Rain, rain go away

A frustrating day which started with a 7.30am departure to head north to Chail to play our second match at the world’s highest cricket ground. We set off in torrential rain and with little hope of playing … and with several of the group suffering from stomach upsets untouched by Imodium. Half an hour in and an in-bus rebellion broke out after news that the game was off, but a four-hour trip to go 100km was still expected. In true democratic style a vote (well, kind of) led to the bus turning around and us heading home amid the floods and general mayhem.

Opportunities of culture (boys) and shopping (girls) were spurned – giving an idea of how bad the deluge was – and we set up camp in the hotel. Eds C and Copey had a machismo showdown disguised as a race on running machines which was won by the (far) older man.

Drinks at 5pm soon turned into mutually assured destruction in which nobody escaped unharmed, although Hobbs and Rosenfeldt suffered more than most, with Tristian’s fine for a receding hairline possibly the harshest. From then on it was downhill, with the nadir reached when Copey took his trousers off while singing “Hero”.

At this point we need to mention the ladies, who have felt ignored by this blog, and for that we apologise. All have brought much to this tour. Alice has shown a devoted ability to shield the more delicate Gatesy at all costs, even going so far as drinking his fines for him, Osha has been the dark horse (and not long after was on one), quiet at first sight but an absolute demon when handing out fines and an admirable cheat at any game from snap to the quiz night. Anna has handled all thrown at her with skill and downed blue drinks like they were going out of fashion … and all three of them ignored the pleas of hotel security to mount a priceless bronze horse, thus showing they were every bit as irresponsible as the boys. And Osha, who seems to think this is BBC Radio 2 Family Favourites, says hello to Marilyn.

Dick of the Day Pete Hobbs. He had it coming to him. Feigned illness to miss the early start and our unexpected return found him in the restaurant eating breakfast. In the eving he was torpedoed by a heft fine and crashed and burned.

It's all part of the fun

A day of grey sky, rain and beggars. Chandigarh is not a major tourist city and it’s not actually hard to see why. It is a positive oasis of calm after Delhi, but the streets, although wide, are charmless. There are no pavements, and so the dirt at the side of the roads turns into slippery mud in the wet, causing pedestrians to walk in the roads and so become targets.

The beggars show a persistency that defies belief. Our captain made the mistake of giving one Rs50 (60p) on a trip to the local “market” and the rest of the walk was spent zigzagging outstretched hands while his colleagues added to his discomfort by pointing newcomers towards him. We expected some local produce in the market itself, but it was mainly overpriced brand names or plastic tat.

Henry and Mez took a rickshaw on the way back to the hotel but their combined weight so overwhelmed the stick-thin peddler that they arrived after those who had carried on walking. En route Henry managed to start chatting up a lady on another equally slow rickshaw, but so embarrassed was she to be seen talking to him that she jumped out and demanded photographs of their talk be deleted.

Some brave souls ventured to Chandigarh’s main attraction, the Rock Garden, in the morning. “Stuff thrown together by some bloke on drugs,” was Melissa’s considered verdict, although Milly enjoyed herself. Hobbs, fast emerging as our cultural attaché, said that it was as bad as the Birmingham Bullring adding “but at least they had the common sense to demolish that”.

The evening was highlighted by a Rosenfeldt inspired and coordinated quiz in which many cheated but the dream team of Moorby, Gates and Williamson rightly won.

And after three healthy days, the first victims of stomach upsets took to their rooms. Leading the way was Random, thus proving – as if we didn’t know – that while Australians might talk a hard game, inside they are as soft as marshmallows.

Dick of the Day Tristan Rosenfedt, who came up late on the rails with a shocking dinner-time performance during which, among things, he insulted the secretary’s wife, admitted to pulling a 14-year-old at school (“Come on guys, she was almost 15”) and asked the waiter in a top restaurant if he could get a Big Mac.

The dedicated follower of (OC) fashion

One of the more worrying aspects of this trip is that Rick has found a local tailor who has been knocking out new blazers as if they are going out of fashion. Everyone now has one, and we cut quite a startling sight as we amble through tourist areas.

As mentioned before, the downside is that they act as a magnet for hawkers and beggars who can spot us from about two miles away. Yesterday at India Gate we were engulfed within minutes of arriving, so much so that a number of our group left their blazers on the coach.

