Rant 107: Luke

Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke

Wanted to be a cook

His folks didn't give a fook

So he shot himself by a brook

Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad

To see a scene so bad

The rabbits, they nearly went mad

The vultures, though, were quite glad

Eat, Eat, Eat, Eat

All that fresh meat

That brain was a special treat

Don't let it stink up in the heat

Cry, Cry, Cry, Cry

But never see why,

Luke's soul was a lie

All he needed was a reason to die

Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke

A moment was all it took

Now inwards you must look

Do you really give a fook?

Rant 106: Hell and back

A school teacher once said to me, "I don't like it if I see you quiet. You're not one of those who's meant to stay quiet."

She was quite right. At the risk of beating my own trumpet, I am a firm believer in not staying quiet; in making my mark wherever I go and in whatever I do. A former boss - when discussing my enthusiasm and professional desire in a not-very-positive light - said once, "don't try and run before you can walk". I firmly believe he was full of s***.

On 31st March, I ran for 9 hours. I covered 58km. Prior to that day, the most I had run was 30km (3 hours). I had never run a marathon, not even walked 42km. And yet, at 08:50am, with rain and wind sweeping through the Humber Bridge Country Park car park, around 40 of us gathered for the pre-race brief for Hell On The Humber - Mad Hatter. A 9-hour endurance event on the Humber Bridge. At exactly 9am I began my quest to be an ultrarunner. Running has become a passion for me over the last 18 months, and like anything else I take up, I want to leave my mark on it. HOTH was just the start of it, but it's a pretty solid mark! I had well and truly run before I could 'walk'.

I do not underestimate the achievement. I am bloody proud of it. In no way was the event easy, in no way was it taken lightly. My thighs hurt, though mentally I felt fine. I was cold, my fingers were numb, but I motored on. Churning out the laps was pure pain, but time actually passed by fairly quickly. I was lucky to be helped for a good few hours in the morning by Tom Fitzsimons, who I met earlier this year and who has been a great inspiration for my running - more on that in a previous blog post here - and who gave me some invaluable tips on staying hydrated and fuelling. It was so good to see someone like Tom, who has achieved so much with running, come out in support of me. 

The first two laps (each lap being 4 miles of a round trip back and forth on the bridge) I knocked off in 1h 20mins. It wasn't the smartest strategy - going out too fast - but even by the 7th hour I was still pulling 50-min laps. Everything hurt; there were many points where I was walking for 5 mins and running for 2; many stages where I wondered whether with every passing minute my sanity was slowly floating away on the river 30 metres below my feet. As is the case with a laps-based event, I was passing other runners all the time, and it became second nature to say "well done, well done" to each one - a kind of tribalistic, almost cult-like exercise. It did not matter whether you were walking, jogging, or running - you said it, and got one in return. The winds from the North Sea blow your ego away quicker than you can say "I'm too pro for this". But such was the state of mind and body by the 8th hour that I'm sure I said "well done" to pretty much every passing person - didn't matter if they had a race number attached to their clothing or not. Sanity was three laps behind me and didn't seem all that bothered about catching up.

At approximately, 4:10pm, I was hoping to put in 2 more laps, but as soon as I started lap 9, the legs just refused to go at beyond walking pace. Even a slight jog would set off my thighs. Halfway across the bridge, the realisation hit that I wouldn't make my goal mileage of 64km. Perhaps out of sheer exhaustion, my ego didn't have the strength to battle anymore. I accepted the outcome and decided the best thing would be to jog/walk the 9th lap and finish with a smile, which I did at 5:20pm. At 5:30pm, we were allowed to sign-off from the race - race officials deemed 8.5 hours as the good-enough cut-off for a 9-hour-finisher cert.

Far from being disappointed at my failed lap, I sat in my van with a big grin, thinking "I've just run 58km. F*** me, that was brilliant!" Or as the great Bruce Dickinson would say, "Hell ain't a bad place. Hell is from here to eternity."

Rant 105: Into the void

Remember that feeling you get when someone asks, "describe yourself in one sentence"? You know, that sinking, shameful feeling, that you've lived for so long on this Earth and yet have never stopped to sum yourself up in one bloody sentence. You falter, string a few 'uhmms', 'ahhhs', 'wells', and 'you knows' together and then go blank. Yeah, I kind of had that today. Only difference is the question was, "tell me why you run".

09:40am: I'm sat in a cafe in a park in Wakefield, in front of a guy who has done quite possibly some of the most amazing running adventures imaginable - 155 miles across the Sahara desert, coast to coast in the USA in 100 days, marathons galore, you name it. I've just finished a 5k parkrun event. Yep, there's no comparison. The person in question is Tom Fitzsimons, and I've been reading his book about that USA run - "It's not about the beard" - and I have been really inspired by it. Tom's story, detailed much more in his book of course, is really good to read and hear about. A former alcoholic, who gave up the vice to begin a journey of sobriety that has lasted more than 10 years. Included in that journey were various running achievements. How could I not be inspired?
Cue, a link up on twitter and soon enough we'd arranged to meet up. On a cold, damp morning in West Yorkshire, with a couple of americanos in front of us, we chat about running and life.
"I'm running for all those alcoholics who can't, or who haven't done yet," he tells me, and adds later, "you've got to ask yourself, and tell me, why you run. Why do you want to run this marathon?"

