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Published: March 26th 2006
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The final score...
I know it's anal, but is anyone else troubled by the poor grammar? Very weird to be in India and not be a rarity. About the first thing that me and Fi noticed when we came back for the test was that the place was full of white people. Apparently the Barmy Army brought about 2,000 Brits over, which in a city of 17 million or so might only be a drop in the ocean, but it still meant that you could wander the streets and see more than the occasional westerner.
Despite being a tourist and not a traveller (my new catchphrase) I couldn't help being a bit put out. We were there before them. We were old hands. We knew the customs. The best places to eat. What were they all doing there? How dare they upset the equilibrium of people who had been in India so long that we were practically natives? (Look... a lot can happen in two weeks.)
But when in Rome, and all that... So me and Fi went British for five days. Minimal attempts to discover the "real India". Aim was to manage hangovers and touch-and-go stomachs (hm... a more accurate phrase than might be strictly neccessary) so that the maximum amount of cricket could
And again...
So good it's worth two photos... be fitted in.
All the cricket fans will know the result, and the fact that although there weren't a lot of fireworks, the test was in the balance all the way through, so there's no point going into details when it came to the game. The atmosphere and experience, though, was pretty different to what you'd get at Lords. At first I thought it was because the Indian crowd was incredibly knowledgeable. They'd applaud a good bit of fielding, that most people wouldn't have even noticed.
After a while, I realised that they weren't knowledgeable at all. They were just like a massed version of Duracel bunnies, ready to jump up and down as soon as anything vaguely noteworthy was done by an Indian. Reached its nadir when they were cheering simple forward defensives. (Although given the way their tail batted on the fifth day, maybe I shouldn't understimate the significant of Indian batsmen being able to perform a forward defensive.)
Depending on the hangover, it was either endearing, or just bloody irritating. When, on the last day, me and Fi were sat right in the middle of a load of clapping Duracel bunnies, it was entirely
Post match celebrations
And the Barmy Army realise they have an Aussie in their midst. irritating, and we had to go back to the comfort of the British fans.
Chants were constant and vaguely offensive. "Hoggy is a donkey", mutating to "Hoggy is a doggy" occasionally... then "Flintoff is a bastard", "Monty is a Paki", "Hoggy is a homo"... nothing to a football fan, but not quite cricket. And the bloody mexican waves. Once is good. Ten times in a row is just dull. I want to watch the cricket, not constantly stand up and sit down.
Bah humbug.
Got to admit, though, the experience was great, regardless of how miserable I'm sounding. The English fans put on a great show, and it was very cool to be watching a Test in the middle of Mumbai. Some fans were annoying, but others were great. And Fi fell in love with some of the kids who'd obviously spent hours making their own "4" and "6" signs. Although with a run rate of around 2.5 or something, they didn't get to use them all that often.
Other things we learned:
- Don't buy shooters in Tendulkars. (c. five quid a go for a B52. You could buy a car for that over here.)
- Don't buy cans of beer in Tendulkars. (But if you do, don't miscalculate how much they actually were, and accuse the bar manager of being a lying crook.) (Mintel people might want to get Mark to explain that one...)
- Whatever you do, steer clear of the Room of Death. Me and Fi didn't see it, but aparently the after effects of three blokes sharing the same room *and* the same dose of food poisoning isn't a pleasant thing.
- The relationship between uniforms, whistles, moustaches and social power in India. Over a certain number of Kingfishers, we pieced together the whole class structure in India. Essentially, it boils down to moustache size. The bigger the better. Add a uniform to a moustache, and you have real power. With a smart enough uniform and a big enough tache, you might be allowed a whistle. Once you have a whistle, you've made it.
- That English theme pubs are the same the world over, until you leave the pints, the celebrating Brits, the beer bellies and the "Where's your Sachin gone?" chants for a pee. Then you walk out of the 5 star hotel bar into the 5 star hotel lobby and a wall of sub-arctic aircon. Suddenly you're not in England any longer. Alice couldn't have got more of a culture shock when she stepped through the mirror. All excerbated by the fact that the beer meant that you had to step out for a pee more often than usual. And that you were more likely to forget that you weren't in the Old Crown, but actually in the Hotel Intercontinental in Mumbai.
Anyway, cricket over. Time to get back to India.
(Perhaps there needs to be an addition to the tache/uniform thing. Once you're so important that could couldn't possibly grow a big enough tache to match your rank, it all comes down to who cold you set the aircon. If you're toes haven't turned blue, it's not cold enough.)
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mark
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hey dude. what direction now? if you're still in mumbai, leopolds restaurant in colaba for a "chilly chicken". made me sweat.