BESCOM, mozzies, madness ... and me

After a narcoleptic weekend and a tough Monday churning earnings at work, it’s 1 a.m. and I’m gagging for a cold beer. I get home, garage the motorbike and, for the first time in my nearly 9 months here in Bangalore, there’s a power outage. Now, in the daytime, these are frequent, but brief– though I have had the odd one or two depriving me of electricity for a couple of hours. I’ve learnt to boil water on the stove for coffee rather than wait for the kettle to kick in.

But this middle-of-the-night blackout seems different. I assume it may be short, so I grab my small solar-powered torch – surely the best few bucks ever invested in IKEA, and I didn’t even have to build it – march to the kitchen and grab a beer from the unilluminated fridge. Hmm, not exactly ice-cold, but, hey. Stand outside – where, annoyingly but usefully, the street lights are in full glow. Take a cigarette and down my beer, but still no tell-tale thwump to signal a return of power. Grab a second beer and head back outside, becoming mildly irritated. My daily routine of catching up with the real (non U.S. secondary corporate earnings) news and maybe going online to check out Facebook, possibly Skype the college girls back in the UK, etc, are disrupted. Idle and bored, I steal into the neighbour’s tiny strip of lawn behind their house. It’s OK, they moved out over the weekend. Fearing snakes and other creepy-crawlies, I tread carefully, and almost stumble on a mini-mountain of used condom wrappers. Must be a good two dozen lying piled up beneath an open upstairs window. Respect, dude. A hidden insight into the cliché-d quiet Indian IT guy and his wife, who I think have sold up and gone out to the U.S.

After half an hour, and still without power, I head to bed, brush my teeth and get under the thin cotton sheet, sweating in the sultry, sticky heat and willing sleep to take me away. Within seconds, I hear the angry whine of a mosquito attack. I’m up, and grab a pair of sports shorts for swatting. I prance around the room, naked and bathed in sweat trying to locate my attacker by dim torchlight. That’s not gonna happen. For some reason, I try the bedroom light … and it works. Hallelujah. I switch on the large ceiling fan, which seems to be turning faster than usual, and plug in my Blackberry charger, but this just triggers a fierce fizzing sound and I see small, grey whisps of smoke from the socket. I switch it off, gingerly unplug and swear aloud. The room smells of cordite, the fan is going hell for leather above me. I continue with the mosquito check – the room is painted white and is pretty minimalist when it comes to furniture ... so there are few hiding places. Unsuccessful, I get back into bed. I can’t now plug in one of those useless All Out citronella-scented, double-power Mosquito Destroyer things because the plug’s fucked. But at least it’s cooler now. But the fan is going so fast, and I’m lying unprotected on my back directly beneath it and in my mind’s eye I see it spinning out of control, shifting loose from its hinges and hurling itself south to inflict some serious mechano/genital mutilation. Light off … and the fricking mosquito is back, droning, whining in its menacing way. That, and my feeble fan worries, get me out of bed again, heading downstairs and thinking I might give the guest room a go. No one’s ever slept there. I won’t even bother to put sheets on, just shift the pile of ironing and hop under the cover. The fan here works, too. That’s odd because all the other power downstairs is still off. Hah, there are sheets already on, though they’re prickly, almost Hessian-like. Don’t give a shit. Fan on, quick mozzie check. Now for some sleep. Within nano seconds of the light going off, I hear the familiar buzz of a mosquito attack. Un-bloody-believable, it’s like I’m in some bad B-movie. Jump out of bed, grab my swatting shorts and go on the prowl, checking out the most obvious hiding places -- around the bed, curtains, on picture frames – I set my head by the wall to look along the vast white surfaces. Nada. The room’s unfamiliar and I know I’ll not sleep here.

Resigned to returning to my room upstairs, I pop into the loo. BANG!! The bulb explodes; major fuse fuck-up. Check, and reset the fuse box, smoke another cigarette and confirm that nothing is working power-wise downstairs. Back in my room, the lights and fan are still on. Weird. I head back down and empty a few last drops from a bottle of Jim Beam. Miraculously, there are still a few small, withered ice cubes in the freezer that haven’t yet thawed out completely.

I’m now thinking that maybe BESCOM, the local power supplier, is being very clever and has shut down downstairs power, but kept it going upstairs. This would figure, at 2.30 a.m. for most people, right? (especially, it seems, for my ex-neighbours). But I can’t convince even myself this would be a thought-out company policy. I’ve now Blackberried a whinge-post on Facebook and colleagues are inviting me back to work or to their homes with promises of power and cold beer. It’s tempting, but I really, really need to sleep. Now. I head back upstairs, knowing that I face the mad fan and the madder mosquito.