And that's when I struggle. There are two answers in the back of my head. I'm scared of one of them. The first one I explain to Tom. "I'm running because I want to inspire my two boys. I want them to think that they can overcome anything." It's a bit vague - and I think even Tom guesses that - but I genuinely want to be the best man in the world for my kids. Like, if they're given an essay question in school titled "My Hero" it should either be me, or Batman!
For the second answer, we must go back to October 2016. I was sat down by my editor in the super swanky offices of BBC Sport in Manchester and told that my contract would not be renewed. Three months prior to that, I had left a stable job with the Press Association to chase my sports journalism dream - I was given a three-month BBC contract with hope that it might be renewed. When that dream came crashing down, in my head I'd let down my wife, my son (at the time I had just one!), my parents, and my brother. All of these people had always put their faith in me (not to mention time and resources) and all these people had been so happy when I'd got the initial contract. I'd been so happy to see them happy. And in one swift moment, it was gone. I was that person who couldn't provide for his family, who couldn't make his parents proud, who had failed at his job. So here's the second answer - and I've never been brave enough to say this to myself until today - "I'm filling a void".
Perhaps the phrase "filling a void" has gotten a bad rep in this world. Probably because it's largely associated with things like alcohol, drugs, and food. I've used all three to fill various other past voids in my life. As far as void-fillers go, running ain't the worst of the lot! So far, I've filled the void with half-marathons, 10Ks, and 33 parkruns. For 2018 I will be running a marathon in a place beyond the arctic circle, and before that I will be running for 9 hours straight on the Humber Bridge. I've thought of myself as a fighter all my life. My ego will not let it go if I'm beaten at anything. I'm pig headed in that respect. Sometimes that's good, sometimes not so much. But if my current enemy is this void, then running is as good a sword as any. The journalistic pen-is-mighter crap can go f*** itself.

I've lost track of time in the cafe. There's a biscuit in front of me - came free with the coffee - but I've not bothered with it. I've enjoyed the chat with Tom. He's told me about his sons, his family, about his struggles with addiction, about his run through the States, about other runners who had overcome similar and worse addictions. Strangely, we've not chatted so much about running as about life in general. To prove that point, one of the things I remember most is a story, a parable, he tells me about a Chinese farmer. This farmer loses his horse, and his fellow villagers all gather round to say "isn't it terrible you lost your horse?". And the farmer says, "maybe". The next day his son goes looking for said horse, finds it, and then finds 10 other horses with it. All the villagers go, "isn't it great you found all these horses?". "Maybe", says the farmer. The next day, his son breaks his leg training one of the newly found horses. "Isn't it terrible?" say the villagers. "Maybe," says the farmer. The day after, the king comes looking for army conscripts and the son gets rejected due to his leg. "Isn't it great?" say the villagers." I think you can guess what the farmer says...

Life happens for a reason. Life will take me places good and bad. For now, I've got my family and my running shoes. I'll be fine. 

Rant 104: Running for tech's sake?

I took up running in October last year. I know, right? I, who was agile on a tennis court but who would struggle to jog for 20 minutes without wheezing and panting, was suddenly putting one foot in front of the other on a road and just running for the sake of running. As my dream job lay in pieces, as I lost confidence in my professional life, as I lost confidence in general, I somehow pulled myself up to go from fearing running to running a 10K recently. I'm aiming for a half-marathon in June. I've come quite far. And I didn't need a fitness tracker to tell me that.

Enjoying the scenery at my local Parkrun in Goole

I enjoy most aspects of running, and not just the exercise bit - meeting new people, bettering myself every time, finding new limits to my physicality and so forth. But I do notice a lot of people in the running community are obsessed with the technology that goes with it. The sheer number of fitness watches, for example, in the market today make my head spin. Not to mention all the apps that allow your phone to become a fitness tracker. Garmin, Strava, Nike, Adidas, Map My Run, and the thousands of others, all seem to cater to one taste or another. And they all let you post to social (obvious eh?) which is nice if you're in a group and want to keep each other motivated.
But do we really need all of this technology? I can see the need for elite runners to be hooked up to all sorts of devices, sure. But does Joe Bloggs? (or me who isn't really training for the Olympics anytime soon)
As we go out on a practice run around the block, do we really need a fitness watch, a mobile app, a heart-rate monitor, headphones, then music as well? (By the way, this is not to single out those with health conditions who genuinely need to monitor their heart rates when running) This gear doesn't come cheap either. Fitness watches are anything from £50 to name-your-price. Plenty of apps are free but if you want to "geek out" as one manufacturer says on its profile why not pay for the premium version to get all sorts of stats and details that even Usain Bolt may not have access to (he probably does, but you get my point)?

I have a digital watch, it cost me £7, and it has a stop watch. If you think back to when running probably became an Olympic sport, that's probably all that athletes had (swap digital for analog watch, of course!)

A kiss for my son before the Huddersfield 10K

But here's my chronology and how I came to my decision to run relatively "off-grid". When I started running back in October, I had my phone with Google Fit on it, kept in my left shorts pocket. I had music on with a set of wired headphones but I didn't have a watch. The reason I describe my get up in detail is because I came to realise I was concentrating more on the tech not hindering me than I was on things like my breathing, my gait, or my general state. Phone in the pocket jangles, accidentally swipes my workout shut; headphone wires get tangled in my hands, unit falls to ground, me frustrated, the right song doesn't come up on the player, mood deflates; constantly checking Google Fit for distance run, so not concentrating on running itself. One day in December, I cast it all away and bought the £7 watch. My next Parkrun was, for that time, my best ever. It was a defining moment. No longer was I obsessed with my distance, my average pace, my steps, my heart rate, my music, or wires. I was running, my feet were moving, and I was enjoying the scenery. (Case in point, my recent 10k in Huddersfield which is a supremely picturesque part of England so I really didn't want to miss the views. As opposed to a few runners who literally had their phones in their hands and in front of their faces! That's a safety issue to begin with.)
I know roughly what the distances are around my house so short runs are sorted for. And if I do find myself mentally drifting because there's no music to listen to, I solve math problems. Yep! I pick two random numbers and do basic arithmetic. Sometimes I get the answer right, sometimes wrong. It tells me a lot about my mental state during running, though, which I feel no app or fitness watch can ever do. Another way to keep mentally fit? I try and remember where I'm running to - especially on long runs - then I can "make" that route on Google maps on my return and see how far I've run. It's not an exact science but I don't need that much detail for what is essentially the world's oldest and simplest form of exercise.

In a similar way, my legs will remember the stress of a 10k longer than an app can. Cost: Zero, Results: Priceless.

PS: I'm raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support ahead of this June's Humber Bridge Half Marathon - also my 30th birthday. This is a humble request for donations which you can make by clicking here.

