It's all in the movement

Tim Cook, a doyen of the hockey club, once told me that the one thing that is guaranteed when Old Cranleighans are gathered together is that the conversation will turn fairly soon to crap (actual crap as opposed to Henry’s chat-up technique).

Well, he’s right. We can report the Peter Hobbs is still suffering after his trip to India and, much to everyone else’s amusement, has had to succumb and visit the doctor to explain his Bristol Chart predicament. Several OCs with more time on their hands than is good for them, started pontificating about how exactly do you give a sample. Hobbsy fills us in.

The squeamish and well-mannered should stop right here. Over to Arfe

I put it off as long as possible but the cramps (not crabs) were so bad I had to take the bulls by the horns and explain my predicament to a female doc. She advised the following:

Step 1:
1 Shit into the smallest test tube type plastic devise known to man. The advise on the test tube stated - get a plastic ice cream container (empty) and cover it with Andrex
2 Shit
3 Scoop it up (top of test tube has a 'pooper scooper shovel' and place into test tube and seal and write name and date of deposit on side of said test tube and return to doctor feeling proud.

Sod that - am not throwing out good ice cream so I did the following:

1 When needing a shit - go for a piss first to make sure poo wont be contaminated. Cover bottom of shitter with a couple of roles of Andrex so shit can't get into the water.
2 Gently crouch
3 Pick up newspaper
4 Relax
5 Listen to farts as Bristol No. 7 comes out
6 Giggle at incredible noise and be proud
7 Look down and pray that Bristol has not touched water
8Gently reach across and grab pooper scooper
9 With pained expression on face, slowly reach into bowl and scoop nearest piece of solid/water available
10 Deposit into test tube and hope you don't spill
11 Suddenly think - how much should I put in there - do I fill it to the brim?
12 Realise that you simply can't reach down into bowl to collect any more as smell is starting to make you feel sick
13 Put lid on test tube and start wiping.
14 Realise toilet is blocked due to too much Andrex - call out plumber....$200 later...

Step 2:
If step 1 results are inconclusive - they want to shove a camera up my arfe......NO CHANCE

Hope this assists in any decision making....

Taking it sitting down

As everyone settles back to life at home, there continue to be distressing reports that all is not well in the stool department.

Steve Bailey, who is an expert on such matters, regaled us all in Mumbai with tales of The Bristol Chart and, judging by the industrial quantities of Imodium being gulped down by all and sundry, the chart was the No. 1 reference tool by the end of the trip.

Bailey has now sent us a link to the chart – reproduced here for your benefit. At the last count Henry Watkinson was down to twice and hour, although Pete Hobbs sent a brief message from Australia in which it was clear all is not well down south.

A bright future

And so the end of the tour, and most would probably say about time. We have had a ball for sure, but after a time the constant battery of stomach upsets – many self-imposed – heat, noise and, to be blunt, inefficiency wears you down. Even those who had been mocking Tristian Rosenfeldt for his endless quest to find western fast food were beginning to hanker for something with beef and without a sauce to blow your brains out.

The cricket was excellent, although we rather let ourselves down with some poor fielding in the second and third matches and a remarkable collapse in the last game. We were unlucky that the Chandigarh game was washed/snowed out as it meant we endured some gruelling travelling for no reward, and it would be worth considering the size of the county and the state of the roads were any future OC to consider a return trip.

The hospitality was equally appreciated and lavish, and while India was an eye-opener to those who had not been here before, we were rather protected from the grim reality by our five-star hotels. One could leave Mumbai without really seeing the extremes in the people’s fortunes which mean that almost one million people live in a single shanty town without a toilet between them. It’s worth thinking about when someone in the UK complains they are poor because they can’t afford a Sky Sports subscription.

The conclusion of the tour also marks the end of tour organisation by Rick Johnson and Martin Williamson. Five trips, with recent ones increasingly luxurious and audacious, have been undertaken in a decade, and so good is Rick at meeting the right people and saying the right thing that there is a danger that people think it’s not all that hard after all. Trust me, it is. The hours that Rick puts into preparing and then double and treble checking itineraries, hotels and fixtures would floor almost anyone else.

It’s time to pass on the baton and this trip has shown that there is a really excellent crop of young players coming through the ranks, and the remarkable success of the school should ensure that the club goes from strength to strength.

