The Hills Have Bros (2/3)

Hmm. Where were we? I’ve never had a multi-entry post before. There might be a reason for that. Hmm. Is there a need for an introduction of some kind? Naah, why should there be, The Hills Have Bros (1/3) is chillingly poised right below his younger brother ie The Hills Have Bros (2/3). Why be more long winded than is absolutely necessary, says the man who publishes blog trilogies. But ahh, yes, I know where we were. Oh yes, that’s right, The Darj had just been seen and conquered with the power of Punjabi Mom’s boxers.The dream of Gorkhaland had been wiped from the memory of all its would-be inhabitants by Punjabi Mom’s threat to move there, boxers and everything, if they didn’t stop this separatist nonsense.

Up next, Gangtok.

Now on the way to Gantok was the river Theestha, apparently the site of some fantastic white water rafting. We payed an astronomical sum of money for the promise of a 50 minute ride with 9 rapids along the way. So it was a disconsolate bunch that clambered off the raft after 20 minutes of floating rather aimlessly down a river as ferocious as your average LabroPup.

On reaching Gangtok, we checked out M.G Road, the place where all the pretty young things come to earn the title of pretty young thing. The thing about places in this part of the world is that people are on average better dressed than in other parts of the world. So perhaps Punjabi Mom opting to stroll along in his boxers was ill advised to say the least. We drew whistles, sighs, gasps and tongue clucking. There is no doubt in my mind that he was the worst dressed man on the street. Band Man I suppose had a reputation to protect, so he raced ahead of the rest of us. White Chiller can never be caught unchilled so he drifted along trying his best to hold normal conversation with P. Mom. Now we were hungry and when we spotted a restaurant we ducked in. En route to our ducking in, we had to cross the road, an act that involved stepping over the divider, which was in essence a little marble platform with low-slung chains and potted plants. We stepped through only to realize that every eye in Gangtok was on us in what seemed to be wide-eyed surprise, almost amounting to shock. Bombay boys as we were, we scarcely spotted the problem. Not until an old man recovered his poise quick enough to hastily gnash his teeth and grind out a, “Is that the way you behave?”, to which Babu Moshai uttered his only sentence of the week and calmly retorted, “Who are you to tell us?”. This forced the old man to muse on what was in essence a rather philosophical question and afforded us plenty of time to complete the aforementioned ducking in.

The Nathula

While still based in Gantok, we took a day out to go up to Nathula Pass. This is basically a military controlled pass that is right on the border between India and China. It resides some 13 thousand feet above sea level and you need special army permission to haul your ass all that way up. The military permission came in the form of a jawan by the name of Bhagwan Das. He was a good man was Bhagwan Das, and pious too. Who’da thunk it?

This Das showed us a lake that is revered by all the armed forces for being the exact same shape as India on the world map. To be honest, it seemed to resemble a crucifixion prop more than anything else. We did not however make our opinion on this known. The armed forces are a sensitive lot and we could hardly spit on their hospitality. They gave us tea and biscuits at every opportunity and answered every question we threw at them, including inane questions like, ‘Why cant India and China just join together and kick everyone’s asses?’, from the ever-bungling Punjabi Mom. Basically, the Indian Army is full of stand up guys. It’s just too bad that if ever China did find our presence too irksome, our boys wouldn’t stand a chance in hell. We had a look at the Chinese side and saw that they had a road that resembled the Bandra-Worli sealink leading up to the outpost. The road we used to come up to our outpost was a serpentine dirt track that did well to not plunge our Toyota Qualis into one of the large range of abysses available for the benefit of our plunging.

When entering the main outpost the ever-vigilant Punjabi Mom suggested that we not take pictures of as sensitive an outpost as this. This despite the army telling us that we could and it didn’t matter a damn if we had Chinese friends on our Facebook. So click pictures we did.

Bhajji

On the way out, Bhagwan Das and a few others insisted that we see the Babaji Mandir. This is basically a temple made in honour of a man by the name of Harbhajan Singh. Now I know what you’re thinking. Why does a fairly mediocre off spinner who’s admitted to referring to Andrew Symonds’ mother’s vagina on a cricket field and slapping Santh Sreesanth get a temple? Ok fine, slapping Sreesanth would explain it, but why does the army care? Well I’ll tell you why. The reason has its source in the fact that this Singh is not that Singh. The Singh in question once took a donkey with a load of supplies by a river. A strange concatenation of circumstances led to said Singh hitting the water hard and drowning. Now this Singh wasn’t content being dead and forgotten. To be honest, who would? He came back and haunted a fellow soldier in his sleep. This soldier reported the sighting and after what I assume was a lengthy discussion, this temple was put up in this Singh’s honour. This was the official story carved on a rock outside the temple. Ours, unfortunately, was not to question why….