Rant 103: Let's all take a step back on Jose Mourinho

It could be the biggest signing Manchester United ever make for the new season. It could be the worst. I'm not here to lay down stats, or argue about formations, or debate where Wayne Rooney should play under Jose Mourinho.
But a feeling in me says I cannot automatically tag trophies onto Manchester United just because we have Mourinho at the helm. Sure, Mourinho's track record is brilliant - well, that is if you don't count his last season with Chelsea, who were in relegation danger no less.
Mourinho is a big club man through and through. I can't ever see him doing a Rafa Benitez and taking on a Newcastle-esque challenge. Mourinho moves to a big club and makes them bigger, of that I have no doubt. But the clubs he has been at have always had to reconcile their own style and personality with the professional ego that Mourinho employs. It is an ego that has served Mourinho well, but has also caused conflict.

Louis van Gaal, after United's defeat to Boro

Examples?
His first spell at Chelsea - won titles, but rumours of player unrest, player power in the dressing room, battles with the owner
Inter Milan - again, titles won but more player unrest, including with a certain Samuel Eto'o
Real Madrid - good times, but further battles with players, eventually leaving on a sour note
Second spell at Chelsea - well, you can probably see where this is heading. Although to some credit, it wasn't so much player unrest as much as Chelsea's bad performances that led to his eventual exit. However, not sure how much the controversy over Eva Carneiro helped.

Don't get me wrong. I have every reason to believe we at Manchester United will win games under Mourinho. He gets the results. Whether or not we will suddenly remember to play with style and flair is a doubt. Louis van Gaal's tactics left me bored, but I liked the man. He knew he was in a tough environment and he fought back. He also knew what the limitations were. I remember being in the press conference after United lost to Middlesbrough in the League Cup in late 2015. Van Gaal walked in, sat down and was asked his first question. His response began with a heavy sigh. Here was a man trying to employ his style, but which didn't quite work. To his immense credit, he left with FA Cup glory, and with the legacy of bringing several youngsters into the first-team fold. Also, don't forget he signed Anthony Martial not for himself but for "the next manager" - read story here . So if Martial continues to fire, Mourinho will probably be saying several silent "thank yous".

But coming back to Mourinho the personality. Indeed, the best word is perhaps 'character'. For that is what he is, and in all honesty that is what the Premier League needs, more characters. They liven up the game, they bring their own views and opinions to the fore, and they provide their own form of entertainment. Sometimes, that can go horribly wrong, as Mourinho has proven with a few PR mistakes from last season - Carneiro controversy being one of them. I could feel the Chelsea fans cringing - possibly - every time you heard of a fresh incident/controversy/PR nightmare involving Mourinho. Backed up by some disappointing results, it was not a good reflection on the club.

Characters are important for a club like United

Character is good for a club like Manchester United, who have always employed an amazing cocktail of style and substance. Think Sir Alex Ferguson, think George Best, David Beckham, Cristiano Ronaldo,
It's whether the character that Jose Mourinho brings is a good fit for Manchester United. Mourinho described United as a 'monster club'. Mourinho himself is a 'monster' of a manager based on his track record. Who consumes who will be a good question to answer.

Rant 102: Walking away - A short story

They had not spoken in two years, not in real life anyway. She spent months agonising about whether to see him again. Then months spent imagining this day, she had hoped to see him for longer. The meeting lasted 10 minutes.
He looked to have much to say, or did she wish it were so? Perhaps it was his stare. He sat calm and composed - seemingly not aware of the people around them. People generally seemed lost in their own little world.
"Would you like to sit down?" he at last said.
She shook her head. His appearance had changed much, but his voice still had that quality of making you feel wanted.
"Have you been doing well?". Another general query. For god's sake, I wish he'd ask me something real.
"Yes, I'm alright," she heard herself say. "A bit tired, but otherwise good." She had driven three hours straight. She felt like she had been driving all day. The sea air was doing her some good so far. She hoped he wouldn't be able to smell the alcohol on her breath.


A bird cried out, the pitch straining her ears. She winced slightly at its last shriek. He smiled. She wished she'd accepted his offer of a seat.
"I've missed you," he said. At last, something real. This was the first real thing she had heard him say in over two years. She nearly burst into tears. She nearly hit him.
But all she could do was say, "So have I."
"I was hoping we could meet up," he began again. "But I don't really know where I want to go from here."
I know, it's my fault. It's always been my fault, and I can't begin to say how sorry I am.
She said: "To be honest, I wasn't sure what today was going to be like. I'm still afraid of how this looks. I've not told my parents about this, of course."
"I understand."
"To be honest, I don't speak to my parents much."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He had maintained his voice thus far. She marvelled at his composure. Then again, that night two years ago as well, he had seemed composed, nay, resigned to his fate. Her own shrieks were entrenched in memory, not so much of his, if any.
They had left him for dead, on the steps leading up to the railway station. Did they intend for her to find him? Face down, and lying on his right cheek, he was conscious as she helped him to a sitting position. Unrecognisable, but that had much to do with the blood from his head wound. She cried for help. He told her not to worry. Then he passed out. The doctors had been a godsend.
"Your parents must be worried about you?" he continued.
"They always worry about me. Mostly about who I'm seen with." Now she could feel her strength returning. The large whisky she had drunk earlier in the morning had helped - not to mention the refill - but the anger at her own flesh and blood now brewing inside her was the real fuel.
"Then perhaps today was ill-advised."
"No!" she retorted. "I wanted this. I wanted today to happen. It was a choice between this, or another day without saying what I really wanted to say that night."
"Which was..."
"I'm sorry. I fucked up."
The words seemed to echo inside her own head. She felt relieved, almost happy, at having finally uttered them.
She felt him walking away. "It's okay," he said. After a pause he added: "I suppose I needed to hear an apology of some sort from someone. But really, I never held you responsible for anything. Apart from stealing my heart, of course! And in any case, I'm in a much happier place now. So all is forgiven."
I know. And I'm happy you're happy.
Slowly, she laid the flowers near his headstone. There was nothing left to do but walk away.

