The Cynics Guide To Travel Part Two – India – Mumbai

Most non Indians will know Mumbai from the film Slumdog Millionaire, the Oscar winning movie that depicts Mumbai as a colourful yet dangerous and poverty stricken city, or from the glossy slick adverts from the Indian tourist board

Incredible India shout the glossy brochures and commercials whilst showing pictures of beautiful landscapes, sunsets and colonial buildings. Of course what they don’t show you is the poverty, the children begging, the pollution, the heat, the people pissing in the street. Yes, of course it reminded me of London, apart from the heat and the fact there are more Indians in London. Also in London its a little unusual to find cows walking down the street. Well at least not the bovine, milk able kind anyway. The London cows are usually in Matalan buying clothes for their next trip to exotic Benidorm

Water Supply Indian Style

Of course when in India for the first time the very first thing you must do is go for an Indian. Its the rule, written in law. Now everyone in England will tell you that the Indian food in India tastes very different from your local Star of Bengal. Bollocks, it tasted exactly the same, the only big difference is it costs three times less. And get this, for fuck sake, the famous Indian Cobra beer you drink in Bombay curry houses is brewed in England. Exporting Indian beer to the Indians, it like selling sand to the Thieving wankers (Egyptians, in case you don’t know)

Tania and I proceeded to the Gateway to India, no that’s not the name of an Indian Restaurant, its kind of the Bombay equivalent of Marble Arch. Built at the height of the British Raj, its an imposing edifice overlooking the Persian Sea. Its also, on a Friday night, the meeting place for hawkers, beggers, pimps and Bollywood talent scouts. I kid you not, three times near the arch, Tania and I were approached to be extras in a Bollywood movie. Now normally, being a cynical, world weary traveller I would dismiss this and add it to my list of 1001 international scams (to be published soon), but this is actually genuine. Many Bollywood movies need western looking extras in the background and they approach tourists in the Gateway to India area to do this. I would have done it, too, if we had had time but it takes pretty much a whole day at the studio we didn’t have that to spare. Oh well, back to mundane obscurity.

The next day we spent exploring the city. Of course ten minutes after we left the ship, we are completely fucking lost and wandering through a shanty town. I thought I had seen poverty but nothing prepares you for the sight of shack after shack lining both sides of one of the busiest roads in Bombay, malnourished children, toothless grandmothers and Danny Boyle with a movie camera. The air is black with pollution from the thousands of cars, many built in the 1950’s, the noise is incredible yet the people just exist. I was surprised by the fact that very few asked us for anything, they have a dignity and pride despite their conditions. I talked at length with Tania about this, for me, these people given a chance would make something of their lives, they are just victims of a circumstance that sees them on the periphery of a society that has a class system that is unlike any other, they are the true and original outcasts unlike the unemployed, homeless people begging on the streets of London, who if they had an ounce of fight in them would be able to pull them up out of their situation, these people no matter what they did, will propably die in the same shack that they were born.

Ok, lets lighten the mood slightly, cows on the street. Yes its true, Tania and I were returning to the port area when I noticed on the pavement about 100m in front, two cows walking. At first I thought there was somebody leading them but no, they were just out for an afternoon stroll, wandering where they liked. We gave chase and followed them to a street market where one stuck his head in  bucket of leftover oranges and had a light afternoon tea. Tania had a couple of apples in her bag so we decided to feed them. They were docile, domestic and friendly, wandering the streets of this chaotic, frenetic metropolis without a care in the world. They bought a sense of calm to the city streets. This was no one off occurrence either, all over the city cows wander the streets like cats do in England. The cow is a sacred animal in India  and no-one mistreats them, street traders feed them, children pet them, car drivers give them space. In England of course we just milk them and eat them.

I spent our third day alone, it was a hot and humid day so I decided to return to the ship early, but on the way back, a little cafe caught my eye. Small, and air conditioned, breakfast beckoned me and so with an appetite and a few rupees, I went inside. The waiter, a youngish guy in a shirt and tie, bade me good morning and presented me with a menu. I ordered an omelette, a fresh orange juice and a hot tea as I had been in India for three days now but had yet to sample the national drink in its home country. Now if this waiter has any ambition to remain in the catering industry, he better start to work on his act. Think back, can you remember the three items I ordered. Good, you remember, and its not even your job. This guy arrived with the omelette after 25 minutes, I expected the other two items as well but no. I reminded him the next time I saw him.