The Projectile

The ride back to Gangtok on that serpentine dirt track I previously referred to was not altogether pleasant. On the way up to Nathula Pass we had stopped at one of these quaint little cafes. I had idly watched a couple of women putting out the ingredients of a Chicken Chowmein on a table and was suddenly struck by a desire to consume this delicacy of the northern regions. By the time I picked up the bowl and rather classily drained the liquid remnants, I was a very content young man. I could hardly have guessed what was to come. Whilst up at the military outpost I had felt the first pangs of unease while dispatching a cup of steaming hot coffee down my throat. At the Babaji Mandir I had felt a rising nausea but at the time I merely attributed it to the story attached to the mandir and didn’t think much more of it until we began the journey back down. It was when I was spread-eagled out on a rock on the edge of a cliff, hurling my intestines into the ravine below, that I became acutely aware of the full impact of that glorious chowmein. It is a cruel fact of life that I haven’t to this day managed to discover whether it was the Chowmein itself, or the spicy red condiment that I liberally applied, that placed me in this pitiable state. Thankfully, I had an able friend in Bhagwan Das, to assist me in my endeavors. A pat on the back goes a long way in making a sick guy feel better. I feel the pat provided me with reassurance that I had not yet managed to hurl my spine out along with my intestines. When I thanked Bhagwan Das for the kindness rendered, he brushed it off and said, ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same for me?’. I squirmed uncomfortably and made up my mind to see to it that no hurling jawan in my immediate vicinity would ever go un-patted. 

Coming up next, the final part of this epically underwhelming trilogy. Same time, same place. Stay tuned. 

The Hills Have Bros (1/3)

People often ask me, ‘Is anything worn under your lungi?’, to which I reply, ‘No, nothing is worn, everything is in fine working order.’

You see, it always does to open a long rambling with a joke about lungis, for who amongst us dislikes lungi-based humour? If there be any, speak, for him have I offended.

In truth, I don’t wear lungis. And that wasn’t my joke. Mike Myers cracked it, although obviously he used a kilt and not a lungi as the article of clothing in question. I’m all about refitting jokes for my adoring public. Anyway, moving on to questions people do actually ask me, I’m always needled by those who describe the Himalayas and all that surround it, with words that convey the highest possible respect and awe, and then proceed to ask me whether I’ve been. I’m willing to acknowledge that this is not the fault of the unassuming public. The fault lies squarely on my young, slender, shoulders. Fine shoulders though they undoubtedly are, they have never been to the Himalayas. It was to right this great wrong of my life that my friends and I recently embarked on a trip up north. A trip to end 22 years of buggering about all that is not the mountainous, chilly north of India.

The Cast

It never does to relate the happenings of a trip without going on ahead and describing the cast. So here’s who ‘we’ were, in an average-sized nut’s outer crust. We were a motley bunch of yuppie city slickers who until recently had never set foot on a mountain much higher than Mount Mary. For non-Bombay folk, let me assure you, Mount Mary is scarcely more than a little bump in an area called Bandra, which amongt all its pros, one of them being sky-high property prices, does not count a hilly terrain of any note. We comprised of five young men: Punjabi Mom, White Chiller, Babu Moshai, Band Man, and yours truly awesome. Punjabi Mom is a virile, red-blooded, oh-so-gentle, Punjabi with a penchant for non-empty butter dishes and cuddly soft toys. White Chiller is man whose default mood/expression/attitude/voice/clothing is always ‘chilled’. Babu Moshai is a man of few words, fewer actions, and if possible, even fewer thoughts. Band Man is an easily embarrassed joke-maker with funny t-shirts. And then there’s me. I don’t like blowing my own trumpet, so I wont. Plus, I hear you need to remove your last two ribs if you really want to indulge in self-blowing of said trumpet. I like my ribs. They always press out of my skin and provide succor when I see them. So there, now you know the cast.