Rant 101: Plane and simple - the story behind the picture

It's funny how many of my pictures that evoke emotion in me are actually tapping into emotion from my childhood. A previous story-behind-the-picture piece I wrote for this blog looked at my childhood love of playing tennis alongside a photograph taken more than two decades on. You can read it here.
Today, I talk about aircraft.
My wife, son and I visited the Yorkshire Air Museum today. It was my son's first visit, though Kirstie and I have visited several times before. It is a fascinating place full of history, and filled with winged technology to enthral people of all ages.

Gritty, robust, and classy - all at the same time

This picture you see on the right was taken in a huge hangar at the air museum complex, and is of an
aircraft propeller. It looks antique, some would say ancient! But that's exactly what attracted me to it. The elegance, the craft, the engraving on metal of "Scott" filled with blue, the wooden blade with their own two respective markings at either end, the metal bits stained by years of being worked on, repaired, used, and then repaired again. It was as if whatever workshop this aircraft came out of, I could smell the hard work and effort that went into making one of these. Then again, perhaps this "workshop" I speak of is not too much in the realm of fantasy.

And this is where my childhood comes in. As with many children, I too fell in love with aircrafts and the wonders of flight. I never took my first flight till the age of 16 but as a child, I had a friend from school whose family were big into aircraft. They owned several businesses, and had interests in the aircraft business as well. What that translated to for my friend was that he and his brother were huge fans of model aircraft. Not the frilly, dime-a-dozen, plastic-feel kind you get these days. His were gritty, robust, and classy all at the same time. They made a lot of noise, sometimes emitted smoke (which we all agreed was both a good and a bad thing) and when they flew my heart would leap with them. Funnily enough, I never saw their planes actually fly more than a few times. In fact, my best memories of them are just all of us sitting down and watching my friend's brother work on it, fix things little by little, add a bit of fuel here, tighten a screw there, and just focus all of his energies for that period on this model aircraft. It was like watching an artist at work.

So, in a very simple way, when I saw this propeller set at the Yorkshire Air Museum, I was - as with my tennis session - taken back to a simpler time! I must apologise as I don't actually remember what kind of aircraft this belongs to. Reason being that I was so taken in by the propeller and its looks and the memories that I forgot to have a read of the information board. 

Rant 100: Why I love tennis - the story behind the picture

I’ve often thought about doing a full blog post about the pictures that I click and share on my photography page (click here if you want to have a scroll). For one reason or another I’ve never been able to. But this being my 100th Rant, I thought I’d take the plunge.

So, to set the scene - I’d finished work at 7pm, and was torn between going to the gym or playing tennis with a friend. As it turned out my friend was not available to play. And so I ended up on my own at the tennis court.

And suddenly, I was a five-year-old again!

Tennis in the Twilight (location: Goole Tennis Centre)

Flashback to the early 90s in Jamshedpur. My father decided to enrol a four-and-a-half-year-old me in tennis lessons. Now, growing up in India, with cricket as the unofficial national sport, I was a bit bemused. In fact, I even resisted. Why would I want to play something like tennis, when I could instead be out playing cricket with my neighbourhood friends? Everybody played cricket, literally everybody. Whether it was at school, or at the local park. Still, my father persisted, and took me on his little green-yellow lambretta scooter to a local recreation centre called “United Club”. Among things like showing movies, food, swimming pool, they had two clay tennis courts.
I can remember it very clearly now, the first time I stepped on to a tennis court. My father was introducing me to the coach, but I was lost in a different world. Somehow, by some stroke of luck, I was transfixed by the court. Red clay, with pristine white lines, and with a net across the middle. It was mesmerising, it really was. And that’s part of the reason why I remember those first few steps so vividly. From then on, I was hooked on tennis.

Tennis is an individual sport, and in many ways it suited me perfectly. I’ve always had my own rebellious streak so perhaps a team sport like cricket or football was not best suited. In tennis, I work for my own win, mistakes are mine to bear, and my creativity is mine alone. I can be as crazy, or as subtle as I want. At the moment of hitting a ball, nobody can tell you how to play the stroke - you play it, and be it on your head. I loved it.

But tennis is also different. And this goes back to the fact that not a lot of people played it - at the time - in Jamshedpur. I was taught the basic strokes, but I would regularly struggle to actually play much. My coach and his colleagues Tillak Sir, Ganesh Bhaiya and others, to their immense credit, seemed to love that I loved the sport so much, and would therefore basket-feed me about 200 balls every day. But that was about it. At the start I was not good enough or old enough to play a proper match against them, though it never stopped me trying, and none of my age-group peers played tennis. I was on my own. And still I played and loved.

In fact it came to a point when even ball-feeding from the coaches stopped, given I used to be the only kid who would rock up every afternoon - couldn’t blame the coaches. But still I came, and grew to love the game even more.

One reason - because even when the coaching stopped, even when the coaches did not emerge from the clubhouse in the 40-degree heat, I continued to play. I would be dropped off by my father at around 3pm - on his way to work - I would be given a tennis ball by the coach, and I would stand at the court baseline and hit against the perimeter wall. I was playing against myself. I would play games of my own. How many shots could I do in one “rally”? How many volleys could I do standing closer to the wall? How many tap-ups could I do in a minute? The stats, as it were, eventually became irrelevant. What mattered was that I was gaining valuable experience of my own limits; I was learning a lot about the proper grip on a racket - the coach would sometimes observe and give a few pointers - I improved my agility and balance, and my movement around the court area. I am still a predominantly baseline player and rely on a strong top-spin game. Basically, those years spent banging against wall, I could do whatever the heck I wanted in that time without being troubled by parents or siblings or friends, and without being judged for it as well.

It helped me find myself at a very young age.

And so I found myself again… 24 years later, on a brisk but sunny evening in Goole, East Yorkshire, nearly 6,000 miles away from those sun-baked courts in Jamshedpur. I stretched, jogged, then started hitting the ball on my own, swung some forehands, some backhands, smashed some serves.

I learned.

Rant 99: My English is apparently very good

There are various ways of being an immigrant these days. You could be seeking a better life, more money, seeking love, or maybe fleeing war and persecution. But whatever label we put on ourselves - or, rather, whatever label society chooses to put on us - the language I speak and how I speak it has had an impact on how I am perceived.

