Oh Hi, Mumbai Again LOL!!!

[Lex Diamonds]

I wrote a note/blog thing on Facebook for all the people asking me how it is. It turned out pretty fucking long but here it is if anyone wants to read:

Hello! I decided to write one of these note things, partly because I've seen people do them before and they can be interesting, partly because I can go back and read them one day, but mostly because people keep asking me how it's going and I can't be arsed to keep telling the same stories over and over. I've realised as I'm writing it that it's pretty damn long (you don't have to read it anyway, piss off) but I'm literally just putting down everything I remember.



Let's start in England shall we? When we left the house for Heathrow, my mum was going mental because she thought we were going to miss the plane. My flight was at 9.45pm, we left the house around 7. I'm no mathematician, but knowing that you can check in up to half an hour before the flight, and we live about 40 minutes from the airport, I had a feeling the mentalness was a little bit unnecessary. Nevertheless, plenty of beeping at traffic lights and swearing at junctions ensued until we made it to the airport, thankfully about 2 hours before my flight.. phew close call!



After this nice relaxing journey to the airport, I was more than ready to put my feet up and watch the United game, which was just starting as I checked in. For some reason my baggage was over the weight limit (I don't get it, it's just some clothes really) and we had to pay a small fee (because if the plane goes down somewhere in the Middle East because of too much weight, £30 is going to make all the difference). Anyway I went to security and we said our emotional goodbyes, which weren't too emotional as my mum's coming out for the weekend next week, and I went through into the departure bit.



I don't know if anyone's been to Terminal 5, but it's the new one that everyone was campaigning against being built, lying down in front of bulldozers and handcuffing themselves to stuff etc. I always thought that was a bit extreme but now I can see why; it's rubbish. They've got like 3 WHSmiths, the typical depressing duty free shops where you choke on perfume just from walking past and some really boring looking coffee shops. That's literally it. Not a single pub with a TV screen in sight. What the fuck?! So I spent the exact duration of Man United's crucial second Champion's League game sitting in front of a departure board reading Zoo and drinking a bottle of Irn-Bru. Great. Thanks British Airways.



When they finally told us the gate I went and got on the plane with minimal fuss and took my window seat near the back, which I had checked in online 24 hours earlier and chosen so that I could have the most amazing views of take-off and landing. A sweet old American couple sat next to me, the man reminded me of George Lucas but fatter, and I haven't seen George Lucas for a while so maybe it was him. They seemed quite rich. Anyway they were quite friendly and when I ordered my first Bloody Mary the lady said it was a good idea and joined in. So far so good.



So we got off the ground, which was much less exciting than I thought it would be seeing as I haven't flown for nearly 3 years (oh look there's London, but a bit smaller and from above), and deciding not to carry on looking at the blokey banter and busty babes of Zoo next to the kindly old American woman I turned to the In-Flight entertainment to occupy me for the next 8 hours. There were some decent things on, so I thought I'd watch Cemetery Junction (Ricky Gervais' film about Reading in the 70s, it's quite good in his usual bleak depressing way) and went to put it on with my personal handset in the arm of the chair. Well that didn't work, the buttons were all smashed off and I couldn't change the channel. Instead I had to watch Friends without the sound, which although is very nice and comforting to look at wasn't really going to cut it for 8 hours. So I had to get a stewardess, who after about 10 minutes of fannying about up and down the aisle moved me to another seat in the middle row with no one either side.



Nice to have a bit of space yes, plus now there was no one to judge me with my lads' mags and constant abuse of BA's complementary drinks policy (except the people serving me the drinks who I'm convinced by the end of the flight were betting on what I was going to order next- at one point I ordered a Heineken after a few Bloody Mary's and the stewardess serving me tutted all disappointed, while the steward at the end of the aisle jumped with glee like a young schoolgirl). But this movement from the window plus cruel separation from my new American chums meant that this was it: I was in it for the long haul, on my own, with no pretty views. To top it all off, the idiot in front of me put their seat all the way back as far as it could go so I was sitting with their head about 3 inches from my face. So obviously I had no choice but to put my seat all the way back just to be able to see my so-called "entertainment" screen. I always wonder about the whole reclining seat thing, it's like dominos. If someone at the front puts their seat all the way back, surely everyone else behind them has to do it as well, or else end up smelling their hair like some weird stalker? I think this is a breach of human rights as not everyone wants to lie all the way back and it makes it a lot harder to drink without getting tomato juice on your t-shirt when you hit a bit of turbulence (which by the way happened over Iraq and I got all paranoid).



So anyway after a few more minor problems with the shitty entertainment (they showed Cemetery Junction twice in a row before they put Kick-Ass on... erm why?) we touched down in Mumbai and suddenly everybody on the plane was Indian and rushing about grabbing things from overhead storage and shouting on their mobile phones. "I'm sure it wasn't like this at Heathrow", I thought as I helped an elderly lady down with her sparkly gold wheely-bag. Getting into the airport I realised that no-one in the airport really speaks English. Sure they might know a few key words and phrases but when you're getting off a plane there for the first time to live in the country for a year, don't think anyone's going to make it easy for you.



I managed to find the bit where drivers wait for people and spotted my guy, who had a piece of paper with "Paddy" scrawled on it. I asked him if he was going to take me to Bandra Residency (my hotel) and he just smiled and took one of my bags. Fair enough then. As we started walking to the car, some other guy grabbed the handle of my other bag and I was a bit like "woah, what the fuck" and didn't let go. But he just smiled at me and the driver looked at him and didn't seem arsed so I realised he was just helping me carry the bag. We got to the car and I gave him a bit of money, which I understand is what people do here. Imagine in England if someone was walking through London Waterloo to catch a train and you grabbed their bag, smiling manically and ran ahead to their platform with it? I don't think they'd give you a fiver that's for sure.



I thought that my drive to the airport in London was mental- ah how naive I was. I know it's a bit of a cliché but people in India really do drive like nutcases. Forget lanes, traffic lights, and indicators- who needs them when you've got a nice loud horn and about 8 people in the car, whose combined age is probably still less than the vehicle? None of the cars have wing mirrors and everyone just toots their horn when it looks like someone might crash into them, so I think they just go entirely off sound instead of sight?? God knows but it was like something out of Takeshi's castle, I will be very surprised if I don't see a crash by the end of the week.