“Oh yes, sorry” he offered, disappeared for another 10 minutes having poured my orange juice “freshly” from a carton.

“My tea” I asked.

“One moment please” He returned to the bar, where to my horror, he put a tea cup under a machine and pressed a button. So there you are, my first India tea came from machine that had automatically added powdered milk and sugar (I never take sugar in tea) and was served by a waiter who only remembered one of the three items I asked for. Maybe he was stressed because he was so busy, after all there was at least two other people there, one of whom had also made a large complicated order of three items.

At the bottom of the menu, it said Service Not Included. It was right, it wasn’t.

The Cynics Guide to Travel – Chennai India

Having now been to over 140 countries worldwide, I would like to call myself an experienced traveller. Today I am starting a series of blogs chronicling some of my adventures in destinations around the world. Its called the Cynics Guide to Travel simply because after 15 years on the move, there are some place that really need to be re-examined as popular tourist destinations. I start the series with a look at Incredible India and the city of Chennai

Is there any other way in Chennai

CHENNAI

Chennai a few years ago had a Prince moment, and is now it is the city formerly known as Madras. Ask most Englishmen if they have ever been to Chennai they would say no, ask them if they have ever been to Madras they would also say no but have had a good Chicken Madras at the Bombay curry house (now known as the Mumbai curry house). In Chennai Tania and I encountered perhaps the world most idiotic and bureaucratic immigration service.

We had arrived as crew members on the ship Princess Danae at around 8.00 in the morning. It took the immigration until 4.00pm to clear the ship for the crew. Now bear in mind that there were 40+ officials on board this means each official cleared 5 crew members each over an 8 hour period, nearly one every two hours. The reason for this was plain and simple, whilst examining the passports for the telltale signs of being a terrorist such as occupation – suicide bomber, they were systematically drinking the ship dry of coffee, juice and coke then sauntering off to the bog for an hour to try out this new fangled stuff called toilet paper.

Eventfully we were allowed off and strolled over to the main Port entrance

At the dock gate, we give our immigration forms to the soldier on duty.

“This is not signed by the immigration officer” he said

“ This is  what we were given” I replied.

This continued for about 5 minutes, until he demanded that we open our bags.

“Have you got any cigarettes?”  He asked

“No”

“Alcohol?”

“No”

By now we realise he is looking for a bribe, I am totally pissed off and look him straight in the eye

“You know what, fuck your city, I am going back to the ship”

I turn to go but Tania looks at him and says

“What’s your name?”

“Why do you need my name” He is a little unsure.

I look at him, look at the large gun then look at Tania.

I see her game. She is good at this.

“What is your name?” She repeats loudly.

The guard buckles. “Ok you can pass”

And so we enter the city of Madras. Ironically, it is republic day today, millions of Indians are celebrating independence from Britain by not working. Of course the street peddlers, plastic Ganesh salemen, and rickshaw drivers are still working and taking every opportunity to make our stay in the city as uncomfortable as possible but we run the gauntlet and eventually find ourselves at Marina Beach. This is apparently the second longest beach in the world, and despite the tens of thousands of Indians on the beach celebrating “birth of bureaucracy day” there is acres of spare sand to see. It was such an enchanting evening, Tania and I decided to see exactly how long the beach was, we wandered along watching all India at play, eating deep fried banana chips, and other assorted Indian delicacies, a cool breeze tempering the balmy Asian heat. In the distance we were transfixed by a veritable “Times Square” of neon lights, and flashing signs. We decided to make for the biggest and brightest. It simply said MGM, so we naturally assumed it was some sort of cinema complex. When we finally arrived we were confronted with a seedy run down hotel, with the biggest neon sign in India. It said MGM Grand Hotel. Now I have been to the MGM Grand in Vegas and apart from the name, and it had bedrooms, I could see no similarity at all, it did however serve ice cold Kingfisher for less than a Euro and so in my books it beats it’s Nevada namesake in every respect.

