By Darren Staples

There are rules – even if there is no referee to enforce them. One of the ancient ones is said to be: ‘committing murder or manslaughter is prohibited’. Royal Shrovetide Football is not for the faint-hearted, either for players or the spectators who can quickly become caught up in the scrum.

On the face of it, the game played in Ashbourne, Derbyshire, on Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday each year will sound familiar to anyone who knows what happens at any English Premiership venue on a Saturday afternoon.

There is one ball, two teams – the Up’ards and the Down’ards – and the goal is to score goals. In these parts, it’s like Manchester United playing Manchester City, with all the passion and pride that comes with it.

But that’s where the similarity ends. The goals are, after all, three miles apart, and the ball is ‘goaled’ by tapping it three times on stone plinth on the banks of the River Henmore. Oh, and it’s played by 200, 300 and even 400 players.

Players don’t have a choice which team they will play for – you are an ‘Up’ard’ or ‘Down’ard’ – depending which side of the Henmore you are born.

It earned its ‘Royal’ moniker when the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VIII, ‘threw up’ the ball – the traditional way the game is started. In 2003, it continued its links with the monarchy when Prince Charles followed the tradition.

On most weekdays, Ashbourne bustles with tourists drinking in the quaintness of its cobbled Georgian market square. But on Shrove Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, shops, cafes and pubs close early and are boarded up. It looks like they’re preparing for a riot, which in some ways they are. Not that any of the locals mind.

I spend a large chunk of my time at Premiership football games. It’s bread and butter to get goal pictures. But at Shrovetide, I’ve never managed to get one yet. Not many photographers do. Maybe next year.

You off again?” people say. “Ukraine? The Euros? You’ve got the best job in the world haven’t you?”

So here I am, the man with ‘the best job in the world’, about to have a needle stuck in my backside by one half of the Mario brothers.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

As a day, it started like many others; up at 5am to catch my fourth of eleven flights during this tournament, bleary-eyed and grey I helped fellow photographers Eddie Keogh, Alexander Demianchuk and technician Magnus Storm load the taxi to the roof with our equipment.

But by the time I reached Kiev airport, something was wrong. I was doubled up in pain: a kidney infection, brought on by the 30 degree Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit) heat and not drinking enough water I guess.
I never drink enough water. Rule #1 in this job is that toilets are often scarce. The worry of finding a convenient bush puts you off drinking.

My Ukrainian counterpart Alexander found the airport doctor, a kindly man with overalls, who looked like a plumber. He probably was. I was in no position to argue and ask for his medical school certificates. I pointed to some pain killers I had bought to numb the pain. “Those good,” he said in his broken English. “This better,” he said, needle poised.

I scrambled on to the plane with minutes to spare. Will all my gratitude, the doctor was right about the jab. The pain had dwindled a little by the time we reached Lviv Airport with its characteristic Stalinist-era architecture. No conveyor belts here, a man pushes your luggage through a hole in the wall.

But from there, a familiar routine took hold. We met up with the rest of our shooting team, Michael Dalder and Gleb Garanich at our hotel. Hotels in the Ukraine are magnificent in their shabby grandeur, the facades promise magnificence and splendor, the interiors needing a lick of paint and a makeover team.

I spent a few minutes in my room, making sure I had the right kit and that it was all in working order. Few things are guaranteed to light my fuse more than arriving at a game to find that I’ve left a charger in another bag, or my laptop has decided to give up the ghost. It’s one of the biggest stresses of the job, I’ve already had one camera go down this tournament and I’ve only been here a week.

My colleagues and I had been blessed with the early 7pm kick-off, the Portugal v Denmark game. We arrived at the ground four hours before kick-off and headed to the photographers room where there’s always a bit of banter, good-humored ribbing. It’s like a pub but without the beer. Here we set up our laptops, make sure our captions are correct in Paneikon, Reuters’ remote editing software which allows us to upload our images with the push of a button to the editors in Berlin.