So anyway, I got to the hotel, gave the driver some money (a fair bit more than the bag man as he actually did something I wanted him to) and went into the hotel, which was just like a little opening in the side of a building on a really busy dusty little street packed with people. A security guard opened the door for me and I went in, where thankfully I was greeted by the receptionist man with "Paddy yes?" which was a relief. Would have been a bit rubbish if no one had any idea I was coming to India and I just had to go back home. So they showed me up to my room (another tip for the bag man) which is actually pretty decent. Two beds pushed together, a TV (with about 98 channels, around 5 of them in English) and a reasonable little bathroom with a shower. The most crucial thing is the air-conditioning which, I have just woken up to discover, leaks a lot of water. Luckily it's on the other side of the room to where my laptop was plugged in and left, otherwise I would have been pretty livid.



So anyway I got here at like 3pm and I was knackered after not sleeping on the plane, I also didn't feel confident enough to go out on my own because a) No one seems to understand much English, and I'm not exactly fluent in Hindi and b) When I went to the doctors for my jabs they told me that there's 6 million ways to die on the streets of Mumbai and that you shouldn't go anywhere without being covered in repellants, wrapped in nets and accompanied by health experts. Every time I get an itch I get extreme disease paranoia, thanks a lot Berrylands doctors.



Well I set my laptop up, got into bed and found a bit of wireless which was a pleasant surprise. I had a little look on the internet (BBC News top story was about tensions rising in North India and concerns around violence breaking out- hooray!) and just had a bit of a snooze. I say a bit of a snooze, I slept for 15 hours, waking up every hour on the hour going "Fuck! Where am I?!" then realising the time and going back to sleep. So now it's about 5am and I've sacked off trying to sleep anymore. I'm getting picked up for work at 9am where hopefully I will meet some people to show me round, feed me, give me beer etc. Then after work I'm meeting the landlady "Mrs. Jenny", whose accomodation I will be living in and hopefully I can arrange to move into tomorrow or something.



So wish me luck and if anyone's actually bothered to read this then I'll write another one in a few days if/when I can be bothered (probably depending on how much beer/fun I'm having). Hope you're all looking after England for me, I know it's not the same but I'll be back soon.



Peace & Love
If you read it, then cheers. If you're Cmute, then suck my balls!

[kaiser soze]

I guess you'll have to stop talking in ebonics to improve your chances of being understood

-5 gangsta points

[TAL]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q6r1GrApjiM

[Lex Diamonds]

Here's part 2, if anyone's actually reading it:

As fans of my previous work will know, I started my 2nd day in India trapped in a flooding room, starving to death and filled with dread at the many dangers of my surroundings which were closing in on me like so many airline seats. Could I possibly get out of this one alive? Was I cut out for the cut-throat Mumbai lifestyle? And what should I wear for my first day at work?



I got a call from Ayush (the bloke I had been e-mailing from the office and is my sort of boss while I'm here) at around half 8 confirming that there were people on the way to pick me up. Despite the fact I'd been awake since 5, I was still just lying on my bed in the dark writing stupid notes on Facebook and trying to find out where's best to watch the footy in Mumbai- according to the internet the only place that ever shows football is the Hilton hotel, which is miles away on the other side of town and incredibly overpriced. Nice one Indian Google, very helpful stuff.



So anyway I got my clean on, got my teethbrushing on, and got my clothes on. I say I got my clothes on, I actually got a phone call from reception at about 10 to 9 saying that my people were here when I was just in my pants and socks, so brilliant timing there. I got into my new M&S chinos (not just any chinos), got a shirt on and stuck a load of weird random stuff in my laptop bag (for some reason I packed a spare pair of glasses- who does that?!). When I opened my hotel room door to leave I noticed a newspaper had been left outside it on the floor- "Trying to lure me out with bait, eh?" I thought to myself as I looked suspiciously up and down the corridoor and picked it up. So now there I was walking around with a laptop bag, shiny brand new chinos and a newspaper under my arm- what a tit. I'd taken my Ray Bans with me but decided that wearing them would push my douche rating up into the thousands, so in my pocket they remained.



When I got into reception two guys stood up to meet me and shook my hand. Again, neither of them spoke English properly and I was beginning to think I would never speak again. It crossed my mind that the 3 months or however long it would be before I returned to visit England would be more than enough time to lose the power of speech and I decided if things carried on I would have to spend my nights practising talking to myself. We made our way out onto the hot, bustling streets and they asked me if I wanted to take a train or cab to work. With one of the last things my mum told me before I got on the plane ringing in my ears ("be careful, 8 people a day die on the trains in Mumbai"- cheers ma) I opted for the Takeshi's Castle-style taxi option. There was a pretty good chance we'd crash but it would most probably be into someone on a motorbike at 10 miles per hour, so I was willing to chance it.



After a good ten minutes of walking up and down the road, getting sweatier and sweatier and feeling more and more like a tourist twat with my stupid trousers and newspaper we found someone who was willing to take us. But first he had to unload the huge stack of sugar cane from the roof of his cab that he had been carrying for his last passenger- as you do. One of the guys I was with explained to me that it was sugar cane and I nodded and told him I had seen it when I was in Namibia. I think he liked that, he started talking to his mate loads and I heard the word "Namibia" about 20 times. At last, I was making friends!



The taxi ride to the office was a bit of an eye opener. We went through some real slums where people were sitting around making bead necklaces surrounded by naked children (so a bit like the Vatican then) and saw some pretty cool views of the train tracks and the sea. There's this really long wall by the water which is divided into panels where people have graffiti'd on them with messages of peace and love and stuff. One of the best ones said "The world's too small for walls". Very nice, I thought, but pretty impractical. All your stuff would get stolen or rained on. Eventually we got to the office and I was shown into a building and led up the stairs, which had pictures of religious leaders like Mother Teresa and Gandhi all over the walls (a bit much for an office building I thought, but cool nonetheless).