Russian Roulette in Singapore

The Russian being Tania, and the roulette being the luck we would need to replace a faulty camera from Sim Lim square, the huge technology mall in Singapore. A little background for this story, on the 3rd of January I went looking to purchase a Canon EOS 7D camera with a L series lens. For those of you that know me to be a Nikonite, I will explain my reasons for buying Canon in a another blog. Anyway, after trooping around most of the stores in the city for the best price, I settled on one on the ground floor of the (in)famous Sim Lim. After some hard negotiations, I got a good deal on a 7D and duly paid and signed the receipt. Happy with my purchase, I returned to the ship to get ready for work. When I got to my cabin, I put the camera and lens together, charged the battery and began to play around with the features. All was well for three shots, then I got an error message (err 30). I checked in the manual which simply said switch off, remove battery and then try again. Which I did and still I had the problem. I had a look to see if the shutter was firing and to my horror it wasn’t. I checked the receipt and to my further horror found that in small print at the bottom, it said no refunds, or exchanges. Cue on very sleepless night.

And so the next day, with Tania in tow, I returned to the shop, Canon in hand. The salesman that had dealt with me the day before saw me and looked nervous. I explained the problem and his first question was did you drop it? Ah here we go I thought, and so it proved. The next question was “was it working in the shop?” Of course it was, I might be daft enough to buy from Sim Lim but I am not so stupid I would not check the camera thoroughly in the shop. They then called Canon service who had no idea what the problem was. Then the not unexpected hammer blow, we cannot replace it, you need to take it to Canon. This was a huge problem as I had bought it purely for videoing our trip around Asia. Since we were leaving that evening it was unlikely that Canon would replace it, only send it for repair. I remained calm but Tania was brimming with Russianess and we slowly slipped subconsciously into a good cop/bad good routine. As I explained calmly that I was not leaving without a replacement, Tania meanwhile was setting upon every salesman in the shop. She demanded names, shouted stomped, screamed and cried. The staff told me to get her out to which I replied she is Russian, its her culture. At one point whilst I was explaining that I was leaving Singapore that evening and it would be with a camera, Tania was taking photographs of the salesmen on my iPhone. As potential customers came into the shop, she was talking to them, not saying anything about our problem but with the obvious veiled threat that it would be potentially mentioned in the near future. At one point the mall’s rentacops were called, but when Tania demanded their names as well, they left. Two young guys from Moscow came in and Tania started to speak in Russian to them. The salesmen were getting very nervous and slowly started to crack. One, who seemed to be the floor manager, was actually a lot more helpful than the rest, he had called Canon several times and eventually called his wholesaler. They, he told me would replace the camera, and gave me an address.
“Fine, one of you will drive us there” I said. At first they were reluctant, but after I said I would take a taxi and Tania would stay in the shop, the salesman who originally sold me the camera offered to drive us there. And so after about 90 minutes of fighting, I received a new 7D body, heavily tested at the wholesalers, of course.

The moral of this story, is whilst you may get a very good price at Sim Lim, you may have to fight very hard if something goes wrong. By the way, if you do need help, I will hire out Tania, she is very effective but doesn’t come cheap.

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Mumbai in Five Senses

After Aqaba we continued our journey, stopping at Sharm el Sheikh to annoy the taxi drivers, then through Salalah and Muscat in Oman before reaching Mumbai, India on the 19th December. If you haven’t been to India before, Mumbai is a crash course in all things Indian. Fortunately I have been to India so I was prepared, and in my opinion, the best way to get through an Indian city is to become like a pebble in a stream, just let everything flow past and keep cool. Mumbai is truly an assault on the senses and perhaps the best way to describe it is to tell you how the senses are assaulted. I will start with SMELL

The smells of Mumbai are like no other in the world, powerful, aromatic, gagging and subtle in the space of 100 meters. Of course the smell of spices seeps into the air more or less everywhere that food is being cooked. That of course means everywhere. If you like Indian food you will walk the streets with permanent hunger pangs, its more than a smell, its an atmosphere. Unfortunately you can walk a street smelling the infinite variety of spices, breathing deeply, savouring before gagging on the smell of stale piss. This too is everywhere, not surprising in a country of such extreme poverty, however it is difficult to determine from which animal it has come from, of course it could be human, probably is but there is also a wealth of stray dogs roaming the streets and marking their territories with pungent odours. It could also be cows, who tend not to mark territories but also beed the more than occasional slash. Add the two smells together and you have your first sensory overload.