Three hours before kickoff and we headed pitch side to our allocated positions amongst the 150 available. In this case we had a photographer in each corner and one looking down from the press tribune. We hardwired our laptops and set up remote cameras behind the goals which are triggered when we shoot goalmouth action.

Once our little camps are set up and running we turn out attention to the fans, looking for colorful faces excited by the forthcoming event.

When the game starts, it’s a race to get team pictures and early action shots on the wire. You’re then in the lap of the gods, hoping that you’re not blocked for that winning goal and the scorer chooses your corner to celebrate. Portugal won 3-2 and hardly anything came my way but that’s why we work as a team and Michael got some nice remote shots.

It was past 10pm, by the time we’d finished. The five of us squeezed into Gleb’s car and returned our gear to the hotel. It had been a 17-hour day, we were tired and hungry but we attempted to find a restaurant. The only place still serving was a popular fast food joint. I imagined the wife tut as I bit into the burger.

So. the best job in the world? I’ll get back to you on that one – depending on the sort of tournament I have.

Oh, and whether I need to see another doctor.

Let’s get one thing straight. We Brits go on about the weather like a stuck record, but when it comes to it, we can’t cope with it. That’s why we live in Britain.

We whinge when the mercury drops to -3 (26 degrees Fahrenheit). A colleague of mine in Canada will point out that’s not cold. Cold, proper cold, can’t feel your fingers, just walked into a fridge cold, is -25 (-13 degrees Fahrenheit).

So when the Met Office started predicting heavy snowfalls on the night of the Aston Villa v Liverpool game, I did my best boy scout impression, packed my shovel and set off four hours early, you know, in case of snowdrifts the size of elephants.

There weren’t any.

It was the sort of game where you could find yourself nodding off, a dull, tactical, stand-off between two Premiership sides fighting to finish in the top four to get a Champions League place.

Probably the only reason this match will ever be remembered – even by the most diehard fans – is the snow. Ninety minutes of sitting by the pitch feeling some sympathy with an ice lolly.

Aston Villa’s John Carew heads the ball clear during their English Premier League match against Liverpool at Villa Park in Birmingham, central England, December 29, 2009.   REUTERS/Darren Staples

But the weather – not the game – makes the picture. A slow shutter speed can make falling snow or rain look heavier than it is and a photograph even more dramatic. With a bit of good timing, or luck, you can capture a picture like this, with the water coming off the ball and the head of the player which makes it look like he’s got a halo.

Practically, focusing is difficult because your lens picks up on the falling flakes, not the players. You need to wear a glove that isn’t too thick – or thin – so you can still feel the controls on your camera. I wear a jacket that’s so padded, I look like I’m wearing a Sumo suit. And it’s not just me. Even the camera has a waterproof ‘jacket’ on as well. It’s made of fabric and protects my 400mm lens and the body (designed by an Australian snapper – do they get snow there then?).

Then there’s wiring. You have the picture, how do you send it to the desk when it’s wet and you don’t want your laptop to go bang? Simple. You get a roll of Reuters’ sticky tape  and the groundsheet of a tent and turn it into a homemade bag that you can fit both your computer and your head.

It’s not just the weather that you’re up against. It’s the other 45,000 at the game who want to get onto their mobile phones and tell their mates what’s happening. It clogs up the networks and means that photos go so slowly it would probably be quicker to walk to London – or in this case Singapore – and deliver them by hand.

Then you’re into three minutes of injury time, the game’s 0-0 and what happens? Liverpool’s Fernando Torres scores…at the opposite end to where I’m sitting. Oh the frustration.

Liverpool’s Fernando Torres (2nd L) celebrates his goal against Aston Villa during their English Premier League  match at Villa Park in Birmingham December 29, 2009.   REUTERS/Darren Staples

And the next morning, when I’m looking forward to throwing a few snowballs with the kids, what happens? The snow’s all gone. C’est la vie.