Once I got into the office it was all smiles. A few different people greeted me and they all knew my name, which was a bit weird but nice. It made me feel a bit like a celebrity, but not a good one like an actor or musician, more like one who's famous for being held hostage or surviving a natural disaster. They led me to the boss' office at the back of the room and a big, friendly round-faced Indian man (exactly as I imagined Ayush) sat me down at the desk and closed the door. "Welcome Paddy, Ayush is out at the moment" he said, simultaneously confusing me and destroying my faith in my psychic abilities. Turns out he was another guy who's head of marketing or something similar, and basically he asked me to wait in the office until Ayush arrived from whatever it was he was doing. Cue more Facebook and a game on my laptop I'd never seen before called "Granny In Paradise"- it's pretty good when you need to kill a bit of time in a frightening new South Asian office environment, very relaxing. So check it out if you're ever in that situation.



When Ayush arrived he was small, skinny and Nepalese. So not at all how I imagined him, then. He asked me about my time in the country so far and I told him I had been too scared to eat or do anything. He laughed, thinking it was a joke. I pretended to laugh along too, hahaha, what a funny man I am. Nevertheless he took pity on me and got me some takeaway menus. Playing it safe, I got a Subway delivery (genius idea) and he took me into the conference room thing to give me a presentation about what the company does etc. I learnt some pretty interesting stuff about how they operate and I was getting along pretty well with Ayush. He's only been in Mumbai for just over 9 months and tells me he's only just starting to like it, which is brilliant news considering I'm leaving after exactly 9 months. He also tells me he's into music and we have a little talk about that, which is nice because even though I'm too lazy to play any instruments I'm quite good at listening to it.



About halfway through his presentation, my Subway arrives and I pay for it and the guy leaves it on the table in front of me. Not wanting to be rude, I push it to the side and carry on listening to Ayush, nodding and saying "mmm" and "yeah, yeah sure" and looking thoughtful. It's not that I wasn't interested, but with all the good intentions in the world it's pretty hard to concentrate on a talk about business strategy after more than 24 hours not eating with a footlong Italian B.M.T directly in front of your face. Eventually he clocked on and told me to eat, which was sound of him, but then I just felt really awkward and rude trying to munch down my massive sandwich while he's talking about underpriveleged children with no food and water. I wanted to leave a bit of it because I ate pretty quick and the mayonnaise was a bit weird, but felt kinda bad about the whole poverty thing so I forced it all down. That was a bit stupid of me because after that I was sittting there not only looking greedy but feeling like I was about to vom at any moment. Luckily I didn't.



Once we had finished all the talks and slideshows, Ayush told me that there was a Scottish lad who was also looking for a place to live and had just arrived 2 weeks ago. His name's Rajan and he is currently staying with some relatives just outside the city. Obviously not being sure about living with someone I've never met I said it would be cool to meet him and see what was agwarn. Ayush called him and he arranged to come straight in, so I waited at the office fighting the urge to be sick from the mayonnaise and wishing I had just ordered some curry. Rajan arrived half an hour later and seemed pretty down to earth and cool (unusual for a Scottish person), so we went off together to get a drink and maybe check out some flats. As we made our way onto the street we saw our first crash, just a minor bump but literally within 24 hours of my arrival in the country- excellent. We went to my hotel and I got changed, it was at this point that I realised every piece of clothing I owned and had brought with me was going to make me stick out like a sore bellend. I put on my most plain, brown clothes and we headed out.



Me and Rajan had a good little look around the surrounding neighbourhoods, getting rickshaws to bars which were in the Mumbai guide I had or that we had heard about from other places. When I had my first beer he had a soft drink, which was worrying (could he be one of those weird non-drinker types?), but I decided not to hold it against him as he was 17, from a reasonably good upbringing and it was only about 3pm at that point. I have to say his age came as a surprise to me as he seemed a lot more confident/generally good at life than I am. Oh well, there's still plenty of time to corrupt him.



Rajan told me about a place his great uncle owned up in Santa Cruz (a suburb which is a bit quiet out of town to the north), so we went to take a look at it. The neighbours whose number he had to let us in weren't answering their phone, so we had to find our way to this block of flats which reminded me a bit of a South London estate. There were dogs lying about outside and a kid on a bike asked us who we were looking for as we walked towards the stairs. Anyway we found the neighbours, who were three generations of women (about 30, 50 and 70) who were basically different sized versions of each other like Russian dolls and they let us into the flat. It was in pretty poor condition, with dust so thick the doors barely opened. Apparently it hadn't been lived in for 10 years and the old lady kept screaming at us that it had "many, many problems", which was a bit like something out of a horror film. Anyway, I wasn't keen, but Rajan seemed pretty sure that it could be fixed up and made liveable (bloody Scots) so we had a look around it for a while.



Making our way back down south to meet Mrs Jenny, my original contact for a flat, we had what seemed like the 10th rickshaw ride of the day. I like them, you can pretty much put your feet up and they're dirt cheap. They do all drive like maniacs though which I suppose is more of an issue when you don't have walls or a proper back to protect you from a crash, but I'm beginning to learn that people here like living life on the edge. It's so overpopulated already that if people didn't injure themselves or die in stupid accidents you probably wouldn't be able to move at all. Maybe they should get get rid of speed limits and traffic lights in London? Anyway we looked at the rooms Mrs Jenny had to offer and they were both paying guest accommodation of just 1 room in a family's house, which was all well and good but I'm a free spirit- I can't be held down by the family unit, I need to spread my wings and get myself out there in the big wide world, live the life! Besides they seemed a bit overpriced for what they were and me and Rajan had already decided to look for somewhere together.



Afterwards we ended up near the seafront, so we took a stroll down onto it and had a look around. Darkness had fallen while we were inside the last flat (it literally happens in a second, like turning off a lamp) so the beachfront looked pretty cool with all the lights and stuff. It definitely had a more touristy feel to it than the bits we had been earlier and the part I was staying, which just seemed to be full of people rushing about buying and selling things to each other. It was here that I got my first taste of street food, I had a dosa which is like a tortilla wrap served cut into four segments with a little dippy thing. It's pretty cool how they make it, they put all the veg and spices on the wrap on a hotplate in front of you and spread it and mix it up so it changes colour. The one I had ended up bright red and it was delicious, not too spicy but it let you know it was there, let's put it that way. Have to say I'm not looking forward to seeing it again, anyway.