The Beginning

The guys took a flight out of Bombay to Calcutta where I’m based for the time being. In a few hours, which were spent ruthlessly and ignorantly bitching out the city, these morons and I boarded the train to New Jalpaiguri. The train ride was an uneventful ride apart from a crabby old man flatly refusing us something. I forget what we asked him because the ‘no’ tumbled out of his mouth faster than you can say whatever-it-was-we-were-trying-to-say. Early next morning we met our transport for the next week: A Toyota Qualis with a little dude called Vishal at the wheel. After I spent a few anxious minutes enquiring as to where the seat belts had vanished, we were on our way to Darjeeling. The thing about seat belts and I is that I have never been fascinated by the idea of my legend being snuffed out before its birth by an act of stupidity eg. not wearing a seat belt. I’m weird and paranoid like that, but you would be too if you had as much to lose as I.

The Darj

Darjeeling was awesome. Our hotel was this cozy little tribute to all things colonial. The decor was distinctly British, as was the entire feel of the place. While I might not want a house done up with the same decor, it was very pleasing on the eye, and the kind of decor that makes you want to sit back in one of those overstuffed couches in the lounge and say, “Bearer, char laana”, and then makes you want to enjoy said char whilst eyeing the mountains out the window and over conversation involving the trouble with good help these days and the difficulty with collecting taxes these days and the sudden and heartwarming proliferation of sluttish chicks in London these days.

Another thing about this Darjeeling was the sheer number of pretty women at every corner. They floated by every corner, stood by every window, and generally sprinkled themselves generously around the region. The only things that proliferated to the extent of these women, was the standard momo restaurant. For every 3 pretty women, 2 momo restaurants bedecked the pavement. In case you happen to think that momos come in various shapes and sizes, let me assure you, they do not. Momos will be momos. Much like boys. Just to clarify, boys will be boys. Boys will not be momos, although on closer reflection, Babu Moshai has something of a turgid momo in his general aspect.

The only thing ruining the general view was the sight of the 150 kilogram Punjabi Mom padding around the place in his boxers. Another general disturbance to the air of tranquility was Punjabi Mom’s insistence on referring to everyone as ‘darling’ which seems to have been a part of his general dispensation of Paternality (a new word coined to describe gratuitous acts of kindness that showcase a paternal instinct that makes the recipient simultaneously feel his hackles rise and his testicles curl up into the abdomen). The final moments of our time in Darjeeling were spent buying tea at a huge discount on account of the dude at the teashop being a fan of Band Man’s band. Band Man played the part of humble superstar so well that Tea Dude threw in a joint’s worth of weed as part of his general aura of friendliness and bro-ship. So it was a not unhappy set of young men that departed Darjeeling.

(Dear People/Person who care/cares, more to follow soon)

The Dossier Of Shame: A Brief History

In the summer of 2004 I was an innocent 18 old boy with a penchant for Counter-Strike – that LAN parlor addiction of the world-weary, the loserly, and the downright lazy - and Romanov vodka with Sprite. I also indulged in menthol cigarettes and was perhaps graduating towards Goldflake ‘badas’ and Classic Milds. It was at this most important juncture of my young life that my mother accosted me with the ‘What are you g0ing to do?’, ‘Where are you going to study?’, ‘Do you think I’m going to let you rot in this city and throw away your talent?’ questions. I use the word accosted but perhaps the term serially ambush fits the bill better. When confronted with these questions my answer usually was, ‘Bhenchod! That was a madka. Head shot from there with a Deagle! Chal beh!….Oh hello. Hello? Hello? Ma? Yeah I’ll sit for SAT. Hehehe. Chalo Bye. EHHHH! Hahahaha. I knifed you bastard. Hahahaha’.

Now at some point whilst I was busy killing terrorists, or anti-terrorists depending on whether I wanted to use an M4 or an AK-47, decisions regarding my immediate and mid-term future were being made. Wheels were set in motions: documents were notorized, essays were squeezed out of me, a SAT exam was aced, and some A-level grades were painfully grafted with the ever-present threat of no pocket money. In a few months I found myself on a flight to Singapore with a few dollars and a college entrance letter that doubled up as a one-time visa in my pocket. I was told that upon completing my undergraduate degree in 4 years I would have to work in this South East Asian paradise for 3 years to repay this bond before doing whatever else it was I chose to do. Oh great! I could use the international work experience to do an MBA! Then I would use words like ’synergism’, ’six-sigma’, ‘brand value’ and ‘herewith’ to boost my street cred. I could then proceed to take over the world, one continent at a time. Life might just be a big bed of roses…..