Take English for instance, purely on a basic level. Here is a conversation I have had on several occasions since moving from India to England in 2011.

Other person: “Are you from India?”

Me: “Yes.”

Other person: “Your English is very good.”

Me: “Err… thanks.”

*resists temptation to say “so is yours” *

Now, unless you were my English teacher, or the one who marked my exam papers, I have never really needed validation of my level of English. Case in point, my journalism professor in England once said my spoken English was “impeccable”, which led to an awkward silence in a classroom mostly filled with British students.

I grew up in an English-based school, in a country that is arguably one of the fastest developing in the modern world, and with parents and friends who spoke more English than Hindi. India has embraced many parts of western culture and one of those is certainly the language. Also bear in mind the education system in India is largely a product of the British colonial presence pre-August 1947. Hardly surprising then that the vast majority of urban and suburban children in India grow up with better English than Hindi - or any other regional language. To put it another way, if I had to choose a language to save my life, it would be English. My English is not perfect - no way would I describe it as “impeccable” either - but it does the job for me.

So why do the aforementioned feel compelled to compliment me? I suppose in the case of my journalism professor it’s part of his job, which makes it okay to an extent. In the case of the ‘other person’ - the captain of a village cricket team I was part of - it could be the need to feel superior.

That is my theory as to why somebody feels the need to point out how good (or bad) my English is - dominance. Is there a perception that an immigrant, or in simpler terms a foreigner, must surely be in a state of perpetual struggle with his new environment and culture? And is there a case that this applies only to foreigners/immigrants from the developing or third-world countries? I’m still searching for a complete answer, but perhaps there is some merit to be given to anecdotal evidence. Why else would somebody feel that he or she must comment on the language of a foreigner, bearing in mind I have never heard the same being said by one Englishman to another? Ah we are of this country so surely we speak our language best, and the fact that you grew up in another country means you can never be as good as us.

Could another theory be that it’s simply ignorance? That the cricket captain - like many others who think my English is “very good” - is just not as aware of the wider world? It feels weird writing a statement like that in the 21st century, but perhaps that is also part of the truth. It doesn’t make it acceptable in any case.

I do not feel that speaking/writing good Hindi is the sole preserve of Indians. In fact, Hindi can boast Sanskrit (central Asia) and Persian influences so who am I to assume that someone in Tajikistan or Iran does not speak impeccable Hindi? Or that if someone from Tajikistan or Iran speaks Hindi to me, that I must make sure he knows how good his Hindi is?

He probably knows how good his Hindi is so, you know, thanks but no thanks!

Rant 98: Born in the wrong country

Identity
I’m not the first person who when asked “where are you from?” falls down a mental black hole of uncertainty and insecurity. I’m also sure I’m not the first person who feels their identity is in a constant flux.

And so the question raises itself again: Where am I truly from?

To clear the basics: I was, I am told, born in the state of Orissa in the south eastern part of India. I am told it was in the summer. I remember growing up in Jamshedpur, in the state of Bihar (now Jharkhand) in eastern India. So, surely, I must identify with that place?

However, a mixture of insecurity during childhood, peer pressure, social embarrassment, bullying, failure to achieve expectations, and a general desire to see the wider world forced me to reject the place I grew up in. Jamshedpur is still the place that I know best - geographically speaking - and it is still the place where I have spent the most amount of time at a single stretch. But I am not from Jamshedpur.

To continue the basics: I did my basic bachelor’s degree in Manipal, in the coastal belt of south west India. I rejected an opportunity to study in the United States and packed off to a university known more for its party scene than its academic prowess. I spent three years doing a degree I had supposedly wanted to do. I made some friends, had some adventures, and eventually scraped through with a degree. However, among the many regrets was the fact that I had wasted three years of my life indulging in forms of excess I had not expected of myself. Add to that more social exclusion, being generally bullied, and rejected in areas of love. All of these add up to more bad memories, more regrets, and more feelings of shame when remembering the past. I am not from Manipal.

I spent the next two-and-a-half years working out of Mangalore, which was just an hour away from Manipal - again on the coast. Here, I found myself professionally. I became good at what I did. I made two very good friends, had some amazing experiences, found love, then lost it, then indulged in excess and then found my future wife. And yet, I do not identify myself as being from Mangalore. This one I am at a loss to explain why.

My then-girlfriend-now-wife had been visiting from England. We fell in love and I eventually came over to the UK to do my Master’s degree. There was a great deal of excitement about being in a totally new country. And an equally exciting prospect was leaving India behind. Not just the land, but all my bad memories. I had resolved to change myself. I had resolved to run away from all that I hated about India, all that I hated about my association with India. I was of the opinion, that if I separated myself by vast oceans and thousands of miles, India would never catch up with me. My past, I hoped, would never resurface. And thankfully, there has never been a major occurrence of that so far.

And so I resolved to change myself. I tried, and I still am trying, to become British. It’s a weird moment in my life when I admit to myself, that I need to begin a new identity. Secret agents perhaps have it easy when changing identities, as it’s part of the job. They don’t necessarily choose having to become someone else. They are required to. I’m choosing to change my identity.

Since late 2011, in fact, I have consciously tried to change my habits, my way of speaking, my way of communicating, my way of cracking jokes, my way of watching television, heck even my way of drinking water.

I do not know if what I am doing is correct. It’s difficult to integrate into a culture that is so vastly different from the one you grew up in. Even in the multicultural world of 2015, there are some things I can just never hope to be; or some things that you just can’t choose into being. On a day-to-day basis, "being British" - or whatever I am doing is called - isn’t easy. I’m sure there are many Brits who say the same thing.

It’s difficult. But I am trying.

I am not from England. But from November 2015 onwards, a part of me has officially staked claim to being from England. A part of my identity has been reborn. And this time, I get the feeling it's the right country.

Yorkshire de Tour - Part 2

Part 2: Donny’s big win

14th February, 2015: And so it happened that I was all set for another Sheffield Wednesday game after the previous week's affair (read here in my tour part 1), but owing to a tragic death on the railway line outside of Sheffield, the trains had to return to Doncaster. The news of a death had rattled us all in that train carriage – barring one very self-obsessed young-adult whose idea was to “scoop the remains up and let us through. It’s my birthday and I’ve got a dinner reservation.”

