 10-year olds, and you get rich Indian families who want to show-off their English speaking abilities to you, and furnish you with snacks. In the face off such generosity, the least I could do was lose to their son at ‘Owzat.

The problem with 3 a/c is that it’s a bit removed from the the outside world: The windows are double-glazed; curtains are usually drawn; the frighteningly powerful a\c removes both the heat and the smells of this crazy country. But, you get a comfy bed and clean sheets, and after struggling for much shut-eye on last night’s flight, I’m pleased to be where I am.

I’m not going to go on too much about Indian trains. If you want to know more, switch on to BBC4 at any time and you’ve got a good chance of seeing a documentary about them. However, they are a fabulous way to see India and even though domestic flights here are affordable and can knock days off your travel time, this is the only way to travel.

I’ve never been to Jaipur before, and I’ve allowed myself just over 19 hours there for this visit. Of those, at least eight (I hope) will be spent sleeping, and another hour will spent fighting off rickshaw-wullahs and touts as I try to leave the station. This leaves me not a lot of time to look around one of India’s most beautiful cities before I hop back on the train to Delhi tomorrow afternoon. The more I think about it, this detour was insane.

I curious to see Delhi again. I’ve been a couple of times before, but never for long, but my first impressions from this morning were that it’s changed dramatically. Admittedly, going from the airport to Cantonment station is probably the equivalent of going from Gatwick to Croydon and saying you’ve seen London. But, it seemed - and I hesitate to say this - but more organized, finished…My cousin was here recently and said she couldn’t believe what had happened to the city.

I’ve booked a hotel right on the edge of Old Delhi. My previous visit to Old Delhi was one of the most eye-opening, jaw dropping but memorable experiences of my life…I cannot imagine that it’s changed too much. The streets were like I imagine London before the great fire would have been, so dark, so narrow, yet so alive and so friendly. But that’s for tomorrow.

Saying goodbye to the family last night was horrible. Luckily the kids were fairly oblivious to the emotional outpouring that was going on around them (one is too young to notice, the other was too engrossed in Batman to wonder why daddy had a rucksack on and was blubbing), so didn’t get involved.

I got a seat on the Piccadilly line and tucked into my book for the trip, Chinaman. A fictional story about a drunken journalist’s quest to trace a mystery Sri Lankan spinner. I loved it. I’d ploughed through 68 pages by the time the train rumbled into terminal four…I need to ration myself because it’s my only reading matter for the trip and I want it to last.

The other significant incident:  I managed to blag an upgrade on my flight for the first time in my life, after a good 15 years of trying. My wife cringes with embarrassment as I go though whichever elaborate routine I decide to try (injury, friend of the pilot, daddy owns the airline…), the one time she’s not with me, it works. I hope this stands me in good stead for the coming weeks, I’m starting to fear that if I’m going to get to see any world cup action, I’ll need to do some serious blagging first.

Enough blogging about blagging…I missing some beautiful countryside. Jaipur, here I come. 

____________________________________

Just arrived at the hotel, turned on the TV to see England chasing 294 to beat the Netherlands. 294? They must have been seeing it like an Edam.

Day one. London. Packing.

Can’t deny feeling terrible this morning. I dropped the kids off at nursery and am now back at home putting off doing my packing.

I shouldn’t be going. People’s jaws drop when I tell them I’m leaving the family for two weeks to go and watch cricket. I’m really embarrassed about telling people I’m going away. “You’re going with work?,”  people ask. “Er, no…” “You’re taking your family backpacking round India…??!” “Erm, actually no …”

Bless my wife, she gave me permission. I doubt she thought I was going to actually go through with it, and to be honest I didn’t think I would either. But, here I am on the morning of the big trip, with tickets, visa, and day one of a blog all set to go.

One backpack. Two weeks. Three world cup matches. A lot of travelling about across a wonderful, crazy country. It’s a dream come true and yet I feel shit.

I’ve got Australia versus Zimbabwe on the TV in the background, gently reminding me I should cancel my Sky subscription for a couple of weeks. Australia aren’t exactly creaming it around like Sehwag or Jayawardene but they’ve already posted 150 for 3 with around 18 overs left. Sadly it will probably be enough. I have a sneaking suspicion they might win this tournament, and Ricky will get the farewell he deserves: but I’m generally lousy at predictions.

So why am I going? There’s a multitude of reasons really, the main one being I really, really wanted to watch India against England at Eden Gardens. It was a lifetime’s ambition. Thanks to the Bengal Cricket Association for stuffing that up. By the time the ICC pulled the plug, my train and plane tickets were booked, hotel deposit paid (now lost - boycott Hotel Trimoorti) and complete rescheduling of holiday has had to take place. Other reasons to take into account: midlife crisis; love of Indian travel; the agony of so nearly managing to sort this out as a work trip, only to have the plug pulled; SAD kicking-in in darkest November (when I booked my tickets); I could go on.

So the plan. 14 days. Delhi. Jaipur. Delhi. South Africa versus Windies. Agra. Bangalore. England versus India. Kerala. Mahallampuram. Chennai. England versus South Africa.  Home. Planes, trains and autorickshaws.

I want this trip to be a celebration of cricket. I love cricket. I love any country that loves cricket, and India probably loves it the most. I’m planning to find a game of cricket everyday, at any standard, on a street, on a beach, on a maidan, or in a massive corporate concrete bowl and make it part of my day and then part of my daily blog.

Haven’t got a ticket for any of the games yet, starting to panic. If you know of anyone who’s got a spare one for any of those games, let me know.