The years passed by swiftly. Exams were skipped, Qualifying English Tests were failed, Remedial English courses were taken and passed with homework outsourced to desperate parents back home, History courses were passed with flying colours, Academic Probation was more than just a term that was an example of a college taking itself too seriously and a passionate hatred for all things Economics related was born. I rarely thought about much more than the OC, Prison Break and the latest Man Utd game. The future was a giant blur, a bridge to be crossed when it sharpened into focus, an abyss I would jump into once I found a bungee cord. 

At the end of 3 years I found myself with Bachelor of Arts in Economics. The degree that was supposed to take me 4 years had taken my 3. No, not because I was brilliant but because I disliked Economics too much to even so much as think about doing a fourth year for the ‘Honours’ tag. Obviously, I was amongst a minority at the National University of Singapore. All my friends wanted to do ‘Honours’. It was apparently the honourable thing to do and they were all honourable men. Blessed as I was with a distinct lack of honour, the BA was accepted at a terribly boring ceremony where NUS exacted their final revenge upon me for being such a horrendous, extension-demanding, envelope-pushing nightmare by ensuring I would have to collect the degree in a navy blue gown with baby pink trim and a matching hood.

The world lay spread before my feet. During my 3 years I’d narrowed down upon Investment Banking as a likely future job. It apparently payed a shitload and I could after a few years become a hedge fund manager. Hedge fund managers I had heard could pull in a billion dollars a year if they were the very best at what they did. That sounded fairly pleasant. I could retire after a few years of that and perhaps buy myself an island, a yacht, and football team.

Now as I stood poised to make that jump, 3 of the Big 5 invesment banks in the world decided they’d had enough of this cruel world where people always asked for their money back, and accountability was occasionally more than just a word. They shut up shop. With the worlds economy on a downward spiral, the brunt of which was caused and felt by the financial world, I took stock of things as it stood. Sid old friend, this I-banking thing might have to take a back seat, I reasoned with myself. It was hardly a loss. I never really knew what those wankers did  at those banks anyways. Now atleast I knew that they weren’t awfully good at it. Oh well, I’d just fuck it all and head back to Bombay and get a job at an ad agency. But what about that bond of the non-emotional kind that I had with the Ministry of Education that stipulated that I would have to work for 3 years in Singapore upon graduation?

And at at last I have arrived at the present. What about this bond?

The Ministry of Education lies nestled opposite Buona Vista MRT station in a gigantic tower of concrete and glass that apart from several thousand employees, also currently houses my testicles in a cocoon of paper work. The one time I went, the huge lobbies had security guards who demanded identification even if its the Information Desk that you wish to access. Not that I’ve ever been to the Ministry of Magic but Rowling never told me of any armed trolls standing guard at the entrance. However, the most unimaginative ministry on the face of the earth must have its enemies, but I digress. I had stood in front of the security desk and passed over my ID. The guard had looked at me and asked, “Swine flew?”. I looked at him for a second and then glanced up at the sky with an expression of shock, “Where?”. Needless to say, that didn’t go down too well. The thermometer was shoved into my ear with a distinct lack of tenderness and I furiously thanked god that the test for Swine Flu did not involve an anal probe. Now it was upon this visit to the MOE that I learned of what was to become the Dossier of Shame. Apparently, the only way to get out of this bond is by collecting a years worth of rejection letters and failed attempts at securing jobs, putting them together with a pity inducing letter and ‘appeal’ to be released. To be perfectly honest, I have never in my life heard of a more pathetic scheme.

