Old world charm

By Phil Long With the Barmy Army in India

There is something that strikes you about Mumbai's Brabourne Stadium the moment you hand over your 30 rupees and wander under the North Stand to find a place on the stadium terracing.

England made a winning start to the tour

It's not the rows of bunk beds in the corridors under the stand, or even the huge cushions which you can pick up to save your posterior from an uncomfortable seven-hour stint perched on a concrete step.

No, it's the scent of history that immediately strikes you as you gaze at the Brabourne's magnificent art-deco pavilion, overlooking surely the lushest outfield in all of India and wonder why it hasn't hosted a Test match since 1973.

Built in 1937, the first visitors were an English touring side captained by Lord Tennyson, who said there was not a ground like it in the world.

Similar sentiments were later expressed by Australian Keith Miller, while the hotel housed within the stadium apparently allowed West Indian Frank Worrell to watch a Test from his balcony, dressed only in his dressing gown, until it was time to pad up and bat.

But a bitter power struggle within Bombay cricket circles led to the construction of a new stadium, the Wankhede, less than half a mile away and the Brabourne faded quietly into cricketing oblivion.

Today it is still home of the Cricket Club of India - although it's detractors suggest Card Club of India would be more accurate.

And after the close of play it really comes to life as members drift slowly into the ground from the chaotic streets of south Mumbai outside.

A different kind of drinks break at the Brabourne Club

The umpires had barely called time at the end of play in England's three-day warm-up game before waiters clad in perfectly pressed red jackets and waistcoats started to bring wicker chairs and tables onto the outfield.

Portly businessmen discussed their day's dealings over a nip of whisky or a cold beer, and lithe young women fresh from a swim in the ground's own pool or a couple of sets on the tennis courts, sipped fresh lime sodas with maybe a splash of gin for good measure.

Meanwhile at the North End, we had to negotiate snoring off-duty waiters in the bunk beds I mentioned earlier and duck and weave our way through washing hung up to dry in the gent's toilet.

It was not until the final day, after England had completed their surprisingly swift and comprehensive win, that I ventured over towards the pavilion from my natural habitat in the cheap seats.

As well as those relaxing in the bar and on the outfield, I witnessed six sari-clad octogenarians sat around one of the stadium's many green baize card tables ferociously involved in a game of gin-rummy.

So fierce was their rivalry they completely ignored the occasional errant ball from practising cricketers nearby.

Now that's what I call keeping your head.