Thousands and thousands and thousands of miles away from Mehdipatnam, England is stirring. Friends will hopefully be still asleep, in blissful ignorance before the hangover hits, curled up, perhaps alone, perhaps not, with their intoxicated dreams at least for company.
Meanwhile a small procession of coaches will be hurtling along the A14 to Suffolk, full of quiet optimism and A****n victory re-runs. For the last decade I too would have been heading for Suffolk for IpswichTown away, but not this day.
The emotional significance of this fixture still confuses the fuck out of me. It means a bit more. Ipswich is a strange and shit old town that holds some old memories that despite their age seem to rear their head this day every year. Last season, whilst selling A Load Of Bull, I spent the customary hour before kick off constantly looking over my shoulder, left towards the Bobby Robson statue, right back towards the station, petrified of seeing F. yet strangely wanting to know how she was getting on. Mostly petrified. She didn’t come. We lost 3-0.
In about three hours a steady procession of royal blue smattered with old gold will start making its way from the station, past the Station Hotel, down Princes Street past the grey retail warehouses and rotting port and into Ipswich centre. The Drum and Monkey, behind Cobbald Street and the away end will be full of gold and black and lager and songs and maybe trouble. F.’s father will probably be gulping a lager in The Manningtree Arms next to the town hall, telling the same stories of Wolves’ games gone by and radical Ipswich triumphs. She will too probably be there, bizarre as ever, probably wanting the win a little bit more for similar reasons to my own.
On a practical level we nearly always lose. It is the away ground I have been to the most; since 1995 and a Don Goodman winner there has only been one other win witnessed, the glorious 4-2 George Ndah inspired victory in 2003.
In many ways I am glad to be four and a half hours in the future. Ipswich and F. are a life gone by, a strange era re-awakened only for one random selected day a year. This day. And I will be completely oblivious, probably roaming around Hyderabad in a rickety auto or flying through traffic and pollution on the back of a bike. I will find out the result by text late at night, when I have the guts to switch my Indian sim card with my UK one. And then closure for another year.
It’s been three weeks away. “1650 new migrants invade UK every day” screams the Daily Express I am told. Invade?!
Do I miss Britain?
I miss the good people. Victories away from home. Last minute winners. Cider. A girl or two. (Inexplicably). Sylvain Ebanks-Blake. A good Pav Tav night. Drumming. 19:55 at Fidds.
But fuck Britain. Fuck patriotism if the above is what it stands for. Everyone here seems to be very proud of their country. For me, no. Maybe the aforementioned hypocrisy of this writer is borne in the utter hypocritical state that is home. Doublethink Orwell called it.
And what of India this week? After the initial white noise of pure crazy it has settled down to a random correlation of highs and lows, almost echoing the huge divide between rich and poor here. Each day provides something different, however much my sub-conscious pretends there is routine. Yesterday we were delayed getting home from work by half an hour because our bus couldn’t find a way around two camels. I am still unable to translate Indian time-keeping into logic, with such feelings of frustration being constantly contradicted by the complete and overwhelming generosity of most Hyderabadis I have met. I have been drinking maybe too much rum. I have definitely told too much people about this blog (one).
Yesterday I went on a little journey on my own. These are my favourite journeys, where you’re lost in your own subconscious as the world flashes past, with no interruptions from friends or acquaintances, no pre-requisites of conversation or small talk. Free.
I hopped whimsically onto the 65M bus to Charminar from my new ‘hood Mehdipatnam in the late afternoon. We travelled along the treacherously bumpy roads in the heart of the city, potholes often lifting us occupants a foot in the air. As these buses run along their merry way people jump on and off without a care, or stop. The ticket attendant and I had a lovely conversation which pretty much echoes many lovely conversations I have with locals here: “Hallo, May I know your name sir, do you like Hyderabad, May I know your age, You are not married?” et cet era. Then lots of people got on around Abid’s Circle and he had to go ticket people so I floated off into the deep clouds and crammed roads again.
At some point we crossed the River Musi which divides the old city and the new, ish. It’s not much of a river. The palm trees are nice. FANTOOSH greeted me on a huge billboard on the opposite bank. I think it’s a clothes retailer but I know if I still had my little book of potential band names it would shoot to No. 1.
After ten minutes of more tight streets and bazaars and autos and bikes and slightly different architecture and many more mosques my ticket attendant friend taps me on the shoulder and points: “Charminar!” He was pointing through the back window and the great mosque, which I had somehow failed to see, was getting further and further away. “You get off now!” The bus was still moving quite fast but another guy just dropped off nonchalantly to the street below so I decided to be cool and Indian and follow him off the moving bus. Suffice to say I ended up on the concrete grazed up on my rectum like the uncool British person that I am. This seriously jeopardized my theory that if one jumped off an aeroplane just before it crashed into the sea then that someone would safely splash in without a worry. Fuck. (I think too much in planes).
A time to be thankful to be alone, bar the hundreds of onlookers. As I stumbled to my feet it was worth it, for the Charminar lay ahead, illuminated by lighting against the now blackened sky.
We beat Sheffield Wednesday 4-1 (h). Iwelumo was shit at Brighton. WTF.
Blogging. If for no real purpose, surely a painful self tribute, a self-appreciative elitist personal bum-fuck. Yet here I sit, at the bottom of some full hypocrytical spiral, blogging as if this means something. There is no real purpose. A diary? No, I can write. A journal of my travels? Perhaps as a pretext. Does this sound pretentious?
Definitely.
Hopefully no-one has to read this ever. Though the above and its existence proves the continuing utter hypocrisy of this writer and as such I will surely have told SOMEONE within the week (day?). Sorry, someone.
Medipatnam awaits. It is 21:52 here. They never come.