So then we decided to go and look at some of the trendy bars around Bandra, which is where I'm staying. The first one we tried, the "Hawaiian Shack" is mentioned in my guidebook and Rajan's brother said it was cool when he visited, so we were pretty up for it. We got to the door and they stopped us, I thought they were just going to ask for ID but they pointed to a sign: 1,000 Rupees entry for men, it said. That's about £15 and is really quite a lot of money here. Ridiculous. Luckily though, they have some deals on for if I ever want to go back: Boy-Girl Couples get in for 1,000 Rs, and on top of that women get in free! Oh, wait, I see what's going on here. After this blatant display of gender discrimination we decided to check out somewhere a bit more chilled. Toto's Garage was round the corner and sounded awesome in the guidebook. We got there and it looked pretty cool, loads of trendy people outside smoking and drinking and the music sounded decent. We went in and the interior was pretty nice, it was well air conditioned and smelt of Corona-limes, and it looked like a proper American style bar with loads of car memorabilia about and the staff all in mechanics overalls. "Alright, this is my kind of place" I thought, as the manager marched over towards us and asked for 'Ageproof'. I showed him my passport and fed him the old line about Rajan being "the same year as me" and "why would I hang around with someone younger?" (lol) but no, it didn't work.



I was a bit gutted, but decided I would definitely go back there sometime and we left to go to a bar round the corner that we'd been in earlier. The atmosphere was completely different to it had been in the afternoon and it was actually really cool and full of people. We ordered two Kingfishers and the barman asked me if I wanted "mild or strong". What a stupid question, I laughed to myself, and ordered strong. So the drinks came, and they were 750ml bottles of 8% beer. "Looks like we're getting drunk then" I said, and so we did. I then proceeded to tell my life story, which I think was a bit much for the poor kid and I really wish I had been a bit less honest about my drinking and smoking habits. Nevertheless we had quite a laugh and by the time we left to head back to my hotel/the train station I was feeling pretty comfortable with the streets (not in a Snoop Dogg way, more in a Michael Palin way... well, probably somewhere in between actually). We walked back, and I actually knew the way and everything, seeing loads of people sleeping on the streets and one person smoking heroin off a bit of foil, which is always nice.



I took Rajan to the train station then walked back to the hotel on my own, actually feeling like I could live here and like I wasn't intimidated by the place anymore. I got to my room and ordered myself a beer and had a little read of the guide book planning what escapades I'd go on the next day, filled with excitement and confidence for my Indian adventure. When I woke up this morning I realised that was all just the beer, as all I've done is order some Chinese to my room and spend some more time on Facebook. Still, one day at a time eh?



Hopefully later I'm meeting Rajan to actually find somewhere showing the football... fingers crossed for that one, and I'll report back soon with a full match report.



Stay classy, San Diego.

[ericlee]

Keep going with the updates. Your taxi rides femind me of my china taxi rides.

[Lex Diamonds]

Part 3:
As you may remember, I started off Saturday sitting in bed, and carried on that way for the rest of the day. The hotel did pretty good Chinese food and as anyone who's eaten Chinese on a hangover knows, it's impossible not to have a little sleepy afterwards. So have a little sleepy I did, and woke up about 10 minutes before kick off on the United - Sunderland game (about 7.30pm in this weird twisted world). This obviously meant that I couldn't be arsed to go out, so it was back to the room service menu, this time for something a bit more local.

Apart from the dosa I hadn't really had any Indian food since getting here, so I was keen to give some a go. "Ooh I'd love a bhuna", I thought as I picked up the menu for a browse. Unfortunately, as I was about to find out, there's no such thing as a bhuna. In fact nearly all the dishes we call "Indian" food in England are completely made up and have never actually been heard of outside of Manchester or Birmingham. Balti, bhuna, jalfrezi, rogan josh, vindaloo and all the other LAD's classics were nowhere to be seen, and as far as I can tell no one here has ever made them. Instead about 90% of the menu is just under the heading "Veg" with the meaty stuff being labelled "Non-Veg". OK then, a bit of a weird way round to do it, but who am I to argue with the pros? If you do opt to go for the meat then you're looking at dishes called stuff like "Murg Kadai" (as far as I can tell 'murg' means chicken- I don't see what's wrong with the word chicken, murg just makes it sound like something you'd find up your nose) which I went for because I'm a real man and real men don't eat veggie food.

I think they tried to tell me that I wasn't meant to eat meat because it was Gandhi's birthday or some shit but I didn't understand, and besides birthdays have never quelled my unrelenting hunger for flesh in the past and they weren't about to start now, no matter how important the birthday boy. I should have listened, because I think Gandhi put a curse on that murg (yes Gandhi puts curses on things, he's a spiteful spiteful man). Either that or they were just having a cruel laugh at my expense, because where the menu clearly stated "boneless chicken pieces" nearly every mouthful I had included a little bone, just small enough to slip through the preliminary forking stage but big enough to crunch painfully in your teeth and create a potential choking hazard. The sauce and rice were actually really nice, so all things considered it was a bit like being given a delicious sandwich sprinkled with shards of glass. Anyway, instead of enjoying a delicious bhuna in front of a nice bit of footy, there I was furiously stabbing at some cursed mystery food in an attempt to uncover the hidden bones and stop myself from dying, whilst on the TV in front of me United are playing out the worst excuse for a game of football in their illustrious 132 year history. Who gets outplayed by Sunderland? Sort it out Fergie, please. The whole experience was the biggest boney letdown since I saw Keira Knightley topless in that film 'The Hole'.

After the most stressful dinner of all time, it was time to kick back and watch a bit of something on the laptop to ease my mind. Someone had posted a link to the latest "Idiot Abroad" episode on Facebook, which is right up my street so I checked it out. If you don't know, An Idiot Abroad is Ricky Gervais' latest TV show about his hilariously stupid mate Karl Pilkington where he basically sends him off round the world on cultural journeys to see amazing sights, which most would consider an incredible opportunity and he (being a moron) just considers a confusing waste of his time. Anyway this one was about India, and there was a load of stuff in there that I could totally relate to my own arrival in the country, as well as a lot that I was chuckling at going "ho ho, what a noob he is". He absolutely shits himself on the rickshaws, and his general approach to the state of rooms and stuff here is excellent. The whole show's brilliant- if you get a chance check it out, it's pretty damn funny.

