Belly dancers, champagne and a spurned godfather

Tristan Rosenfeldt, the self-proclaimed captain elect, reports on the first reunion of the India Tour. For full photo coverage, click here

Imodium-clad and blazer-wearing India tourists congregated at Tom and Osha’s house for the first reunion on Saturday. A large majority of the tour party came along and were greeted by a bright and beautiful English spring evening. Nibbles and drinks got the night off to a perfect start, Millie briefly joining us and promptly asking for ‘Eddie’ while Henry’s jaw dropped in the background.

The hosts then pulled a masterstroke by introducing miniature tomato soups for the group, memories of our friend on the Chandigarh train came flooding back. Fines duly followed and were fairly tame in all honesty, although Gatesy fully deserved his fine for calling Anna ‘Osha’ and Eds started to rack up a huge amount due to his lack of alcohol consumption the day prior to the marathon, ‘we want cramp’ being chanted by the many that witnessed Eds’ collapse in Mumbai (Tour ‘Legends’ – remember that? Oh no, of course not!) .

The real entertainment then began – Jole Johnson-lookalike bringing a bit of India to London, with a course in belly dancing. Particularly keen on learning the moves were Mark Cope, Waffer and of course in a female presence, man of the tour, Mike Payne. England’s thrilling climax to their game against the West Indies was watched, (Rumours that Nathan Ross was taking notes on how to finish a game properly are yet to be confirmed) while Tom went all Jamie Oliver on us and cooked some of the best steaks in South West London.

The tour party moved on to the Opal club, a 20 second walk or a £4 taxi journey if you take the skipper’s directions. The blazers were out in full force, as well as Gatesy’s credit card, it was like a night out with George Best 40 years ago, champagne was flowing (Anna in particular loving the ‘Bling Bling/Puff Daddy’ style of ‘why use a glass when you can drink out the bottle’), behaviour was suitably obnoxious and Henry eyeing up every female, regardless of age or beauty in the club. The party went on late into the night, most crawling out the club around the 4am mark, Rick Johnson stumbling around Gloucester Road hunting for kebab. In Damien’s case, the party went on until 8pm on the Sunday, plonking himself on Tom and Osha’s sofa like the India bug Martin’s stomach just can’t quite get rid of.

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.

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.