Back in the world of common sense, I alighted at Doncaster and quickly decided to make my way to the Keepmoat Stadium, where Doncaster were due to play Yeovil Town in the Sky Bet League One. The stadium is actually a fair distance from the train station, so I had to catch a bus from the interchange just outside the station. But it’s really cheap at £2 return. It’s probably more expensive to drive over I think!

The bus was fairly filled with Doncaster fans – and three Yeovil fans as well. In fact, the Yeovil lads were nicely chatting away with the Donny ones and it just goes to show football rivalries can really just be left on the pitch. It’s not all riots at 2pm before kick-off!

Keepmoat Stadium. Bit out of the way but a decent crowd

As you near the stadium, there is almost a sense that the area around it hasn’t been fully developed. Indeed, I got the feeling we were at a construction site, but for the fact that you can see the floodlights. The area is in the surroundings known as Lakeside, which also boasts a retail/shopping outlet.

But much like that day in Sheffield last time, you can again see the masses of fans walking over to watch an afternoon of football. I met a couple of fans who were happy to show me the way to the kop stand. Generally the vibe was quite friendly, and even the fanzine sellers were pretty jolly! The ticket office is located quite conveniently and the queues move very quickly. £23 it cost me to get a ticket for the kop stand, two less than that at Sheffield Wednesday.

The Keepmoat is a much more modern-looking stadium than Hillsborough, it has to be said. From the inside, the first thing that hits you is the crowd of course, but then you see the concession stands and families waiting for kick-off and it’s rather different from the old-school feel at Wednesday.

Doncaster do have a proud history going back to the 19th and 20th centuries, and they take pride in showing off the highlights on walls inside. As with most clubs in the UK, war has affected Rovers, but it always leaves them stronger, which is probably a learning for life itself.

The football pitch area, you’re hit by the colour red but it’s a very pretty sight indeed. Unlike at Hillsborough, I was closer to the goal here. And it’s a completely different experience I have to say. You get a real feel of how fast and physical the game is – more so at League One, where the skill levels may not be as high as say the Premier League. However, what you also get from this vantage point is the full might of the breeze! Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it, though there were spells of sunshine which at least made the action look a bit cheerier.

The Doncaster fans were happy. It was a comfortable 3-0 win, and Yeovil never really got into the game. Doncaster even have a big screen in one corner where replays of each goal are shown, which is quite nice I think! I also managed to fulfil my half-time pie desire, a steak one since you ask. And I also had a pint of bitter. Both were decently priced at £3.20 each.

Close to the action at the Keepmoat

In the end, as Rovers sailed to their second big win in succession – they beat Crawley 5-0 in the previous weekend – I called it a day about five minutes before the end, but only because I was freezing and I wanted to start walking about. Thankfully, there was a bus available not long after the match ended and I was quickly on my way back to the station. I did get a chance to have a post-match pint at a pub not far from the station, which was also showing the Liverpool-Crystal Palace game. Half-time there and I finally got on the train back to Goole. What could have been a waste of an afternoon, turned into a jolly one after all.

Ratings:

Matchday costs: 6/10 Tickets not perfect at £23 considering it’s League One. Stadium doesn’t sell out. Pints and pie perfect at £3.20

Stadium – 8/10. Modern stadium, plenty of facilities and good concession area.

Football – 9/10 comfortable 3-0 win. Dominating performance in both attack and defence from Doncaster.

Overall matchday experience – 7/10

Yorkshire De Tour - Part 1

Part 1: Sheffield Wednesday's nerves of steel
7th February, 2015: Having found a rare Saturday off, I decided the best use of it would be to travel down to Sheffield. Yes, it is really travelling 'down' as Sheffield lies in South Yorkshire and was once the heartland of steel in the UK. Quite a nice city to start off this Yorkshire tour then, given my Jamshedpur and TATA Steel roots. Today, Sheffield boasts a huge university, a vibrant music and theatre scene, and two historic Football League clubs. I was off to Sheffield Wednesday versus Cardiff City, two former Premier League clubs in fact. A few people from my office support Wednesday, otherwise known as the Owls.
I paid £12.30 for a return ticket from Goole to Sheffield. The Northern rail service takes you through Doncaster and into Sheffield. As soon as you exit the station you can see the Sheffield Hallam University buildings. I, of course, headed out for a pre-match pint at The Sheffield Tap, which is attached to the station, and which was insanely busy.

Pre-match entertainment is always standard!

Regardless, I then made my way to the tram stop at the station. I met several fans on the tram, and everyone seemed to recommend getting off at Hillsborough stop. The reason was revealed when I got off at the stop, to be greeted by a massive Weatherspoons pub. Clearly a pre-match favourite haunt.
A massive big-screen projection of the early kick-off, the North London derby between Tottenham and Arsenal was being played. I just about managed to make my way to the bar through the crowds, as you can see in the pitcture, and had a lovely ale to begin with.
I also met James, who told me he had been born and brought up in Sheffield, but had been living in Grimsby for the last eight years. He was there for his first match in two years.
We eventually decided to head to the stadium together, as he knew the shortcut to the Kop, which is a colloquial way of describing the stand where all the hardcore fans sit - or stand for 90 minutes! The stadium itself is just a short 10-minute walk from the pub and you can see the many hundreds of fans making their way as well. It really is a sight to behold at times, when you feel a country as a whole is making its way to football stadia at 3pm on a Saturday. For many it's a release after a week of hard work. You can understand the tribal mentality that comes with such an enterprise.