There is one sound of Mumbai that prevails, it is everywhere, persistent and headache inducing. You see, all cars, especially taxis in India are fitted with a high tech low band sonar system. Its called a horn and heres how it works. You drive your car in a straight line pressing the horn every two seconds. If you get no reply you continue driving in which ever direction you want. If you get a reply from the left, you steer slightly right, from the right you swerve to the left. Its a bit like bats in a cave and it works, cars drive along the roads with what appears to be no set rules or regulation yet everything seems to just flow. Now imagine a road with thousands of cars all using their sonar every two seconds and you will begin to get an aural image of what the cacophony of Mumbai sound like. On the second day in Mumbai I found the only taxi in the city with no horn. There was just a big hole in the steering wheel where the horn should be. We however arrived safety, because like immunisation, if you have 95% of cars using their horns the system will still work.

The taste of Mumbai for me can be summed up in a cheap meal from the Leopold Cafe. Chicken tika wrapped in garlic nan. Pure heaven, succulent chicken marinated for several years in a gorgeous tika sauce, the freshly baked nan dripping with chunks of garlic and of course washed down by an ice cold Kingfisher beer all for about £4. If your nasal orifice has overloaded from the street smells, your toungue will drag you back to a spice filled niverna.

Touch. If there is a touch to Mumbai, it could be one of two things, the feel of a beautiful silk sari or the polluted grime that seems to cling to everything outside.

The last sense, is of course sight. It is here that you get a true sensory overload, from the intense poverty, to the rich colours of the clothes. From cows walking in the streets to the fumes belching out of the back of a 40 year old taxi. Mumbai is a visual smorgasbord with something for everyone both good and bad.

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Its enough to give you high blood pressure

We finally sailed from Barcelona on the 30th of November, two days later than scheduled. The drydock had over run for various reasons and this now meant we would miss two ports, Valetta in Malta, and Alexandria in Egypt. Now I am sure many off you will remember my fondness for Egypt and its culture and will realise how disappointed I was to miss an Egyptian port.
Still we had 3 other ports in Egypt so ample time to catch up on sleep.
Jordan, however I do like. Not the busty bimbo type, the middle eastern country type. We had one day in Aqaba on our journey east and I spent most of the morning in hospital. Don’t concern yourself too much, it was for my bi-annual medical exam nothing more sinister.
The port agent collected me and 4 of my colleagues at 10.30am off we went to the “Aqaba Modern Hospital” I have used the quotes to emphasis a visual oxymoron. Fortunately no needles, blood tests or other potentially skin breaking procedures were required so I didn’t concern myself to much with the state of the place.
In the UK, the seafarers medical is called the ENG1. Its pretty basic, piss in a cup, weight, blood pressure, breathing eyes, ears, just a general look over. It costs about £80 so when I was informed my Jordanian medical would be $100 it expected a similar if not higher standard of examination.
So I was called into the examination room and was greeted by a doctor who clearly had an allergy to shaving. He shook my hand introduced himself and invited me to sit on the bed. After asking me five questions, did I drink, smoke do drugs etc he run a stethoscope lethargically somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs and then took my blood pressure.
“your blood pressure is high” he told me, “check for 4 days and if it is still high you will need to take medication”
No account was taken of the fact I was sitting in a very awkward position on the bed or that he did not extend my arm fully to do the test. However I am inclined to concur with his prognosis, after all who wouldn’t have high blood pressure after paying $100 to answer 5 questions.
To celebrate passing my medical I wandered off to Gloria Jeans coffees shop, where I drank two caffeine laden cappuccinos whilst googling on the wifi the common causes of high blood pressure. Oddly enough high caffeine intake was one of them.