Anyway that was enough for me for one day, so I called it a night. After another day spent completely indoors, I decided that Sunday would be a day of getting up early and doing things, making the most of my weekend and exploring the city some more. No chance! I woke up around 1, and ordered another meal of Chinese. This time instead of the Hong Kong chicken I had the day before (which was actually boneless, by the way- probably because China is out of Gandhi's jurisdiction) I went for the Sweet & Sour chicken. Basically the same thing you might think, but no. This Sweet & Sour chicken came in a green sauce. Is that normal, I don't know? Anyway, the guy who brought it up to my room was a very serious looking guy with a moustache who seemed like he was having the worst day of his life. "Must be a United fan" I thought, and tipped him 20 rupees (which is around 30p) when he brought back my change. I like tipping people, especially when you know they're worse off than you, and the massive smile and little head-touch salute he gave me made me feel like a real saint. Much better than that tool who made me let him carry my bag at the airport, I thought. Man that guy was an asshole.

After the customary post-chinese snooze, I was rudely awoken by the phone and a call from Rajan. Forgetting that I had arranged to watch the Chelsea - Arsenal game and waking up to find I had dribbled all over my pillow, I reluctantly answered the phone. Rajan seemed keen to meet up, and not wishing to spend another whole day without leaving my hotel room, I arranged to meet him. A quick shower and a Google search later, and we were on our way to one of the few places in the city I could find showing the footy: The Bombay Times Cafe. I have to say my hopes weren't exactly high at this point, but when we eventually found the building (a street map-seller pointed to some lights at the top of a high-rise) we got in the lift and headed up.

When we stepped out of the lift, I was immediately impressed. There was a huge projector as well as several ceiling-mounted screens around the room showing the match, and the room was full of people in Arsenal shirts and scarves with a few Chelsea fans lurking at the back in the shadows (right where they should be). It was a great atmosphere for a football match and you could tell these were real supporters, despite living hundreds of thousands of miles away from the teams they were watching. The shouts of "go on boys" from the Arsenal fans were so well pronounced they could have actually been North Londoners, and everybody there was sipping beers and properly absorbed in the game. I was really feeling it, so I went up to the bar straight away and asked what beers they had. The barman listed a few and I heard "Heineken" and ordered one of those. BIG mistake. It cost 335 rupees, which is about £5 English money. Despite the fact this is India and nearly everything else costs 50p, that price is extortionate for a bottle of Heineken no matter where in the world you're drinking it. Rajan ordered a Kingfisher for about 130 rupees and laughed at me for choosing an imported beer. Ah, I see what's happened here.

We watched the rest of the match and afterwards spent a bit of time on the terrace talking about, amongst other things, Rooney and Beckham's prossie problems. I made the point that even if they both did exactly the same thing, Becks is just too much of a legend to be taken down by a lowly call-girl. Beckham could probably barge into a convent off his face on crack and rape all of the nuns, and if he said he didn't do it the next day we'd all believe him. Rooney on the other hand is a scouse rascal with previous (we all remember Auld Slapper) so there's no way he's getting any sympathy there. Anyway, we finished our drinks and headed back in a rickshaw and I got a reasonably early night. I was hoping for a good day at work on the Monday as I'd been told I would be attending one of the training sessions with the kids and I could get to play a bit of football as well as see some of the positive side of what the company were doing. Also, I had to check out of the hotel and had arranged to move into one of the paying guest rooms Mrs Jenny had showed me- even if it was just a temporary thing it would be better than living off the same boney hotel food every day. I managed to get a bit of X Factor on the go (yes, I watch it now- blame Daniel Raine and his household) and nodded off.

The next morning I got up, ordered a cab and packed up my shit. I called down to reception around 9 and asked if they could order me a cab for half past. I didn't think this was too much of a big ask, but at first they said "OK it will be here in ten minutes". "No no no, Nine Thirty" I repeated, but they were having none of it. "OK, twenty minutes. It will be here Nine Twenty" they insisted, and not being arsed to argue anymore I admitted defeat and hopped in the shower. The cab ride took much longer than I remembered, but it was nice to take in all the sights again and I got another look at all the graffiti panels along the waterfront. Another one that caught my eye was "Drink OR Drive"- I get what they're going for but what if you just don't like drinking? What if you can't drive? Just seemed a bit forceful is all I'm saying. These graffiti artists mean well but appear to me to be a bit short sighted in their messages.

We got to the compound (a massive walled off area of the city full of old steel mills converted into street stalls and offices) and after trundling through packed lanes full of people with the driver beeping his horn like it was going out of style, I managed to get my massive suitcase and wheely bag up to the 2nd floor office. Once I got there, my day took a serious turn for the worse. Ayush was as nice as ever and wanted to put me into some induction talks with other volunteers, but the other boss man- the big friendly looking one- had other plans for me. They let me get settled and I ordered in some lunch- chicken tikka masala (finally, a food I've heard of- it was actually really nice) then they kept asking me to wait while they went off into the meeting room to decide what to do with me. I have to say I've felt more welcome. Eventually they came back out with the big guy smiling evilly, and I could tell he had something lovely in store for me. So, my first real day at work was spent entering names and e-mail addresses (from 2001) out of a book into an Excel spreadsheet. Not only pointless, as the book was 9 years old and I'm pretty sure most of the people in there have got different jobs/e-mail addresses by now, but soul-destroyingly boring. At first I found some amusement in the unusual Indian names (PC Pimple springs to mind- I wonder if he's a policeman?) but by the end of it I was ready to leave my suitcases and go and join the other beggars on the street. Surely anything is better than this? I know I'm not exactly Alan Sugar but surely there's something my small array of skills would be better suited to? Anyway they seemed a bit disappointed when I came back finished at 4.30 after entering around 600 names (only took about 3 hours) and told me to just wait around for an hour until it was time to meet Mrs Jenny.