The end is nigh

The final day was spent sightseeing and shopping by most, although a few preferred to lounge by the pool. The shopping was an endurance test with the weakest-willed being singled out for attention and flattery by street vendors with worse chat that Henry Watkinson but a marginally better strike rate. Rather like a pride of lions circling a wounded Wildebeest, it became a question of when the most frail victim would succumb rather than if.

Steve Bailey – who due to an error with form filling the CCI reception referred to throughout as Mr Kitty Bag, despite his protestations that they could at least call him Kitbag – was our tour Wildebeest. He bought his 11-month daughter a “genuine” unique eighteenth-century sextant for RS2000 only to see an identical one 20 yards down the road for Rs1800. He purchased ten giant balloons only to find that the bag contained nine tiny ones. The end came when he bought a fan for Rs20 when the vendor was poised to sell him ten for the same price. Word got around and hawkers flocked to the city centre to try to fleece Kitty Bag.

The sightseeing was undertaken with mixed enthusiasm. Mike Payne led the hard-core travellers who lapped up the sights, although the squeemish baulked at his gleeful enthusiasm to go and watch vultures pecking at corpses. At the other extreme Pete Hobbs, a philistine to the end, survived three minutes at the Gateway to India before making an unfavorable comparison to obelisk at the end of Cranleigh High Street and making his excuses.

In the evening we held the end-of-tour fines which doubled as an excuse to punish Tristian Rosenfeldt for his attempt to sink the self-styled legends 24 hours earlier. Donned in a fake Manchester United shirt with the badge cut off to reveal a glimpse of nipple, he downed eight glasses of cheap Indian champagne as well as two unidentifiable savoury delights specially purchased from a street vendor with more sores and scabs than a smallpox colony. Rosenfeldt was a broken man.

The batsman of the tour was Alan Cope, the bowler Tom Hufton and the fielder Nathan Ross. The man of the tour, to great acclaim, was Mike Payne who was also celebrating his 71st birthday. Quite how much of it he will remember remains to be seen, although the taxi driver he attempted to kiss several times on the way home might take longer to recover.

David Banford, an OC from the sixties who now runs a wine business in Mumbai, kindly and convivially hosted a reception and dinner at one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants. The bill was £90 a head, an astounding feat even in London let alone India. The hardliners went on to a nightclub described by a regular frequenter of such establishments as being “too loud, too crowded and too expensive but otherwise fine” where the remains of their cash was soon separated from them. Perhaps the fact they were made to enter through the kitchen was an indication that it might not be the best of places.

So near and yet ...

The tour ended in a seven-run defeat, and so we finished with a 2-3 record, but it could – and should – have been a different story. For almost all the 70 overs of the game against Payyodes we were in a strong position only to throw it all away with a batting collapse that must rank among our most dismal. With five overs remaining we needed 25 to win with seven wickets in hand and Nathan Ross hitting the ball to all parts with ease. Then he tried to pull a bouncer only to spoon a catch to midwicket. Henry Watkinson fell next ball, feathering a catch to the keeper as he tried to run the ball to third man, and off the final delivery of the over Rick Johnson drove a catch to the one man on the cover boundary. The experience had almost all gone in one breath.

Mike Chase, who had endured a wretched tour, was finally finding some form but his ideal role was as foil to a more aggressive partner and now he had to get a move on. When he departed to his third leg-before of the trip for 22, the pressure was really on.

Still we held the advantage on paper, but we lacked an old head to calm the ship. We started the last over needing 13 and we never got close, with three more run-outs ensuring that there was to be no dramatic finale.

The innings began so well, with Tom Hufton and Eds Copleston making a breezy start before Hufton was run-out by a direct hit for 23. Copleston and Cope then added 83 for the second wicket with ease and aplomb, and there seemed to be only one winner. Cope holed out to long-on shortly after reaching his fifty, and then Copleston fell to an excellent low return catch. At the time it seemed little more than a small aberration as Chase and Ross put on 79 for the fourth wicket.

We had bowled well, although we did look slightly weary and Peter Hobbs seemed to be paying the price for late nights, strong painkillers and an upset stomach. Ed Henderson was also below his best, but Watkinson rose to the challenge with another tidy spell. Unlike the game the day before, the Payyodes batsmen took the attack to the bowlers but despite the heat we did not wilt.