View of the Kop at Hillsborough from the outside

Almost a world apart from the likes of Old Trafford, which I've visited on a number of occasions, the Hillsborough stadium is very old-school actually. Across a barrier from the kop stand, but still within the stadium premises, you can see the crowds gathered to smoke and have a pint. This in the day of so much health and safety laws is a refreshing throw-back to simpler times! But the actual safety is never compromised, which is a far cry from the tragedy that took place at this very venue.
Anyway, I paid £25 for an adult ticket and took my place way up in the kop stand. You get a seat number assigned but nobody really checks that. I was easily able to sit in a random seat.
It was also the day Wednesday's owner Milan Mandaric was signing off and he gave a rousing speech which the crowd really appreciated.
The match was fairly exciting. The pitch wasn't very good by the looks of it, and it obviously made passing difficult. But there were a fair few chances, not least for former Southampton and Sunderland forward Kenwyne Jones scoring early on with a header.  To their credit, Wednesday were only down for a bit. Came back with a few attacks of their own. The Kop was showing plenty of support including people with drums and bugles. It can get only slightly annoying! But you appreciate the spirit shown by fans who pay upwards of £20 week-in week-out. What you perhaps shouldn't appreciate is rowdy behaviour, with one fan I saw being spoken to in no uncertain terms by the stewards, for being abusive towards another fan. In an age when so much is reported of abuse going unchecked, it's good to see some places are able to monitor and root out such behaviour.

I wanted to cap my matchday experience with a half-time pint and a pie, but sadly the sheer crowds that gather in the smoking/pint area means I'd have ended up waiting well into the second half! But the crowd again shows the passion people have for simple pleasures.All hail the Great British Pie!
There was only a smattering of away fans in the far end, as I guess it's quite a long trek up from Wales. But they had plenty to shout about of course. Thankfully, for the home support, Wednesday earned a penalty in the second half and Will Keane scored the spot kick. Keane is actually on loan at Wednesday from Manchester United, so that's certainly a good sign for us Red Devils! Despite the comeback though, Wednesday were unable to find a winning goal. But it was a draw, which keeps people relatively happy.
Again, much like 3pm, the sheer number of people making their way out onto the streets at 5pm is amazing. Unsurprisingly, there was a sizeable police presence dotted from the ground up to a few tram stops away. It is not unheard of for trouble to break out at football grounds in general, and I have to say I felt much safer seeing the police cars.
I made my way back to Sheffield Station, stopping at a pub along the way of course! And it was easy to catch one of the many trains heading back up towards Goole.
All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience and I am glad I took the plunge. Next week, hopefully, I will bring you a matchday report of another of Yorkshire's older clubs Doncaster Rovers, as we continue this off-beat Tour de Yorkshire.

Ratings-
Matchday costs - 8/10. Ticket Prices just about right considering it's the Championship, pints not too bad.
Stadium - 7/10. Old-School which is refreshing, but not enough toilets!
Football - 6/10. A draw so can't really give anything seven and above sadly. 
Overall Matchday experience - 8/10. 

Rant 97: We're on Facebook!

At long last, I have taken the leap and created a facebook page for the photos that I take and love. If you're of a generous disposition (!) then please do take the time and have a look around.
I have been taking pictures as a very serious hobby and passion for the last six years and I hope to continue that for the rest of my life. I will try and post at least one photo a day (hopefully more) and I do hope everyone enjoys them as much as I have enjoyed taking them.
These photos are to view and enjoy. If they do catch your fancy beyond the usual, and you would like to purchase a high-quality version - digital or print - please do get in touch via the Facebook page, and I will be happy to oblige!

The Archaeological Park in New Delhi has some fascinating sights to behold. But for these kids, a swimming and diving session into a Mughal-era pool was all they wanted! It is true the best things in life are, quite simply, free!

Rant 96: My Dynamic Shift

It's hard to find ways to kill time sometimes, especially when you're unemployed (enforced). However, it gives ample time to experiment with different types of photography, as well as different types of post-processing.

On a very bright and sunny day.
Perhaps best to leave HDR for sunrise
or sunsets?

Now HDR, or High Dynamic Ranging, was something I had always shied away from. Not for the degree of difficulty, but for the insane amount of unrealism that has creeped into this school. Just google for HDR Photography and you almost feel like you're going through the storyboard for Avatar. Even the online tutorials on HDR make you feel like they're describing marmite, "you either love it, or you detest it".
But thanks to the magic of unemployment, I decided to take the plunge. It almost began on a lazy level, in that I simply crawled out into the backyard and attempted my first HDR composition. And while I wasn't exactly happy with the result (see left), I wasn't wholly disappointed with it either. Didn't look too bad for a first attempt. My next attempt, however, I hit upon a method that worked for me! The problem isn't how you take the picture in the field, but how you compose it in Photoshop later. Layer masks, paintbrush tool to begin with. Leaves and trees create their own challenges, one I solved by toning down the opacity of my paintbrush tool when painting (with Black) in certain areas of the respective mask. All in all, I ended up with a very appealing result, a picture taken literally 20 metres away from my house.
The bench (see right) provided a very nice division between the foreground grass and the sky in the background. It also provided the sense of isolation that I was feeling in the area. It's a place called the Howden marshes and is almost akin to a forest.
I got some really nice feedback off Facebook as well! Most importantly, though, I was given a second lesson in why the RAW format is king. For the simple reason that you can mess up maybe two out of your three frames, but if one is good enough, and it's in RAW, you've got a decent head start in doing your post-processing.
Speaking if Photoshop, I've used Adobe software for a number of years now. But I've been increasingly hearing of a software called Photomatix, which supposedly is good for HDR. I haven't tried it yet, mostly because I am quite comfortable with Photoshop. But who knows, all this experimenting on the field might just push me for experimentation off it!
Lastly, while HDR can be your friend on most occasions - the wow effect is simply addictive - it can be a harsh mistress as well. Use it wisely, else you may end up with an amateurish piece as I did with the one below, taken in a churchyard in Howden.

Rant 95: Protesting protests

Today became an unusual day in Manchester United's history. A form of protest rarely envisioned, let alone seen, at Old Trafford called into question an appointment that was expected to be just a step short of "divine will".