Back in the days when I was about to graduate, rejection letters were bitter pills to swallow. They represented one more failure, one less chance at making enough money to buy a new Ipod and some expensive booze at Clark Quay. This really is the main point I wish to make in this blog entry. The last few months have shown me that life really can come a full circle, or atleast a full semi-circle. From being bitter pills to swallow, rejection letters are now the currency in which I trade. They are the well deserved fruit of my non-labour. I recently got a couple of rejections from a bank that shut down a while back. I was absolutely thrilled. My family friends of whom I never asked a job or recommendation, were promptly touched for a couple of rejection letters. My friends who had start-up companies were pulled in on the whole thing. One friend of mine even went so far as to offer me a letter that testified to me  being a ‘dickhead who should crawl back under the rock he crept out from’. Such graciousness is what currently fuels my latest project. A Dossier of Shame. An account of all the rejections I’ve ever got. Along with a letter that tugs at the heartstrings by speaking achingly of how hard I’d pounded that pavement. In reality, I did no such thing. I merely waited for something to fall into my lap and Lady Luck being a cruel mistress, did not oblige. You see, when life give you lemons, you dont just make lemonade. Thats what normal people do. The slightly more daring, such as me, re-evaluate values. We dont make the best of the lemon. We change our entire palate. A re-calibration, if you will. We bite down on that lemon and say, ‘Goddamn, that’s good! Who needs Alphonsoes anyway?’ And that is why I proudly tell anyone who’ll listen to me that I am currently putting together a File of Shame. Things that should by all accounts represent minor tragedies in my life but only really serve as a key to my eventual, and eternal, salvation. A free pass back to a land where smoking a joint will not get me killed. Ashes, phoenixes and what-have-you spring to mind. We should all be so lucky as to be me.

The Art of the Facebook Status Message

• The IPL’s 8-run hit
• An Ahmadinejad-Olmert sex tape
• Sepp Blatter’s brain
• The Gin in the Gin Soaked Boy
• Nemo

The above is my list of “Pointless Things The World Must Not Concern Itself With Finding”

Now, this is interesting because a recent removal from this list is, ‘Professional Facebook Status Message Consultant’. Obviously, as can be discerned, or atleast I hope can be discerned, I am not a man given to facetious thought. Brows were furrowed, fingers were steepled, cigarette butts were crushed, and scotch glasses were thumped down vigorously on tables before I realized that the world might just need to find itself a Facebook Status Message Consultant. 

You see, we live in a world that reels on a daily basis from starvation, disease, poverty, war, drugs, genocide and the Jimmy Kimmel Show. So quite obviously, what we need more than anything else is a Facebook Status Message Consultant who can get unlimited-broadband afflicted kids to shape up their ‘What’s on your mind?’ spaces. Owing to a worldwide lack of talent in this department, I have decided to become the worlds first Official PFSMC (If you dont know the full form you haven’t been paying attention. What’s on you mind?). Now before you start questioning the authority upon which I make this claim, let me assure you, I am spectacularly unqualified for the job. As such, I should be able to guide young minds along the path to eternal salvation. Maybe. Anyways, here goes my first, and possible last, tutorial.

 

The 9 Types of Status Messages You Can Use After Partial Impalement:

 

The Intimate Detaily Status Message

example – Aditya Isanidiot is feeling horny today/Aditya Isanidiot has itchy balls.

Curious intimate details are best left to ‘ask the Sexpert’.

 

The Excessive Information Status Message

example – Alok Isacunt :  sweat, grime, horse back riding, muscle pulls, more than 4 kms of walkin, accident, bike engine seized, sittin in dhabba wid drunked men, unquenched thirst, crazy ass heat, almost 300 kms on a bike…the bestest trip EVER.. ♥

Believe it or not, I did not make this up. Also, believe it or not, wordy status messages that try and project the awesomeness/lameness of your life are best left without cheesy heart signs at the end. Actually, all status messages are best left without heart signs at the end. Ok scratch that, LIFE is best left without heart signs at the end. Period. ♥

 

The Happy Birthday Status Message

example – Ajay Isacunt wishes Aditya Isanidiot Happy Birthday!!! Have a great one, dude!!!

You really want people to know that you’re lame enough to be thinking of your friends birthday enough to let it define you for a day/week/lifetime?

 

The Cheesy Quote Status Message

example – Indradeep Uniball: “We’re for forever” – R.S 

I happen to know Uniball and my theory is that he’s an exhibitionist. Incidentally, in case you were wondering, R.S stands for the initials of his EX-girlfriend. So yes, hahahahahahahaha! Thankfully he never got to the “‘Ooh, I like furry handcuffs’ – R.S” stage. Thank god for small mercies.