As the game reached its conclusion Copleston was struck down by remarkable cramp, starting in his toes and rapidly spreading to all parts. For more than two hours he had team-mates working on his arms and legs as his muscles convulsed. So bad was he that he missed fines!

Payyodes 241 for 4 (Bhosle 94) beat Old Cranleighans 234 (Ross 54, Cope 52, Copleston 36)

Fines were particularly savage as Rosenfeldt looked to unleash revenge on senior players, fining Messrs Watkinson, Johnson, Williamson and Bailey what amounted to 20 shots of spirits between them. The quartet were shaken but not bowed and vowed revenge the next night. The remainder of the evening was spent at the city's most prestigious fish restaurant where we behaved admirably well. It was probably the fatigue of the previous three days more than any growing maturity.

An Indian oasis

The pitch for our final two matches – the Vengsarkar Academy ground – was at the end of a large open field on which there were six end-to-end pitches of variable quality. The land was in the middle of Mumbai and was home to a mass of matches, both formal and impromptu. At weekends the games are structured, but during the week the games take place on any free space, and towards the end of the day there can be as many of 30 or 40 matches taking place at any time.


Although the pitch we used looked basic and had no more than awnings for a pavilion, the wicket itself was good and the game was played in front of hundreds of locals. Some sat inside the metal railings on tree stumps and the grass, others stood peering through the railings, often for hours at a time.

The field was in effect a massive traffic island, so the incessant humming and honking of the city’s traffic was always present. The backdrop of imposing nineteenth century buildings completed a truly Indian setting. The Brabourne was magnificant, but the consensus was that this was what a tour to India was all about.

Back from the brink

Changes were made for the second match in Mumbai and all the senior pros were rested as Alan Cope led a development XI against a World Cricket Academy side at the Vengsarkar Academy ground.

Cope’s OC captaincy career got off to a blinder when he lost the toss and the Academy chose to bat in sweltering conditions. Peter Hobbs again defied the pain barrier, aided by increasing doses of mind-numbing drugs, to open the bowling and the all-seam attack was supported by enthusiastic groundfielding and outstanding catches from Nathan Ross and Johnny Gates. The surprise package was Damian Hill, decorated with the kind of red facepaint last seen in a John Wayne western, who bowled an excellent spell at the death. The opposition were young and that showed as they nurdled and nudged singles with skill but only really looked to open up in the last three or four overs.

At lunch – we walked back to the CCI – the side was confident, perhaps too much so. Within eight overs we were tottering on 33 for 5 with most of our big guns accounted for. Hill tried to hook the first ball of the innings only to top-edge to the keeper, Sam Langmead lost his off stump via an outside edge, Eds Copleston got a poor leg-before decision and Cope was bowled round his legs. Steve Bailey, who arrived earlier in the day from London and who was enjoying a\ leisurely lunch at the CCI, was summoned, and the he was called straight into action when Michael Chase swung at and missed a full toss, departing reluctantly after remonstrating with the umpire over the legality of the delivery.


Bailey kept his end up but it was Ross, driving and pulling with real class and scampering between the wickets, who stemmed the slide and started to counter attack. Bailey, after almost half an hour, got off the mark with a straight six, but soon after failed to beat a direct hit at the non-striker’s end. Johnny Gates then joined Ross and immediately unleashed two textbook off drives. He was, however, struggling with illness and it quickly became clear he was in difficulties and he retired and immediately threw up.

Ross’s dismissal caused a few jitters, but that of Rosenfeldt, who had kept the run-rate ticking along, two overs later put us in trouble. Gates, looking pasty but determined, returned to the fray and was joined by Hufton with 12 needed off two overs, and we started the last with six required. The game was settled when Hufton clipped a four over midwicket to secure a win in game which we had seemed for all the world to have thrown away.

Old Cranleighans 184 for 8 (Ross 63, Gates 31*) beat World Cricket Academy XI 183 (Henderson 3-39) by two wickets

Imodium or bust

The whole tone of the tour has changed in recent days, with few escaping the ravages of upset stomachs and the location of toilet paper and stashes of Imodium (12 in ten hours being the record) taking on almost obsessive Holy Grail-like importance. Rick, who verges between mocking people for being ill and demanding maximum sympathy and antibiotics when he himself is struck down, has taken to using other people’s loos and often breaking them, adding to the allround distress.