When the time came, Ayush got a guy from the office to help me downstairs with my bags and find the cab. A lot of waiting around and hand gestures later, we called Ayush to find out where my taxi was. We found him on the other side of the compound, quite professional looking with a reasonable car (a Hyundai, which compared to all the other 60's relics is like an Audi A5 over here) and following a good 10 minutes of phone passing, Ayush told him to take me to meet Mrs Jenny. The taxi man took a different route, I'm guessing to avoid his car getting smashed up and we went over a huge toll bridge across the ocean with some pretty cool views so I couldn't complain. He then started driving me through a really swanky part of the city which I'd never seen before and clearly wasn't where I'd arranged the meeting. Eventually I gestured to him with the classic 'phone' hand gesture, to which he replied "Yes, smoking is fine!". I tried again, this time pretending to talk ("blah blah blah") and he gave me his phone so I could put him on to Mrs Jenny. He turned back around the way we had come, and eventually we found her and were on our way to my new home.

When we got here, I was pretty tired and just wanted to introduce myself and get some sleep. If only I knew. We got into the apartment and the owner greeted us by asking for the money. I explained I could only withdraw a certain amount a day, which he didn't seem happy about but I gave him what I could and Mrs Jenny fled into the night, probably to set another poor unsuspecting foreigner up with a maniac landlord. I may be being a bit extreme, but check this: he's an ex-BP ship worker, a shorter fatter more Indian version of Jean Reno who is a Catholic with a huge whisky habit and a hatred of women. Both his wife and maid seem to hide from him the entire time as he makes constant demands for things like ashtrays and clean glasses. He doesn't even smoke and hasn't for 38 years but was absolutely adamant that I would.

I insisted I needed an early night but once he had established I was a drinker he invited me into his room and had given me three (750ml) bottles of Kingfisher before I could even try and politely decline. He then opened a bottle of whisky (I say opened, he struggled with it for about 2 minutes before I took it from him and easily twisted the cap off) and insisted that I take some. At first I said no, I was fine with the beer but once it had ran out and he was on a passionate tirade about his hatred for women and the English (he thinks I'm Irish because of my name) I said I would have a tiny bit: he gave me about 4 shots' worth. He told me how everyone was "bloody cunts" including all females, all British people and the company I am working for, while I politely smoked my cigarettes and drank my drinks. I managed to hold the conversation with the usual well-timed nodding and laughter that one employs in the company of a manic drunk, every now and then suggesting that I needed food and/or sleep and hoping he would let me go. Eventually he shouted the maid into heating me up some food which she took into my room for me, and I drained my glass and headed into the bedroom.

The room is actually pretty nice, it has a TV and a fridge as well as good air conditioning and a little sofa thing. There's also a pretty nice bathroom just outside my door which is just mine to use. I also have a door directly from my bedroom out of the flat- it's a pretty sweet set-up apart from the nutcase landlord. I think I could get along with him but it was all a bit much for our first meeting, the whole fierce alcoholic act is always pretty heavy going, especially for a first impression type conversation. Cecil (for that is his name) insists that I must get the deposit and first month's rent off the company I'm working for tomorrow, and no matter how much I told him I'm doing voluntary work for a non-profit charity he just replied wisely with "Ah Paddy, I know these people, you don't. They are money-grabbing bastards but they must give you what you deserve". OK then...

This is going to be interesting. Anyway it's time for me to finally get some well-earned sleep and hope that all the forced drinking doesn't give me a hangover. Wish me luck people.

Jah Bless

[jabumbo]

we not good enough for the real blogger link?

[Kid Presentable]

(y)

[Documad]

What if he's been abducted and someone else is posting these? I suspect an older woman. It doesn't read like a young guy's blog to me.

But if it is you Padster, I think it's a really terrific that you went aboard for a while and I hope it ends up being a life-changing experience.

[Lex Diamonds]

we not good enough for the real blogger link?
It's on my Facebook, so no you're not.

And yeah old women always talk about Keira Knightley's tits and the price of beer, invaluable input as ever Documad.

[Lex Diamonds]

There's more. I think they're getting longer, I might stop writing them soon though- think I'm running out of shit to say.
Over the last few days, I feel like I'm beginning to get a better understanding of life in Mumbai, partly through exploration and partly through adjustment of my expectations. So far since getting here I had spent most of my time in the city being shocked by the poverty and over-population, probably due to seeing things through a westerner's eyes (whatever that means). I have to admit I was beginning to form this idea of Mumbai as an absolute mad house, a sweaty asylum for the poor where life is dirty, eating is a gamble and death is never more than a taxi ride away. This is only semi-true.



Don't get me wrong, I still can't get my head round people's driving here. Twice in the last two days I've been in traffic jams where people at an intersection have just all decided to go at once, leaving a bus or lorry stranded in the middle of about 20 cars all pointing different directions and totally holding up at least 4 different roads. At moments like this I think there must be something weird in the petrol here that the fumes must be affecting the drivers, because it seems like getting behind the wheel of a car instantly reduces you to the awareness and IQ of a blind newborn baby. People just sit there and beep their horns, and every now and then a policeman (the only times I've ever seen any) or a taxi driver will go into the middle and start shouting at everyone, which doesn't seem to help at all and you're just left waiting for some kind of gap to open up that you can slip through quick and hope there isn't someone coming through the other way. Absolutely ridiculous. This morning my driver actually hit someone in the side as they were crossing the road, I felt the bump and everything. The guy came round to the window and shouted at him, so the driver shouted back a bit louder until the guy gave up and went on his way. That's not exactly how I would have handled the situation but it worked, so fair play to the guy. Let's hope the chappy didn't take his registration down and file a complaint with the council because I'm sure they'd be jolly ticked off! I hear injurylawyers4u.com also have a high success rate with that sort of thing so he wants to be careful.



