An alternative venue

It has been a feature of the grounds in this Test series - the best seats in the house are actually the ones that are not in the house at all.

At Galle, there was nowhere to rival the view from the ramparts of the old Dutch fort. And at Kandy, the self-styled - and steadily growing - Jungle Army have spent the last few days sampling the delights of that midwicket vantage-point up on the side of the hill. To be able to sit in someone's back garden and watch a day of Test cricket is a rare, and possibly unique, privilege, and last night the Jungle-ites acknowledged that fact as they took their hosts out for a meal in town.

But for those punters with more money in their pockets and less ambition in their legs, there is an alternative venue - one that is much closer to ground level, in fact. Nestled into the corner of the ground, the Old Trinitians' Sports Club is an unassuming colonial bungalow, with a low-tiled roof and three rows of seats lined up along the terrace outside. At first glance, it appears to be just another stand, albeit a somewhat upmarket one, but in fact, it is an entirely separate entity.

The club was established in 1981, just as its alma mater Trinity College - the owners of the Asgiriya Stadium - was preparing the ground for Test status. As a consequence, the old boys were able to secure themselves a plum position at deep midwicket, and left the rest of the ground to fend for itself.

Not only does the club have its own car-park, it has its very own entrance as well, through a large green gate on the access road, which gives the impression of a private residence to the crowds as they plod past. Inside, the club is adorned with pot plants and pankahs, with a pool table at one side of the long room, and a large sofa and television area at the other. The club has recently installed satellite and cable facilities for those rainy afternoons, but unfortunately the telly itself is on the blink - or else Mark Butcher has suddenly transformed into the Incredible Hulk.

The patrons of this pavilion are a mixed bunch. On the verandah sits a member of Sri Lanka's high society, who frequents Lord's every time she is in London, and even refers to the MCC secretary as "Roger". The gem stall in the foyer is the focus for some inquisitive tourists, who are busy buying sapphire necklaces between overs. And sitting around the tables in the bar are one or two familiar faces from the ranks of the Barmy Army. One chap in particular has put on his best bib and tucker for the occasion. On Thursday evening, he had been making an unseemly din by the rickshaw rank, but now he is kitted out in a stripy blazer and England tour tie, and is tucking into a litre of lager and a burger'n'chips.

It is a very musical venue. Crammed into a corner of the bar, beneath a line of trophies, are four amigos in matching black suits and trilbies, who strum away merrily for anyone who cares to listen. And back outside on the terrace is a jazz ensemble, freshly imported from Colombo, who serenade every boundary and worship every wicket with their own unique blend of trumpets and drums. They are silenced briefly (at the request of the management) as Tillakaratne Dilshan approaches his century, but his scampered single and jubilant swish of the bat prompts the band's most joyous outpouring yet.

The terrace is only elevated by four feet, but that is more than enough to bestow a special status on the viewing area. Down below on the grassy walkways, two kids are playing football with a plastic bottle, while a herd of fans press up against the advertising hoardings, eager to obtain a closer view of Dilshan's innings. They would do better to step back, and take in the bigger picture. Preferably with a beer and a burger to wash it down.