There is genuine concern for Mez who has been by far the worst affected and who has been diagnosed with amoebic dysentery. Things are so serious he was given a non-alcoholic fine. Hobbs is not much better – he has, as the saying goes, gone in the arff – and also has muscle strains, a coldsore and an ear infection to go with his broken knuckle.

Tristan, meanwhile, keeps well by refusing to eat or drink anything not manufactured within 25 miles of central London and his frequent requests for Big Macs meet with bewilderment. We have tried telling him that beef is not really to available here what with cows being sacred and all that, but the poor chap is rather bewildered. It is not hard to see why his last performance review at work contained a request that he stay off fast food for a month.

The girls have all stayed remarkably well – Osha’s cocktail assault aside – even though their fines have started becoming more challenging. Alice deserves special mention for often drinking the fines dished out to the rather delicate Gatesy without complaint or side effect.

Back to reality

Everything went swimmingly for at least half an hour until it we discovered that Cope and Rosenfeldt made the basic error of believing that a booked alarm call would work and so were late for the photocall. So was Johnson, who announced that he could not possible have a picture taken without a breakfast first..

The game against the CCI was on the same track that they used for the Champions Trophy final and looked a belter. Henry won the toss and stuck the home side in, gambling on early moisture helping the bowlers and hoping that our display in the field could not be as bad as four days earlier. He really should have known better.

Pete Hobbs, who arrived with a broken knuckle and no hope of playing, declared himself fit and aided with some painkillers that would floor a mule and would certainly ensure he had more chance of failing a random drugs test than even Shoaib Akhtar, he steamed in from the far end and grabbed an early wicket. Ed Henderson moved the ball around – mainly down the leg side – but the catching was awesomely bad. Alan Cope led the way with three drops, and in all at least eight chances were spilled, so many that Henry (who put one down himself) gave up his customary teapot pose.

He did, however, reached a landmark in taking his 200th wicket for the club in the final overs, and in fairness we did well to peg CCI back after they took only 12 overs to bring up their first hundred.

Our reply came off the rails straight away when two of our key men – Nathan Ross and Cope- fell within two overs. Ross was bowled while Cope fell victim to some idiosyncratic umpiring when a loud shout for caught behind was turned down, only for a second appeal a few second later to be upheld. Mike Chase got a poor leg-before decision from the same official (although Henry persuaded Anna to tell a far from amused Chase that it looked out to her), frustration got the better of Eds Copleston who struggled before missing an attempted heave, while Johnny Gates again looked good before perishing to a poor shot.

By then we were almost down and out, but Damian Hill and Rosenfeldt led a spirited counterattack – always in vain but nevertheless face saving. Hill struck the first boundary in the 16th over and then cracked two more off subsequent ball for good measure, bring up our fourth fifty of the tour. Rosenfeldt drove well, exchanged blunt opinions with a particularly vocal wicketkeeper, went increasing red and was bowled, while Tom Hufton, Sam Langmead and Tom Merry all hit out well to ensure respectability.

Cricket Club of India 251 for 6 (Repani 79, Wanebanear 64*, Watkinson 2-49) beat Old Cranleighans 194 for 9 (Hill 51, Rosenfeldt 38, Langmead 25) by 57 runs

Onto Mumbai

The last big day of travel with a few worried faces as the upset stomachs were beginning to take their toll. We made it to the airport with minutes to spare, completely disrupted the check-in and somehow in a land where even the simplest task usually takes four times as long to achieve we made the flight.

Mumbai was hotter, nosier and a mass of people, although not quite the bedlam that many expected. The journey to the Cricket Club of India’s Braebourne Stadium was entertaining, but the ground itself, built in 1936-37 with the intention of being the Lord’s of India, was simply stunning.

While it is a functioning venue - it hosted the ICC Champions Trophy final in November – it is also very much a social hub for the great and the good of the city. It is also a throwback to a quite different era. The main pavilion is spacious and very art deco, but the sight as you emerge at the front onto the playing area is stunning. Whereas in England you would be greeted by acres of empty spaces and warning that anyone setting so much as a foot on the perfectly-manicured sods risked ritual disembowelment, at the Braebourne the outfield was alive. In front of the pavilion dozens of wicker chairs and tables are set out on the grass and waiters scuttle between tables serving tea and sandwiches. At the far end hoardes of children, immaculately attired and classically trained, play cricket, while families and powerwalkers circuit the perimeter with varying enthusiasm. A short journey on any Mumbai street makes it clear why those who value their lives and their lungs choose to walk at the Braebourne rather than anywhere else.