Shit, there it is, the pompous, preening bastard. In full view. On the wardrobe mirror. I take careful aim and lash out maniacally with my swatting shorts. To hell with modesty: I have a pretty good track record in mozzie murder. But this time, somehow, this one’s wise to my violent attack and dodges the sweatpant bullet. But I’m on its track, watching it carefully as it dances its crazy dance around the room, alighting for a second, then flying off again. I know patience pays here. I keep it under surveillance, occasionally losing it, then getting a sighting. Above us, above this ungainly, wobbly, unsightly combat, the fan is spinning furiously. I check the setting. It’s on ‘1’, the slowest. I figure maybe ‘1’ may, bizarrely, be the fastest, so I turn it to ‘2’, then ‘3’ … and it goes mental. I’m sure now it’s going to take flight. There’s enough updraught to get a helicopter airborne. It’s like being on a set from Black Hawk Down. I turn it back to ‘1’ and ponder whether the speed dial has been vapourised by the burnt-out charger socket next to it.

I spy the mosquito again, mid-air, and swipe. A full-on hit, but it’s flown away. How can it do that? A tiny, featherlight insect evading a rushing gale of flannelette short. Bloody hell. I’m exhausted. I give up. Naked, heaving, panting, sweating, confused and more than a little irritated, I clamber back under the sheet, under the swirling dervish fan, knowing that somewhere … there’s an angry, vengeful mosquito, potentially wounded …

It is 6:58, and I’ve had a fitful four hours sleep, but I can’t feel any mosquito bites. The fan has woken me up with its relentless pounding and vicious swishing. I go downstairs to see if anything’s working. No. Daylight is beginning to spread across Bangalore. The rooks have settled into their harsh, tuneless dawn chorus and the bastard squirrely/chipmunky things are at it, with their high-pitched, grating, piercing, shrill, early morning chatter. I have hours to kill before work. I settle down on the couch, listen for mozzies, and manage to doze off. Around 8, I’m awake again and go back to bed. Still nothing works and I’m resigned to calling in the electrician later. I start to fret for a slab of bacon in the fridge and other foodstuffs that need to chill. I sleep under the mad fan until just after 10, come downstairs … and everything is as normal. The TV works, the lights all work, the kettle works, I’m writing this on a computer that works – did I bad-dream all this? Then, after around 25 minutes, thwump. Everything is down again … and that was more than two hours ago. So, it’ll be a cold shower and off to work.

WTF … maybe I do deserve that small hardship premium I get paid.

Postscript: There was actually a fundamental wiring issue here that meant incoming power surges made lights too bright and fans too fast. After 3 days of zero power (!!), I finally had it restored. The bacon’s a gonner, as are pretty much the rest of the fridge/freezer foodstuffs. But tonight, the beer will be cold.

Tembusu (November 2008)

    Among the more fanciful conspiracy theories – the Moon landings were faked; Jews were responsible for 9/11; Princess Di perished at the behest of MI6 and Prince Phillip; and the FBI murdered JFK … and Marilyn Monroe – one that bears a little more hard-headed scrutiny is the alleged re-emergence into civil society of several of Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge henchmen.

    Many believe that after the Vietnamese invasion of Cambodia on Christmas Day 1978, the Pol Pot regime that retreated into the northern jungles with thousands of its own subjugated people embarked on a systematic bloodletting and internal infighting that culled many of the murderous regime’s leaders. Others were caught by the Vietnamese forces. At a show trial held by the Vietnamese, Pol Pot was found guilty of genocide and condemned to death. He later died in self-imposed exile, long after giving up the reigns of power.

    But what of his lower-ranked cadres, the thousands of lean, mean, black-clad fighters who had carried out the regime’s dirty work, forcing millions of Cambodians into the straitjacket of an authoritarian agrarian society and were ultimately held responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths in a genocidal frenzy that wiped out a generation? Once war was over, many quietly made their way down from the hills and out of the jungles near the Thai border to restart their lives – as taxi drivers, low-level community officials, teachers and traders.

    One – let’s call him Blood Brother 73 – allegedly travelled overland through Vietnam, down through Malaysia and across the straits into Singapore, where he signed up to referee local football matches. Nearing retirement, BB73 officiates now in the lower ranks of the city-state’s amateur game, taking charge, when called upon, of the occasional EFL or ESPZEN game.