Slightly short of pointless

When the plane dragging the "Wrong One - Moyes Out" Banner flew over Old Trafford, a section of the home fans booed, another sang out the usual songs, whilst Manchester United were on the road to a "routine" wobbly win against Aston Villa. If you wondered why no one, metaphorically, gave much of a crap about this protest, then the answer would be that the pre-match build-up had been about little else. David Moyes, the manager under fire, even made the first move by emerging out of the tunnel ahead of his team, giving the fans present at Old Trafford the chance to show their support. So the lack of enthusiasm, or indeed lack of shock, about the protest was understandable.
The manner of the protest itself has been deemed "classless" by some quarters, this after protest organiser Wes Jones claimed in the build-up that "the rumblings of discontent have started in the stands".
Manchester United are now more than 20 points off their position from 2012/13, have a home record only better than some teams fighting for survival, and have rarely won against top-five opposition this season.  It is easy to put the blame on Moyes, who essentially inherited a title-winning side. It is only slightly harder to blame the players, even if Moyes contends there are several ageing limbs - and perhaps rightly so.
The plane/banner protest was presumably in response to a banner that hangs from Old Trafford's Stretford End stand reading "The Chosen One". Sir Alex Ferguson's role in Moyes' appointment was deemed a godsend in the summer, but has now become a point of parody. However, taking the protest from within to newer heights (pardon the pun) was uncalled for. For the majority of fans, the season has gone unexpectedly, but they remain aware of the need to give Moyes time. We remain contenders for a Europa League spot, and need full backing ahead of the Bayern Munich tie. And yes, we are still in contention for the Champions League, no matter how much Bayern lick their lips. Amid all this, the need to maintain support is crucial. It is, of course, as Moyes put it, the right of fans to protest. But what effect does flying a banner over a stadium for all of six seconds achieve, especially when everyone already knows you're going to do it? (At least a certain betting company had the brass to sneak up their own banner on the odds of Fergie making a comeback without anyone getting a whiff!) Protests are meant to shock and this one, thankfully, did not earn its intended mileage either during or after the game.
I have complete respect for those wishing to make their voices heard, but the banner stunt has made us a laughing stock. To my mind, it certainly trumps the anti-Venkys protests at Ewood Park, complete with a live chicken let loose on the pitch.
Our 4-1 win over Aston Villa should be remembered first for the support shown to Moyes, and then for further confidence boosters for our Bayern game. Wayne Rooney continued his good form with two goals, and Juan Mata at last got his first United goal, fittingly, at the same Stretford End that has become a talking point in recent days. In addition, I take heart from Javier Hernandez's display, which saw him score a first league goal since mid-January. Chicharito has failed to hit the heights he achieved under Ferguson, but I'm backing him to come good.
Banners cannot make or break a team. Moyes would certainly not have expected 100% support from the fans last summer, especially with many hoping for Jose Mourinho to be given the role, but fans have to learn to be patient. Several thousand, myself included, have followed United with the idea that winning is a way of life. That is no longer the case, but I am more than content to wait for a good transfer window in the summer and see how this season's recruits gel in from there on. Whatever happens, I know better than to throw my money at a plane banner. 

Rant 94: A radical slip of the tongue

Brett Lee once discovered to
his annoyance how bloody
dangerous fielding on the
ropes is

Ever watched a cricket match, and wondered which was the most important fielding position? I would wager the majority probably doesn't, myself included. After all, there is no guarantee of where the ball will be hit. Well, unless you're Chris Gayle, in which case the best position is probably with the chana wala outside the stadium.
But I'm talking about a position that is used only in certain periods of the match. Not always like a wicketkeeper, not always like point, perhaps, or even not as frequently as fine-leg. I'm talking about the slips.
There's no doubt that the three slip positions (and possibly the gully) are the most used only in the first 10 or 15 overs, when the ball is at its most menacing and the fast bowlers are trying to get movement. An edge to slip is arguably the most common method of dismissal in the first five overs of any game (no opener worth his salt will try a heave in the first five and risk being caught out by early bounce). And leg slip provides valuable deterrent when the spin-led middle overs come by.
Now, I've always wondered about the fielding positions that fast bowlers are used in. If it sounds like I've taken off somewhere else, bear with me. The most common position fast bowlers are put in is on the boundary. Seems logical, perhaps. They have good arms from years of turning it over; good pace from years of watching Shoaib Akhtar; and a good eye from years of trying to hit the correct spot on a pitch. Plus I've heard it said that it's a lazy job, that you're standing around doing nothing for a lot of the time - unless you count drinking Gatorade as a form of exercise.
But I've always been struck by how easily it can go wrong for a fielder at, say, deep square-leg, or maybe deep cover, or even third-man in those nervy middle overs. Putting in the yards to stop a boundary has inevitably led to some body part taking an unnatural position in the climax and there's an injury. Plus add in the fact that the swift release and pacy throws from the deep are, no doubt, hell on the arm. And in the death overs, do you really expect batsmen to not be going for boundary shots?
So my argument is, why not stick them in the slips? Why is it necessary for a player, whose main job on a cricket field is basically to run really fast and turn his arm over six times in a few minutes, to then have even more running and arm slinging to do?
It does sound very radical, I agree, and not traditional at all. I'm a fan of the traditional (given my hatred of Virender Sehwag's penchant for playing like a cow on steroids), but I'm learning to adapt. Bowlers are being given very little incentive to bowl faster and with better swing. Bouncers were reduced, fielders have been brought in, and the concept of free-hits (for f***s sake). The least I would want my bowlers to do is reduce their own workload slightly. I wouldn't even consider putting them in the short positions (short cover, short mid-wicket, short mid-off etc), because you're exposed to (a) a lot of short sprinting, and (b) risky dives on the training pitches.
The slips, in my opinion, are the best for them. It requires, possibly, the least amount of work. And requires much less bending than the keeper position (in case anyone wanted that argument). In addition, bowlers with long arms are perfect for that agonisingly wide edge that fat-man Sehwag couldn't be bothered to try for (I couldn't give a monkey's fiery posterior about his cuticle being damaged - catch the bloody ball!!).
Anyway, that was an idea that came to me today, and I've posted it out there now. I'm sure my minions in the BCCI are hard at work at rectifying this "oddity". I look forward to a strongly worded letter from N Srinivasan - and a lawsuit or two - to arrive any day now.