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Kill all vegetarians!

Just a short blog today, based on a brief but potentially interesting thought that went through my head last night whilst drinking my third Spanish beer.
We are often told, how trees and plants are the lungs of the world, removing carbon dioxide and replacing it with oxygen. We hear how the destruction of the Amazon rain forest is contributing to the rise in global warming and if we do nothing we will all be living in a much warmer world by July 2011. Well, here is the chance for every sane person to do their bit for the environment, kill a vegetarian. It makes sense, vegetarians are systematically eating the very organism’s that could save the planet and at the same time contributing carbon dioxide to the atmosphere. Remove the veggie, remove the problem as one famous dictator nearly said.
Of course this will have a double benefit because the remaining humans will all be carnivores, eating all the worlds animals who are of course another huge contributor to global warming.
So next time you are driving home from your local Beefeater in your 4×4, and a veggie steps onto the crossing in front of you, just apply those brakes a fraction to late. Sure you may get a 12 month suspended for driving without due care but the planet’s lifespan will be improved long enough to support the next generation of carnivorous Range Rover drivers, and that can only be a good thing.

Dry Dock

Do you know what a drydock is? Well I am betting many of you that have worked on ships do but the rest have no idea at all. Our ship, Discovery is currently in drydock in Barcelona. We arrived on the 13th of this month, disembarked our passengers on the 14th and made the short trip across the port to our new home for two weeks. For those of you that have no concept of how a ship drydocks, I will embellish you with a brief description. Imagine if you will, a large canal lock. A bloody large canal lock. The ship sails into the lock, the gates shut behind and then instead of raising or lowering the water, it is drained completely, all 21,000 tons of it for those of you up on their Archimedes principal. Obviously the water doesn’t exactly gush out, it is let out slowly over a period of several hours. As the water drains, the ship begins to settle on huge concrete blocks strategically placed to support the weight. The engines are switched off, water, power, sewage and other services and switched from the ship to shoreside, air conditioning goes off and an army of contractor embark. Over the next few hours the ship moves from its once docile tranquility to a hive of seemingly chaotic activity. Within 24 hours, carpets have been covered or stripped completely, wallpaper taken off walls, the swimming pools removed of their tiles, the huge propellors weighing many many tons are lifted of to be refurbished. Underneath the ship holes are cut to remove and replace equipment that will not fit through shell doors. The hull itself is scrapped clean of two years of oceanic grime and within two days been repainted, apart from the aforementioned holes of course. Huge bearings are loaded into the engine rooms, a dent in the bridge wing caused by a Russian bunker getting a little to personal in Antarctica is straightened out. A new pontoon for tendering is delivered in the morning and fitted by the afternoon.
With the aircon off, the ship rapidly becomes warm and stuffy. Water is intermittent. If you need a big dump pull the chain first or you might be adding significantly to your cabin’s unpleasant odours. Food is now on plastic plates and plastic knives and forks. No water in the galley, no electricity for the ice machine you begin to get the picture. Tania and I are among the lucky few onboard. Although we have a small amount of work to do in the two weeks we have time to enjoy the delights of Barcelona, a beautiful and inspiring city but thats a blog for another day.
When Discovery emerges from the drydock with her bum painted, interiors refurbished and engines all spruced up, she will set sail on her winter adventure. This time we head east, for an incredible season that heads out to Asia around India to Singapore, Hong Kong and Bangkok. In February she will start to head west again, across the Indian ocean, to South Africa before heading up the East African coast to Mozambique, Tanzania and Kenya. Hopefully I will find the energy to write blogs on these places but again thats for another day. So from the stuffy confines of a ship in Barcelona, I bid you farewell.