The morning after the night that was Cecil's welcome, I woke up early for work thankfully hangover-free. I decided it best to get out of the house as soon as I could in case the nutter tried forcing some hair of the dog or breakfast beer on me, so I showered and dressed and I was on my way. I remembered the way down to the seafront from when me and Rajan had been to view the house a few days before, so I headed down that way to get a taxi. The area I'm living (Pali Hill) is actually pretty nice, it's full of villa-style apartment blocks and there's security guards everywhere, which means rich residents and no beggars (a nice change from what I'd become used to living at the hotel). Apparently all the Bollywood stars live here, and I must say I've seen some pretty trendy-looking people around the place, so that'll be them then. Work was pretty much the same old (soul-destroying copy and paste shit) but I met this guy called Sohan who I hadn't seen before, who smells of expensive aftershave and wears designer glasses and Ralphie shirts. He's all loud and confident and was keen to get to know me, which was cool. I don't think I'll be working with him too much but he's friendly and is helping me settle in and meet everyone which is nice of him. He's got a good sense of humour too- this is refreshing, most of the people I've met here so far have been pretty serious (either that or their laughs all come from talking about the time they punched a British person in a bar- not naming any names).



I still hadn't made many friends here and considering my razor sharp wit and rugged good looks I decided it must be because I didn't have a phone yet. I called up the Indian Vodafone and on the automated button press thing made my way through to ask for a new connection. They asked me which language I wanted and I chose English. They must use "English" as a very loose term because the woman I got had never heard of the number 2. Here's a little sample of the conversation:



Girl: You have Indian contact phone number?

Me: Yes, it's 298...

Girl: 398

Me: No, Two Nine Eight

Girl: Three, Nine, Eight..

Me: No no, TWO

Girl: THREE

Me: No TWO, the number Two

Girl: Three... What? Hello?



Giving up, I called Ayush over and he spoke to her in Hindi instead (which still seemed like a struggle- did she speak any language properly?), and she eventually told him that the local Vodafone shop was open til 9 and all I needed was a photo and my passport. So after work we went to a photo shop, which was actually on the compound down one of the little tiny streets from the office building. It's hard to describe how amazingly overcrowded some of the streets here are, but at times it can be pretty overwhelming. I'm generally pretty laid back about that kind of thing and have lived around cities all my life but I can imagine it would give some people a full-on nervous breakdown. As we shuffled along like pigs in a pen, it occured to me that maybe all the people I'd seen lying on the streets weren't sleeping after all, maybe they had just finally had enough on their way to work and snapped, deciding to give up and just lie in a corner and pretend it wasn't there. I have a theory that India's not even naturally that warm, it just feels it because there's so many people around you all the time- like being in one big sweaty club, but with dust and worse smells and no smoking area to go to for fresh air. Anyway we got to the photo shop (about the size of a small shed, with about 10 people in it) and they took me to a little room out back with a camera on a tripod, a stool and a red curtain behind it- it was like those old family photo shops you see in films about Victorian times. They told me to sit down and before I even knew what was going on the camera flashed and they had ushered me back out to the front of the store to wait for the prints. "For fuck's sake, I'm going to look like a right tit" I thought, and a few minutes later they gave me my eight identical pictures. Well I was right about looking like a tit, and there's eight of them. Brilliant.



Once I'd paid for my envelope full of stupid retard mugshots we headed out of the compound and over the main road to something called "Phoenix Mills", which is like a huge mall complex- basically imagine 4 or 5 shopping malls connected with a courtyard in the middle- and I was interested to check the place out because I heard it was pretty upmarket. They had those big metal detector arches on the way in and a woman by the side took my laptop bag to check that it was actually a laptop, opening the bag and eyeing it up suspiciously. Apparently these measures have come in since the recent Mumbai terrorist attacks but I don't see what a little lady peeking in your bags is going to do against a team of suicidal millitants? Anyway after satisfying them that I wasn't there to kill everybody, I got in and we went into the centre courtyard thing. The first thing I noticed was a McDonalds and feeling a bit peckish I just had to give it a go. Due to the whole no beef thing that seems to be big in India right now (apparently they love cows or some shit, I don't know) there's no conventional burgers there, so I went for the equivalent of a Big Mac which is called the Maharaja Mac- who could resist with a name like that? It's basically the same thing but with chicken fritter things; not breaded chicken burgers, they're a lot like beef burgers but more chickeny, and the sauce is a tiny bit more curry like. It wasn't bad at all, definitely different but you could tell it was McDonalds. Anyone reading this who knows their Economics (so no one then) will have heard of the "Big Mac index"- basically a big table which compares different countries' economies by the price of a Big Mac and how long it takes to earn one on the average wage... apparently it takes 61 minutes solid hard work for the average Indian to earn a Maharaja Mac. Well worth it though, quality snack.



Anyway I gobbled it down like a capitalist fatcat and we went into this building off the courtyard that looked like a supermarket and was called "Big Bazaar"... but before I went in I had to "register" my laptop at this baggage room thing, which meant getting it out at the front of a big queue of people and the guy writing the serial number down on a form and giving it to me so the security guards would let me in. Wow, do these guys hate laptops or what? So that done we went into the supermarket thing to get me all nice and connected. There wasn't a Vodafone shop in sight (cheers helpful phone lady) but it was very nice regardless, it was the first big shop I'd seen and they had all the usual supermarket things like Doritos and cat food and jars of olives, it was weird because I didn't think they had those things in Mumbai. Naive of me I know, but to be fair all the street people I had seen up to this point probably weren't stuffing their faces with Pringles and feeding their cats Whiskas. We made our way out and Ayush asked one of the security guards where the Vodafone shop was- he told us it was out of Phoenix Mills on the other side in something called "Peninsula Corporate Park" so we headed there. It sounds a bit flashy, and it was- even more security but this time they weren't letting anyone in without good reason. The area they were guarding had office buildings and stuff in it and seemed like one of the nicest places to work in the world- all big water fountains and lush green grass (which they even blow whistles at you for walking on, the nazis). It amazed me that something so needlessly fancy could exist right next to areas where people were begging and living on the street. There are people without clean drinking water right around the corner yet inside these walls there's crystal clear litres of the stuff shooting about just for show. It's fucked up.



So we got to this Vodafone shop and the shutters were half down, even though it was only about 8.15. We went to walk in and the security guards stopped us and told us it was closed. "But my good man, surely that can't be" I replied cheerfully, "why a Vodafone employee herself informed us that this very shop was open until 9!"