    And so it was on Saturday, when BB73 arrived 20 minutes late for the BC’s game against unfancied Tembusu. Still dressed in his Khmer Rouge uniform of black shirt and shorts, but having long since buried his trademark red and white checked scarf deep in the forests back home, BB73 made clear from the start of the game he would brook no nonsense; backchat would be dealt with the way he had been taught to deal with it. At the first sign of a BC player politely querying a decision, BB73, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring and lips quivering, shrieked: “Listen whistle. Respect official” – as his mind returned with pride to the darkest days of the regime, when he held sway over more than 100 intelligensia-turned-peasants under a bamboo shelter in the rice fields of remote, northern Cambodia.

    As the game progressed, with Tembusu playing some neat football that belied their lowly EFL ranking, the referee raised the temperature with his failings and his rantings. This erratic behaviour served only to confuse, intimidate and stoke a simmering, seething rancour. Yellow cards were flourished at the first sign of dissent – a stark warning of further punishments that could be meted out in BB73’s world – two months of hard labour under a sweltering sun, knee-deep in paddy fields with poisonous insects just one of a number of potential causes of disease and death.

    Around 18 minutes, on the adjoining Bukit Timah Field, big JM gathered the ball, lumbered up the right wing and crossed low for SM to skilfully steer the ball between keeper and upright to put the 2^nd XI 1-0 ahead versus Questra Vipers in their ESPZEN game. Seconds later, 1^st XI striker NG, hoping to capitalise from AL’s absence to close the gap in the 2008 Golden Boot charts, latched on to a through ball, beat the offside line and coolly dispatched a low shot past the keeper.

    With Budgie’s pre-match exhortations to kill off the game as early as possible still ringing in BC ears, further chances came, begged, but went. HP rose unopposed to meet a corner, but the ball flicked off his head and over the bar. MB’s pace on the left flank was causing consternation among the visitor’s defence, while SJ, at right midfield, nullified a threat with a muscular performance. Elsewhere, JR and BB were firm in midfield and deft of touch. UN, wide right, pumped over cross after cross, but for little result, though one second-half header from BB merited a goal.

    Budgie marshalled his defence – IG, CG, BP, AR and, briefly, PH – with decibel and discipline, and they were rewarded with a second consecutive clean sheet. KR, returning from injury, was a fine recruit to fill the empty keeper’s jersey, and pulled off a couple of smart saves in either half to keep Tembusu chasing.

    As the evening gloom gripped Bukit Timah, PH took control of a loose ball in midfield and struck a low right-foot shot inside the post to make sure of the three EFL points for the BC. But BB73 wasn’t done yet, brandishing more cards – yellows for MB for cutting down a marauding winger, IG for having the temerity to stand up and argue for justice, fairness, consistency and a democratic republic of Kampuchea, and a couple of Tembusians for scything down JR in full flight, and a straight red for one of Tembusu’s meaner defenders for an alleged slap in the face for SJ after a brief fracas.

    Man of the Match: A difficult one. There were several strong contenders – from stand-in keeper KR, to Budgie, as ever, and JR, also as ever, but my vote this week goes to PH, for a solid display in defence and midfield, a winning goal and for helping translate the Liverpool Echo quiz at Big Bazza’s farewell night.

Scots (November 2008)

    After a week of momentous change, with Tottenham winning two football matches and the Obama family calling KC Dat for an estimate, it's comforting to know that the status quo remains intact in some small parts of the globe. St Andrews are still as unpleasant a bunch of footballers (sic) as you'd never hope to meet down a dark alley after closing time.

    And this is a shame ... as they're not a bad footballing team. Yet, time after time, they seem hell bent on premeditated, rash, ugly tackles, late challenges laced with angry malintent and gob-shite barracking of referee and opponents. Now, we know, we're no angels in cussing and badmouthing, but our physical game remains well within the laws of football.

    We know, too, that much of St Andrews nastiness is aimed at provoking BC players into retaliation, the referee’s notebook and an early bath. To our credit, we overcame this on Saturday, stuck to a game plan of massing five across the midfield, were resolute in defence, had a goalkeeper in fine form and took our few chances to run out 2-0 winners.

    If I’m reading the EFL website correctly, this puts us second – 3 points behind South Buona Vista Saints with a game in hand, though they have a far better goal difference. It was also a first defeat of the season for St Andrews which, after a run of losses against the Auld Enemy, is heartening news.