Black Gold: The D3 Lighting up the Void

When Nikon announced the D3 towards the end of 2007, there were more than a few raised eyebrows, the D2X though a very good camera had spent most of it life living in the less noisy shadow of its Canon competitor the EOS 1D mk2. Sure, it was full frame, something Nikon fans had clamored ever since Kodak and Canon put full frame on the map. It was fast, 9 frames a second would suit any sports/wildlife photographer, but 12 megapixel, what was going on? It was the same pixel count as the D2X, hardly three years of progress. For months I had been reading the forums at DPreview amongst others, feeding on the frenzy of rumors, claims and counter claims. My excitement level was climbing at the same rate as the blood pressure of some of the posters, the anticipation was palatable. So when I read the initial press release it was frankly disappointing.

Shortly after the announcement, image samples started to filter on the forums and wider web. Whispers of something special, an image quality that far surpassed other 12mp cameras was one, but its ability to shoot high ISO with little or no noise was the overriding rumor. Sure, we had read about its 25200 ISO ability, gimmick many of us thought, but people were claiming noise free at 3200, very useable at 6400. Images were coming through to support it. The rumors became fact, the camera was released and a legend was born. Based on the feedback on those original buyers I took the plunge and purchased one along with the new Nikon 24-70 2.8.

From day one I could see this was a special camera, but it wasn’t until about three weeks later that I got the chance to see how good it was. I was in Palma de Majorca, shooting some images of the exterior of the magnificent cathedral there. Light was dropping fast and I had no tripod. I decided to test one of the features I had read about but not used, Auto ISO. For the uninitiated, Auto ISO is a mode where the camera will increase the film speed once the light level has dropped below parameters you have specified. I set my camera on aperture priority, and set the Auto ISO minimum speed to 1/60th second to compensate any camera shake when I shot at 70mm on the 24-70. As I was shooting, the light levels were dropping fast, I continuously checked the LCD to see if I was getting noise. With the new 3 inch high resolution screen, I could zoom in on the image. No noise at 1200 ISO. Maybe it was the screen, being used to the D2X’s low resolution offering.

Palma Cathedral at 2500 ISO

The lights were coming on on the Cathedral now, shooting RAW, I did not worry too much about the white balance, and continued shooting. The sky had turned that deep twilight blue, the ISO was hitting 3200, still the images looked good. I continued shooting until there was no light just darkness surrounding the oasis of artificial light that was the Cathedral. Eventually it was enough, time for a beer.

Palma Cathedral at 4500 ISO

When I eventually got the images on a big screen, I finally understood the D3. It unshackled the photographer from the constraints of film speed, grain and noise, perhaps for the first time in the history of photography, the photographer was truly free. For more D3 images visit Jason Row Photography

The Greatest Story in Football, Twice – Part One

When I was about 5, my father took me to see a football game. We stood for two hours on cold damp terraces, surrounded by people yelling at the top of the voices at a bunch of overweight shaggy amateurs kicking a leather ball in what at first seemed to be a totally uncoordinated way. The opponents seemed remarkable unfazed by the shouts of “worry him” coming from my granddad certainly more unfazed than me. I had the impression at the end of the game that we had lost. This was because as we all herded towards a large set of blue gates, everyone was complaining, “bleedin awful” “waste a money” “could ave stayed in and watched the wrestling” I thinks its fair to say, I loved every minute of it.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was watching a football club that was about to write one of the greatest stories in English football…twice. The team was Wimbledon FC, a part time club in the Southern Premier Division, the top league for amateurs and one below the ivory towers of the football league division four, as it was then known. The story is one that will be told again and again, a story of sheer determination over ability, a story of greed and corruption and most of all a story of hope.

In 1977, after three years of trying and after becoming perhaps the greatest cup giant killers of all time, the first amateur side to beat a first division team away, Wimbledon FC were elected to the league division 4. At last my father and grandfather could watch league football, my grandfather after 50 years of waiting. The first few years of professional football were a roller-coaster, but great times were had. Wimbledon’s ground, Plough Lane was shabby and old but felt like a well worn shoe, serving its purpose well and still with a little more life in it. When money allowed we would get a seat in the south stand, a wooden fire trap yet full of character. Sometimes, on birthdays we would watch the game from the North Stand, modern and with plastic seats, it gave us an air of superiority.