There have also been developments in that there are now OC waistcoats, shorts and trousers in the same material – as shown here by our captain – and these are proving remarkably popular with us and lucrative for the slightly bemused tailor.

We are leaving the material out here with him, so anyone back in the UK who wants to place an order can do so ...

Better to arrive than travel hopefully

A relaxing morning was followed by some unexpected sightseeing – unexpected in that we booked to coach to take us to the station at 12.30pm in the mistaken belief the train left at 1.15pm … it was in fact 4.15pm. So we did the India Gate where the blazers (we now all have then thanks to the visiting tailor, and shorts and waistcoats in the same colours are now also appearing) attracted hawkers and beggars in equal measure. A short stop for the local delicacy of Dominoes Pizza preceded arrival at the station. That was a remarkable place, teeming with people, animals and goods, and the way between platforms was across the tracks. We lost nobody, although were rather alarmed when our porters left all the luggage in the middle of the tracks while they disappeared for ten minutes.

After such a leisurely journey to the station, we ended up making the train with one minute to spare. The four-hour jaunt to Chandigarh was interesting at first, but the appeal had waned by the time we finally arrived. There was speculation that we should try to persuade the Kalashnikov-wielding solider guarding our carriage to don an OC blazer for a photo, but even the hardiest tourists decided he didn’t appear to be a man to mess with.

We had a short wait for the bus, and when it arrived it was clearly not big enough for us and the kit. The driver’s assistant was sent up to the roof and ordered to sit on most of the luggage – Copey had to haul it up as the bags were to heavy for anyone else to get up there!

Fines followed checking-in, and then those who had not opted to watch the Oscars (seriously) went for a quite stunning Chinese meal.

Dick of the Day Johnny Gates. Harsh, possibly, but despite being warned he steadfastly refuses to stop public displays of affection.

Off to a winning start

And so to the first game – 35 overs a side - against the British High Commission at the Jamia Millia Islamia ground, a 10-minute coach drive from the hotel. Early morning mist (we were assured it wasn’t pollution) took the edge off the temperature and, combined with a fairly heavy dew, the conditions were more like September in England.

Henry Watkinson lost the toss and we were stuck on a pitch which was predicted to be slow and low but Alan Cope and Johnny Gates had few problems against the new ball. Gates looked in good nick while Cope showed why he is so highly rated, the pair adding 86 in 14 overs before Gates was bowled for 22. Cope drove and swept with class, and two punched straight drives off the back foot even had the most cynical OCs cooing in admiration.

Simon Copleston, who had flown in for the day from Dubai, worked the ball around well to give Cope the strike, the pair putting on 45 in 9.1 overs. He was bowled for 20 (39 balls), and Cope followed soon after, caught off one his first false shots for 76 (71 balls), the highest score by an OC abroad. The tempo was maintained, however, as Nathan Ross scurried his way to an unbeaten 55 (41 balls), mixing excellent placement with good running, Damon Hill made a brief 10 off six balls and Tristan Rosenfeldt 17 off 14. Our final score of 221 for 5 looked slightly above par.

The locals showed a keen interest, although they were bemused when told that we were not in fact England and, what's more, contained not a single Test player. Hobbs took to telling them he had played international cricket.

The first over from Watkinson was eventful – he started with two no-balls, threw in a wide for good measure and skulked off to third man where he assumed the familiar teapot pose for the next few minutes. Fortunately, Ed Henderson was at his best, reeling off his seven overs to take 1 for 20, and once Watkinson located the cut strip the High Commission slipped slowly behind the asking rate. Tom Hufton struck twice early on to reduce the home side to 82 for 3 at the halfway mark, but then came the crucial partnership and some high drama.

Surrender, the opener, and Parshant looked to be the class acts of the High Commission side and they started taking the attack to the bowlers and, briefly, we wobbled, Sam Langmead came in for some heavy punishment but he stuck to his task well, and Mills spilt a boundary catch to add to growing frustration.

Surrender, who was past fifty, was then well caught by Ross off Hufton but seemed reluctant to go, claiming the there were only three fielders inside the 30-yard circle and not the required four. The umpires could not decide, and so he made his way off, clearly unhappy. By the time he reached the pavilion, a few players voiced opinions that he should be recalled as it emerged one of our fielders was indeed outside the circle. Watkinson stood firm. He then engaged in a spirited conversation with Rick Johnson and as with all such discussions, it was the authority and command of the captain which was never in doubt. Watkinson was ovveruled and Surrender recalled.

