You might think it would be easier to book a ticket for an English League One football match than travel across India on train or buses, but you’d be wrong; very wrong indeed.
Thanks to innovative companies such as Redbus, buying tickets for India’s intricate bus network is easy as are the trains, which incidentally are as likely to be affected by strike action as somebody burning an effigy of Sachin Tendulkar in Mumbai.
However, on a flying visit to the UK last week I decided to continue a lifetime of pain by going down to Brighton to see my football team Brentford play on the same night the Champions’ League was live on terrestrial TV.
So, not exactly the hottest ticket in town, but just to be sure I rang a local friend to confirm that I could buy tickets on the gate. “Ooooh no, you can’t do that, you’ll have to pick them up at the Club Shop near the station and you’d better be quick about it”.
As it was only 4pm I presumed the shop would be open until late, but on arrival at 5.35pm the shutters were half-down and it was only after mouthing ‘I’ve come 8,000 miles’ that the grump in the shop finally came to the door.
After explaining the situation he told me the only thing he could do was give me a number, but it was OK, it was his number. What? What are you talking about? Your number? I’ve just come from India, I’m very cold, I’m stupidly wearing sockless Birkenstocks. What are you on about?
What he meant was that I had to ring him after he went back to his desk to receive the call. “Can I come in then, mate? I’m freezing out here”… And then he said the type of phrase I hadn’t heard for 18 months. “Can’t do that. It’s past 5.30, Health and Safety.”
As I shivered outside wondering how Brighton FC memorabilia and a rack of football shirts and tracksuits were a danger to me, I made the call. Ah, straight to voicemail and my beach-battered phone’s buttons couldn’t redial. Of course that was going to happen.
Out he came again, but not as grumpy as he could have been. He gave the number, I put it in the mobile and he told me he’d raise his arm behind the counter and when he did so I had to ‘press 5′. Lor blimey, it only worked. We went through a charade of a phone call, gave my credit card details and all looked bonny.
The price for two tickets was forty-eight fucking quid!! That was 3,500 rupees, I could watch the IPL for that. Oh well, haha, been away too long etc. Then, the fright of my life. The row of tracksuits moved and a new (burlier) bloke appeared on the doorstep telling me my card didn’t work.
I gave him the card, made a pathetic joke amount my account might have been ‘frozen’ haha, he looked through me, locked the door and finally I was given the tickets. You know the rest. We didn’t get a shot on goal for 70 minutes, we had a man sent off and we were beaten 3-0. Eight thousand miles and an extra 50 if you add the trip from London.
This experience has finally confirmed for me that India and the UK have swapped places. Even India’s legendary bureaucracy is slight compared to that. I may pull my hair out at times but at least Indian ways are funny, this palaver was annoying and stupid.
So, as I had my first helmet-less ride on my bike earlier this week and was nearly involved in ten fatal crashes before I driven five miles, I smiled and thought, you know, it’s good to be back.
Monty Munford has more than 15 years' experience in mobile, digital media, web and journalism. He is the founder of Mob76, a company that helps tech companies raise money and exit. He speaks regularly at global media events with a focus on Africa, writes a weekly column for The Telegraph, is a regular contributor to The Economist, Wired, Mashable and speaks regularly on the BBC World Service.