But no, "10 til 7, you come back tomorrow" said the man. So, I'd just like to say thanks again to that excellent customer service genius for such a smooth and helpful connection experience. I really hope she wins Helpline Assistant of the Year 2010- she's certainly got my vote.



After this massive waste of time me and Ayush went our separate ways and I enjoyed another ridiculous cab ride, this time with a man who had no idea where he was going and me so tired I was falling asleep every 10 seconds. Struggling to stay awake with no clue how to direct the driver, the cab ride took about an hour and a half (it should have been more like 25 minutes). Eventually, after stopping and asking every single person on the way to the apartments we found the building and I dragged myself up the stairs, more than ready for a lovely bit of bed. I knocked and the maid let me in, and before I could creep to my bedroom Cecil caught me and shouted me into his room. I tried to hover in the doorway but he insisted that I sit. I was not keen on a repeat of the previous night's tirade, so I told him I was really tired and needed to sleep. He tried to start a conversation, probably about how British women were the spawn of satan but I was too tired to pay attention and I think he got the hint because he let me go. It was only about half 9 but I got into bed and slept like a really knackered baby.



The next day at work was more of the same boringness (mixed with a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter) and this time afterwards Rajan met me to come for a drink, so first we stopped at the Vodafone shop again. This time they were open, and a very polite man helped me fill out the forms (I say helped me, he took about 10 minutes to write things like "United Kingdom"- I said I could do it myself but he insisted) and I got myself a SIM card we were on our way. We decided to go for a drink in Phoenix Mills and I had heard that there was a "Manchester United Café", so the only thing to do was go and check it out. It was in another building off the main courtyard called "The Palladium", which was very much like a conventional shopping mall in England. It had clean marble floors, shiny glass everywhere and brand new looking lifts and escalators. There were shops like Hugo Boss, River Island and H Samuel, which I found pretty mindblowing as up to that point I couldn't imagine anyone in Mumbai using those kind of places. The mall was pretty empty, but the people in there seemed quite well off. There were neatly groomed businessmen with those striped shirts with the white collars (you know the ones) and hot women in make-up and tight jeans. It was definitely a side of the city I hadn't seen before, a mall which only caters to like the wealthiest 1% of people, and it surprised me how there could be such an amazing contrast between the poor and rich parts of the city which were effectively right on top of each other.



We found the Manchester United Café, and all I can say is wow. This place is weirder than any bar I've been to. It's clearly an official, Manchester United Football Club sponsored type thing but some of it is just hilariously off the mark. There's plaques in the window with "facts" about the club. Here's a sample: "DID YOU KNOW: Real Manchester fans never call their team 'Man U' because of a cruel opposition chant about the famous Busy Babes which began 'Man U, Man U, where are U?' Ever since then and to this day no true fan will call their team Man U out of respect for the famous Busby Babes!" ... well, I have to say that was news to me. Looks like I'm not a true fan because even though I was born within about 10 miles of the stadium and my family have always supported United for years and years, I call them Man U sometimes and the Indian Manchester United Café has put me bang to rights. Better go and throw all my shirts out and pick a new team, then. Apologies to all the real supporters in Surrey and Asia!



We had a look at the menu, the sections of which were hilariously titled things like Kick-Off (starters, obviously), Throw-Ins (additional sauces etc) and Extra Time (desserts). The decor was absolute comedy gold, with tiles saying "Glory Glory Glory" and lifesize posters of legends like Eric Cantona, Wayne Rooney and, er, Lee Sharpe? Come again? There were pictures of fans on the walls, some of them pretty passionate looking, but the one that caught my eye was a bored looking Chinese woman holding up a sign saying "Please No Transfer Rossi". This actually made me laugh out loud for a good minute or so- why did she care about such a fringe player? How had she even heard of him? And more importantly, who's taken a picture of it and put it in a frame on the wall? Amazing stuff.



After being ripped off for our drinks (in India "pint" means a small bottle- I thought it meant 568ml but I'm wrong apparently) we went out and flagged a taxi. They say the older you are, the slower you drive and I can now safely say this is completely true. We happened to get the oldest driver in the whole of India, a wizened old Gandalf looking fellow with a big bushy white beard who was at least 100 years old, probably a fair bit more. When he started driving at 10mph, Rajan looked at me and said "is this a joke or something?". I laughed, but he was being serious and when the driver didn't speed up it stopped being funny. He was actually driving at anout 5-10mph, which must have taken some really skillful work on the clutch. I'll hand it to the man, he's probably the safest driver in the city purely because of the fact he's always about a mile behind the rest of the traffic. It started being hilarious again as many other cars and buses started speeding past at 30mph sounding their horns (for once with good reason) and looking at him with disgusted/shocked faces like they literally couldn't believe what was going on. We considered getting out and catching another taxi but we didn't want to hurt the poor old chap's feelings. I wonder if he's always driven that slow for 80 years or something and no one's ever told him out of politeness? What a legend.



So I got back to Pali Hill after a 2 hour cab ride this time, smashing the previous night's record for longness. I got out about half a mile from the flats and walked along the little main street of the area. It was nice to have a stroll and see some of the local shops and bars, there were a few that looked pretty cool (and had a few pretty ladies in and around them) so I'll definitely have to start making friends and going out for drinks near the apartment. There's also loads of handy little street stalls for stuff like newspapers, fruit & veg etc so I think this place could definitely grow on me. Still without a key I got let in by the maid again and managed to sneak to bed without having to face Cecil... To be fair I think he's alright when he's not too drunk, but that does seem to be pretty rare- he means well anyway, and is always checking that I have everything I need like water, clean clothes etc. It's just the powerful hatred of everything I know and represent that can be a little off-putting at times.



After my discovery of Phoenix Mills and Pali Hill I have definitely got a different perception of the city, and I'm eager to see more. It's good to know that it's not all begging and street life anyway, even though this realisation was tainted by such an embarassment to the good name of Team Manchester. I'd love to see what Fergie or Roy Keane made of that place. Anyway now I know where the hotspots are I can start infiltrating the celebrity culture and make it big on the Bollywood star/Mumbai socialite scene. Watch out for me on the front cover of Indian Heat magazine in an issue coming soon.



Safe

[A. Chimendez]

TL;DR