    Yet Saturday’s BC team was largely the same bunch of wannabee presidents so roundly beaten last week by SBVS amid rancour and internal bickering. One notable change, however, was the return of Budgie who, for all his swagger and narkiness, gives us something special, adding steel, bristle and no little skill in central defence. Constantly cajoling, berating and urging, his passion for success is clear and does rub off on those around him.

   Largely because of Budgie’s contribution, with some help from IG, HP, CG, AR and GM, and some smart saves by the agile bulk of GC, the BC kept a clean sheet. The bashed and gashed BM, JR – our very own John McCain – DB, UN, PH and MB filled the midfield slots and helped protect the defence against marauding Scots. Up front, AL battled gamely to keep the hectoring Scottish defence on its toes.

    The first 20 minutes seemed even, with the game starting in good spirit beneath a scalding tropical sun. Chances were few as the midfields largely cancelled each other out, with the BC defending the downhill slope to Bukit Timah Road. Then DB swung over a corner from the right and HP was allowed the time and room to plant a header past the St Andrews keeper for 1-0.

    In the second half, the visitors upped the pace and upped the mean strike, with a very late challenge on GC going unseen and unpunished. Not so, a nasty scything down of the weary BM that prompted some wild gesticulation, heated debate in guttural vernacular and the hobbling off of the afore-mentioned Mr M. MB was tackled late and the referee was kept busy as both sets of players shouted, swore and bullied as the game raged on. MB blazed a trail down the left wing slope, but two long-range efforts flew over the defence, the bar, the perimeter fence, a bus, a taxi and the central reservation.

    A shortage of balls is not something you’d accuse skipper AL of. As the Scots threatened, and GC smothered, parried and tipped over, Big Ant secured the points with a finessed shot from outside the box that fizzed low into the left corner.

    Ton up for the BC first team – an extraordinary feat. Added to all the ESPZEN goals over the years, AL has consistently contributed to all parts of BCFC, leading the line with muscle and bravura, encouraging team-mates with his fiery, expletive-ridden half-time ‘pep’ talks and scoring goals for fun – from the trademark 25-yeard thunderbolt to the tap-ins that are the hallmark of a born goal scorer. Well done Ant, now for the next 100.

    This week’s Barack Obama: Quite a competition; from AL for passing his personal milestone, to JR for a non-stop workaholic performance, to Budgie for a towering game at centre-back … but my vote goes to GC for an athletic stint as stopper … for some good saves on a difficult surface … and for just getting on with the game with quiet authority and not whining or bellowing in the face of Scottish provocation.   

Phuket (2008)

    The blazing midday heat sears the tarmac around me. The acrid smell of gasoline plays a potentially combustible game of tug-of-war in my nostrils with the lingering fumes from last night's Singha beer, fusing into a throbbing disco beat inside my head.

     A flag flutters, but the teasing breeze, all too brief, moves on, bringing little respite from the simmering tension.

     Behind me, I hear a familiar grunting and panting. My rear-end is vulnerable. I close my eyes. Oh Lord, I'm back in the dimly-lit, velvet-curtained Spartacus. A single bead of sweat trickles slowly from forehead to upper lip. I curl my tongue upwards and lick it slowly, savouring the sweet saltiness. My limbs are aching and my pulse is racing.

    And, with a sudden drop of the flag, we're off, a snarling, revving, roaring mob, moving tightly round the first corner and racing down the straight to get a nose in front at the tight second turn. A reckless brake, a too-sharp twist of the steering wheel and a driver spins off, crashing into rows of tyres and sending blinding clouds of sand and dust billowing into the thick, sultry air.

    At the back of the grid, and unable to find second gear, I revisit the previous day's round of golf, when Team Dripping (BP, Ians B&G and the Beast himself) edged out Team M (J, CA, DB and the exceedingly venerable AM) in a thrilling Texas Scramble dual played over a lush Loch Palm course set among the rolling hills of Central Phuket.

    After a solid front nine, IG tired, but still managed to put in enough to take one of the post-match awards. Skipper GH, another award winner, drove his team with astute tactical nous and some good all-round golf, while "rookie" BP was King of the Greens. For the opposition, AM and DB, clear winners of the Golfer's Tan award, and C "Air Shot" A proved something of a restraint on single-handicapper JM, whose patience was tested but never snapped.