The check-in, however, was very Indian. To sort out ten rooms took us four hours and more paperwork than is needed to buy the average five-bedroom house. Martin managed to electrocute himself after giving Henry a lecture on using plugs, while everyone else had a quiet one with many relieved that there seemed to be an unlimited supply of loo rolls on tap. Rick Johnson, who spent weeks convincing everyone this was the place to stay, snuck off to his luxury apartment at the Oberoi.

Goan hospitality

A much quieter day spent around the pool and the bars, with the young and enthusiastic engaging in sporting challenges and the not so young marooned at the bars. In the evening we went to Mirabai, a Goan restaurant owned by a friend of a friend of Mike Chase. He asked for best behaviour, always a high-risk strategy. The food was a tad slow to arrive and so by the time it did the silly drinking contests were underway. Osha took on the cocktail menu single handed and won- while Belgrano calls with Pina Coladas and Viagras swapped with fatal consequences, especially to Ed Henderson and a local taxi driver.

Busy doing nothing

A relaxing day after the exertions of the match, with little signs of life much before midday. A few ventured to try the watersports and Henry did his best to kill Anna when showing off on the jetski … both ended up in the sea and Anna had to rescue him.

We all ambled up to Sunset point for .. er … sunset where the sun did not so much set and sink gracefully into the pollution, haze and rusting oiltanker which constituted the horizon. Fines then took on a particularly vicious edge with Hobbs yet again singled out for punishment and then winning a three-place showdown – against Damian Hill and Henry – for the Dick of the Day. The secondary contest was a damp squib, Mike Payne managing 102 kisses of the four girls on tour against Henry’s 14 … even so, that was a personal best for the captain.

From there we went to the beach for a meal and some unnecessarily heavy drinking, and from there onto the salubrious Club Cabana, the haunt of more Ukranians and Russians than are good for you. Suffice to say one of our number was felled by what he claimed was a heatbut but onlookers described as an enthusiastic nod. As was the case with the same individual in Sydney four years ago, he went down as if shot, although at least he was bleeding for his pains. Ed Henderson, ever the supportive colleague, immediately offered his business card to the assailant along with a promise to give evidence against his team-mate should it be necessary.

On the beach

Sunshine … at last. The day started late for most and consisted of little more than sunbathing and downing alcohol. The beach took centre stage in the morning with impromptu games of cricket against the locals and a few brave souls ventured into the sea, which was a rather unappetising green colour. The shipwrecked tanker a few hundred yards off shore – it has been there for seven years – hardly added to the scene. It was marginally better sight than Millsy on the beach in black slip-on shoes.

In the afternoon it was much the same, although Rick set out to find the perfect OC cocktail and after some studious research – which mainly involved concocting some foul brownish liquids others had to drink - he discovered “The OC” which was immediately added to the menu at a very reasonable RS275 (£3.30). All were forced to consume and some even claimed to enjoy it.

What was of interest was the different approaches to sunbathing. Tristian opted for the Hawaiian Tropic oil but somehow while he didn’t burn his head did; Gatesy went a remarkable red colour, smothered himself in factor 80 and then headed back into the sun; most others opted for discretion, although Copleston, as expected, tried to soak up more sunshine than Nick Read in a June heatwave..

Fines, hosted by Mike Chase and Nathan Ross, were possibly the most evil so far as they went into town and returned with a local beverage/paintstripper made from cashew nuts and which hovered around the 43% proof mark.

In the evening we went for the BBQ while Millsy tried to overcome his misdemeanours of the previous 24 hours by dancing alone on the stage in front of 200 bemused and distinctly unimpressed diners.

Dick of the Day Jole Johnson. A harsh call based on her luggage blunder of the previous day …

Coming off the rails

The second match, against Ablem Breweries ended in a seven-wicket defeat after what was generally agreed to have been one of the worst performances by the club in many years. The only highlight was the first century on tour, Alan Cope following his 76 in the first match with an unbeaten 110.