Beginning in 1982 a remarkable thing happened, Wimbledon started to rise through the divisions. After yo-yo-ing from 4th to 3rd several times they shot through to the second, caught their breathe for one season an then quite unbelievably they were in the first division. Plough Lane, host for teams such as Yovil and Kettering a few years before was now welcoming Manchester United and Liverpool. It all seemed a little surreal to be honest. It may have been John Barnes and Peter Beardsley out on the turf but to us it was just another game. Except of course Plough Lane was too small for the traveling supporters meaning lots of them found themselves in amongst us. That first season in the top league, against all odds we finished 6th. A mere 9 years after getting league status.

Just when we thought Wimbledon had no more surprises for us, they caught us all with the greatest surprise of all. In May 1988 in front of an estimated television audience of 1 billion people they won the biggest prize in domestic football, the FA Cup. They had beaten perhaps the greatest football team of the 80’s to do it, Liverpool. It wasn’t a pretty game, in places it was ugly but it was the fitting finale to the greatest rise in domestic football history and perhaps its greatest story.

Just over a decade later, that team, its history and its fans had gone. The demise had probably started when Wimbledon moved out of their ground to share a soulless stadium with Crystal Palace. It was certainly accelerated by the creation of the premier league and it was finally cemented by a number of suited business men with no understanding of football. Within that I include the three man commission of the football association who, graduating from the New Labour school of spin, leaked a simple press release stating that they were allowing Wimbledon FC to be relocated to Milton Keynes 70 miles to the north. On the 28th May 2002, whilst the footballing nation awaited news of David Beckham’s metatarsal, Wimbledon FC died.

How the mighty are rising again

In 1993 I visited the Black Sea port of Odessa for the first time. It was not only a new country for me but a new country period. Ukraine had been formed from the dissolution of the Soviet State only three years previous, it was to all intents and purposes still a Soviet ghost state. It was autumn when I arrived, the trees had already shed their leaves and a gloomy mist added to the general air of neglect that prevailed. I walked up the long Potemkin steps made famous by the Eisenstien film battleship Potemkin onto a small square. On the sides of the steps were hawkers selling old Soviet medals, military uniforms, russian dolls, religious icons and whatever else they could find. Walking through the faded elegance of the streets I came to the main center of the town on Debaryskya Street. Imposing yet uninviting victorian buildings lined both sides of the cobble-stoned thoroughfare. There were no shops as such, kiosks here and there sold cigarettes and vodka, old soviet style restaurants seemed as inviting as a dose of swine flu on a jumbo jet.

Down a set of steps I spied some old cameras in a window. I ventured into what was an Aladdin’s cave of religious icons, soviet history and old russian cameras. I fell in love and bought a 1920’s russian medium format camera from the young guy in shop. I paid my $20 and hurried back to the ship with my new purchase. On arriving at the port entrance I was stopped by a Ukrainian customs officer in an unfeasible large hat informed me he needed to search my bag. No problem I thought, it wasn’t as if I was smuggling out any important Soviet historical items. Only I was! According to Comrade Hat, the barely working 70 year old camera was a vital connection with communist history and as such had to be confiscated. Of course being young(er) naive(er) and above all stupid, I handed the camera to him, instead of the $5 he really wanted.

Fast forward 16 years to Odessa today. Debaryskya is still the center of the city, but today its where the Ukrainian nouveau riche go to exhibit their faux leopard skin stilettos with 8 inch heels, armani suits and latest accessory dog. The less wealthy (the vast majority) are chomping on almost beef-burgers in Macdonalds or swigging half liter beers at 80p a bottle. The streets from Potemkin to the center have been lavishly but tastefully refurbished. Designer shops, attractive restaurants and bars fill the Victorian buildings, the cars are BMW’s and Porches nearly always the 4 wheel drive variety, although this is mainly because although huge money has been spent on the buildings, the roads still exhibit some startling Soviet tendencies, such as three foot pot holes.

Overall the misty faded post Soviet old city has developed into a beautiful, wealthy metropolis, albeit with poor roads. I like, I like it a lot. But then I live here.