He only added a handful more runs before he was dismissed by Cope for 79 – Cope generated some decent pace on a dead track - and it was then down to Parshant and the tail with the rate heading towards double figures. He found little support, and Watkinson added some polish to his figures with three wickets in five balls to polish off the innings, leaving Parshant stranded on 63.

OCCC 221 for 5 (Cope 76, Ross 55*, Gates 22, Copleston 20, Rosenfeldt 17) beat British High Commission 203 (Surrender 79, Parshant 63*, Watkinson 3-34, Cope 2-38, Hufton 2-45) by 18 runs

The evening started with the much-anticipated Mishra Challenge – Rick had bet that nobody could eat Rs250 (about £3) worth of food at a local vegetarian restaurant about as removed from the hotel cuisine as could be imagined. Damon and Ed Henderson took him and neither really threatened to eat all that was put in front of them, but both appeared likely to be quite ill. The bill for 20 of us came to a little over £2 a head.

We then returned to Rick’s Bar at the hotel where what started as a mature and responsible evening was spoilt when Henry bought some flaming sambuca, setting light to the club secretary’s hand in the process. A tit-for-tat war, which ended with what amounted to neat Tabasco shots being exchanged, followed, with Gatesy being the only major casualty. A floating room party then ensued, which involved us moving on each time security found us, from which the remnants crawled to bed at 8am.

Dick of the Day Henry Watkinson. A close contest. Eds looked in line to keep the title after deciding to relax by the pool rather than watch his colleagues – he was instead hit with seven shots of tequila, one for each hour of play he missed. Millsy put in a good challenge, turning up on cricket tour without whites, but in the end Henry won through for stirring controversy and spilling a return catch (“It went up miles and was really swirling”). Right.

Doing the tourist bit

Today was spent visiting the Taj Mahal, a remarkable building in unremarkable surroundings. Many were awestruck, others less so, but only Peter Hobbs was entirely unmoved, comparing the grounds unfavourably to Cranleigh’s own Stocklund Square. From there we went to the Red Fort, an equally impressive site.

The journey to the attractions was gruelling – five hours each way on roads which only have a passing resemblance to what we are used to calling such. Driving in India is not for those of a nervous disposition. Staying on the right side of the road is optional; you sound your horn when behind a vehicle, when overtaking, when considering overtaking or when the road is empty, although the latter never happens. When confronted with a vehicle in front, the tactic is to accelerate to within five feet of its rear and lean on your horn. While this is not too worrying when you are behind a moped, it is more so when it’s a tanker with “Highly Flammable” painted on the back. Add into the equation that you are being bounced around like an egg in a blender, and you have a rough idea.

On the way we were relived to see a sign alerting us that the Taj Mahal was only 90kms away. Three hours later we arrived. The return trip took about a week.

The tour buses are helpfully painted with TOURIST on the front. The sole aim of this appears to be to alert the thousands of hawkers that you have arrived an want nothing more than to spend money on plastic ornaments, bracelets and carved camels. Most resisted, although Mike Payne proved to be a valuable decoy as the hawkers picked him off as he seemed to exude gullibility. Tristan Rosenfeldt, who got into a state after declaring a morbid fear of all animals only to spot ninja monkeys at the Red Fort, bought a whip for reasons only he knows.

Dick of the Day Eds Copleston ... again. He lost the bow tie within three hours of getting it. Another 24 hours.

We've arrived

We all made it safely to India after an uneventful flight, aside from Henry Watkinson showing his leadership skills by deserting his side as soon as an upgrade came along and then reducing a four-year-old child to tears by pulling his fingers. Perhaps the ten vodkas had something to do with it.

We were met at the hotel by Rick wearing clothes than remain indescribable, and in the afternoon the boys went to have their blazers fitted while the girls went sari shopping. The hotel is modern and lavish … those on the top floors have the rather disconcerting view of birds of prey circling just outside the windows.

Peter Hobbs arrived late in the afternoon with his arm in plaster, thus creating a record of being rule out of any matches before the first game. Oh, and we had reports that the pitch at Chandigargh, where we play next Wedesday, is under a inch or so of snow.

Dick of the Day Eds Copleston. Where to start. On the plane ... at the airport ... enough said.