On a searingly hot day we batted first after confusion between the tour organiser and captain led to the abandonment of the toss and some heated words. Mike Chase, who was presented with a cap to mark his 100th appearance shortly before he went out to open, was soon back in the shed after being trapped plumb lbw – he didn’t query Pete Hobbs’ decision but was unimpressed that Hobbs gave the finger with a big grin. Tristan Rosenfeldt mixed crisp driving with much playing and missing before, exhausted, he was stumped for 32. At the other end Eds Copleston, in his first innings since the Brewers Cup final, looked like someone who had got to be at 6am .. which he had.

Cope’s arrival came in the 14th over with the score on 49, and he immediately overtook Copleston and upped the tempo with some textbook drives and deft sweeps – both conventional and reverse. With Copleston happy to give the strike to his more adventurous partner, the pair added 80 in 14 overs, both surviving drops in the deep before Copleston chanced his arm once too often to be caught at deep midwicket.

Cope then really cut loose, although even as the fittest man in the side he started to look tired in the closing overs and Sam Langmead struggled to give him as much of the strike as we needed. As a result, the last five overs were not as productive as they might have been.

We got off to a good start, Watkinson bowling Viswant, who had been dropped at cover by Langmead in the first over, with his first ball. With Ed Henderson in good form at the other end, we slowly exercised a stranglehold, even though the left-hander Viabhag was ruthless on anything wayward. Martin Williamson made the second breakthrough, trapping Sunil leg-before sweeping a straight one, to leave the hosts on 51 for 2 in the 13th over. At that point we were in a good position, but then it all went wrong.

Tom Hufton bowled well, but it was our lack of a fifth bowler than really told. Langmead went for 24 off two overs, Damian Hill 34 off four, and Copleston 22 off 10 balls. Surprisingly, it was Copleston who got the third wicket when, after three full tosses, he bowled one that pitched and Sarvesh missed an attempted sweep. But Advaet joined Viabhag and they began to pick of runs with ease, aided by some dreadful ground fielding, mindless throwing and too many extras. The last chance came and went with the score on 164 for 3 when Advaet was bowled by Henderson only for Mike Payne to call no-ball. Heads dropped and by the end we were a shambles.

A dispirited group returned to the hotel, but once fines had laid low several and amused the rest, it was out for a meal and clubbing. The less said about that the better, suffice to say we left with 20 and returned with 22.

The longest day

The day from hell started at 5am as the rain continued to lash down on Chandigarh as it had done for the previous day and a half. The 5.30am start was somewhat compromised by the antics of Damon Hill, who had barely got to bed before he was rudely awakened. He fled into the shower and refused to come out. When the lights were turned off in a bid to extricate him, there was silence and then a plaintiff wail: “Oh my God, I’ve gone blind.” He was subsequently dressed, threatened and dragged onto the bus.

The station was wet and chaotic, and the we only just managed to load all the bags on board before the train pulled out. The journey itself was subdued but we were in a class higher than on the outward trip, and so we had a little more luxury. Few of us were sorry to see the back of the city and none expressed any desire for a speedy return.

Delhi station was much as we left it, and allowed Rick to endulge in his favourite pastime of haggling prices with the porters. After 10 minutes he drove them down from 10p a bag to 8p. It was a bargain as we had to walk for quite some way past a mass of people, bags, animals and rubbish. Pete Hobbs tried to befriend a rather soul looking cow and ended almost being gored for his pains.

At the airport we found that we were massively overweight and paid a hefty baggage excess, although Henry charmed the check-in lady into a reduction. Rick’s mother, who had joined us an hour earlier, showed that there is something to be said for heredity by finding on arrival at the terminal that she had left her bag at the hotel.

The flight was uneventful, although Eds Copleston was conned into believing that one engine had failed while Ed Henderson did his best to clear the cabin with some remarkable gaseous explosions. The captain also had some in-flight banter which was actually worse than Rick’s.

We finally arrived at the luxurious hotel at about 7.30pm, 14 hours after we had set off. The rest of the evening was subdued, to say the least.

Dick of the Day Damian Hill. This was done and dusted before sunrise thanks to his remarkable early-morning antics. He professed to remember little of what happened, which is just as well as he could not recall being repeatedly slapped by Henderson and Martin Williamson.