    Back at the Phuketring, a fierce and frantic battle for the lead has brought the small crowd to its feet, but with little sense of the drama about to unfold.

    Out front, DB is tiring, or he is too comfortable knowing that the pedestrian and occasionally erratic (small) CA is holding up his main challengers, GH and C "Five Car" S. Suddenly, CA spots an ATM trackside and is distracted long enough by the mirage to let GH slip past. CS follows in his slipstream and both are in hot, full-blooded pursuit of an unassuming DB.

    CA shrugs and urges himself to go faster ... to go faster ... to go ... toga. He shuts his eyes and is swishing and sashaying among Spartacus' gilded, bronzed and statuesque patrons. He takes a tentative sip from the silver chalice held to his quivering lips by a cloaked, tanned and willowy ... and sees HC looming large in his rear-view mirror.

    With one lap to go, DB has sensed the chasing duo fast approaching. The crowd has gone wild. Suddenly, GH barnstorms through on the outside, but loses control and ends his race smashing into the trackside tyres in a flurry of arms, legs, sand and spray. CS sees his chance, seizes the initiative and makes his move. He, too, charges past a now hesitant DB, but, again, his lead is short-lived as he over-steers and barrels into the tyred-barrier in a hail of bravado, expletives and vodka/Red Bull fumes. DB cruises round the final bend to take the chequered flag.

    Leaving the go-kart track with only four working karts, the BC touring party, pumped high on adrenaline, heads back for a pre-match lunch at the Royal Paradise Hotel, "the focal point of the gay scene offering everything from saunas and restaurants to a busy gay disco". Thank you, IB, for arranging this.

    Sadly, after all the drama of this sporting carnival, the BC's tour match against the British International School of Phuket came a tame, lame third.

    On a pitch longer than Soi Bangla after several barrels of Singha, and without any pitch markings, the BC team, with just two-and-a-half substitutes, kicked off determined to turn the tide of four touring matches without a win.

    Less than two minutes later, that task grew a little more difficult after Niko Kranjcar's nephew had put the hosts ahead, turning one of our defenders and smashing a volley from outside the area past goalkeeper CS, whose positioning was as suspect as his madcap driving earlier in the day.

    The sun kindly took shelter behind some trees.

    The BISoP "staff" side -- swarthy Australasians, the Croat and assorted Spartacus ringers -- were quicker, stronger and, arguably, technically more proficient. Ceding an average 10 years a man, the BC struggled to kick into second gear and gave away a second goal on 12 minutes when a defensive lapse left Kranjcar Jr with an easy tap-in.

    Five minutes later, and the game was as good as over as Kranjcar took advantage of some defensive miscommunication to tee the ball up on his thigh and crash home a looping drive.  

    Trailing 0-3 and with the opposition's goal too far away to see, the BC tourists finally settled into a shape and rhythm, playing the ball short at times, but lacking a final killer pass. Danish stopper KR and the Croat made light of the fact that this was a friendly match, indulging in a brief bout of Scandi-Balkan "handbags", but the game overall was played in a good spirit, with a keen, competitive edge.

    CA came deep and grabbed the ball ... and is rewarded with a delighted squeal as his mannequin-sized companion prances teasingly between the Doric columns. C, wearing tight leopard skin, trots off in pursuit, admiring the uplights that silhouette the polystyrene discuses and spears that adorn the club's walls.

    The second-half was much better. The bustling, barging JM went close, stopped only by a brave diving save by the BISoP keeper. DB, the BC's Man of the Match, did get the ball in the net, but a free-kick had already been awarded, with KR's dipping shot parried, and AM's beguilingly deceptive cross-cum-shot narrowly missed the left upright.

    DB was busy throughout, cutting in dangerously from the left and right flanks, supported by AM, CA and WH at full-back. GH, KR and BP rotated in central defence, "protected" by skipper-for-the-day IG, while TB and JT put in sterling work across the middle. JM and HC ran selflessly up front for little reward and the older CA worked hard in more than a cameo role, wearing the BC colours for the first time in more than an injury-plagued year.

    Ultimately, the BC squad was two or three players short for a game of this pace on a big pitch, but the spirit was good and the work rate commendable. Hope JR got his homework in on time … and we now know who wears the pants chez CP.

    Thanks, IB, for the managerial preparation, Churchillian inspiration and timely substitutions though, in all honesty, we couldn't see you in those cunningly camouflaged shorts.

    Get thee behind me Spartacus...