 

The Annoying Short-form Status Message

Example – Rohan Pubegardener: they say that since god culdn be evrywhr dtsy he made mothers,chuk dis saying cuz”since devil culdn be everywhere dts hw ee2002 was created”

I swear I did not just make that up. If you can decipher it, SHAME ON YOU! Short forms and hearticons are only used by lower life forms. This is a fact of life.

 

The Oh Too Often Updated Status Message

example – Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead just uninstalled Windows Vista

                    Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead just installed Windows XP

                    Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead just found Windows XP soo much better than Windows Vista.

                    Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead might go back to Windows Vista.

                    Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead is uninstalling Windows XP.

                    Rakesh Wasamoron Nowadickhead suffered a mysterious roundhouse kick-related death and cant understand why he’s splayed across a Swat Valley village square in pink lingerie.

If it’s micro blogging you’re looking for, hit Twitter my man. Please stop tweeting up my home feed.

 

The Emo Lyrics Status Message

example – Avinash Assmuncher thinks there’s a rebel to tame. A whitehooded judge, a syringe and a vein…

Lighten up, Avinash my man. People will think you wear black nail polish, black eyeliner, skinny black jeans, and a really dorky hairdo.

What’s that? Oh, you love wearing black nail polish, black eyeliner, skinny black jeans and a really ‘unique’ hairdo? Ahhhh….right. No no. I know you’re not emo at all. At all. Sooo…*ahem*….hows the new Green Day album?

 

 

The Match Update Status Message

example – Ryan Chimphumper: I cant believe Man U’s champions of the world!!! Man U rox!

Dear Ryan Bandwagonhumper, Firstly, beating Kashima Antlers never made anyone champions of the world. Secondly, www.skysports.com has a pretty mean match report, thanks. Thirdly, only dickheads use words like ‘rox’. 

 

The Intellectual Dick Wagging Status Message

example – Varun Isatamilian would like to reiterate that Au + H2O = 1964

The term ‘Intellectual Dick Wagging’ is a phrase that I coined to explain the practice of playing ‘My-Intellectual-Dick-Is-Bigger-Than-Yours’ games that leave non-idiots cold. Now upon extensive Googling I found out that this status message was a car sticker used by the Republican presidential candidate, Barry Goldwater  (Au + H2O= Goldwater, geddit geddit?) in the 1964 elections.

Right.

Houston, we have a problem. Our cameras are being fogged by the pseudo-intellectual spunk being spewed out in Southeast Asian corner of Facebookdom. Assist. Over.

Sorry, Spacelwalker 3. The Pseudo-Intellectual spunk is radioactive. Cannot assist. You’re on your own. Over.

 

 

 

 

None of the examples were made up.

 

 

 

There. Now you know.

 

Oh Por toh toh, oh dont you cry for me…

Here’s a list of epiphanies had during zah game [Porto 0 - ManUtd 1]

 

• The word ‘epiphany’ is a euphemism for ‘Un-blogworthy-thoughts’
• Over the years, Cristiano Ronaldo has notched up more hits (from distance) than Metacafe’s Basic Instinct video and ‘Two Girls One Cup’ combined. And it was all for this…..FINALLY it goes in! (that’s what she said) 
• Ryan Giggs has still got it.
• Michael Carrick must find it. He had as much range as a half-charged Reva with power-steering and woofers. 
• The SkySports studio either looks like a low-budget Star Trek movie or an expensive modular kitchen.
• Richard Keys and his 3 highly paid cronies (Graeme Sounness, Jamie Redknapp, and the token ‘foreigner’) desperately need adrenaline injected directly into their hearts before the start of every half-time report.
• God should be as insightful as Jamie Reeves. (not some thing I learnt during the match, but something I find relevant in light of the SkySports’ ‘Suit-Monkeys In Space’ panel discussion)
• Berbatov is sometimes a whole cricket pitch off the pace.
• Evra must watch old videos of himself or Roberto Carlos for re-inspiration.
• Not seeing Shebby Singh’s face at 5 in the morning makes me happy.
• Seeing Ronaldo’s shirtless body at 5 in the morning makes me sad.
• The Pussy Pires  is thoroughly useless. 
• Hah! Isn’t it ironic that Bobby darling plays for a yellow team (ha ha ha)
• Clarity of thought  is difficult to muster. 
• At 5:35 am, ‘mustering’ is just a word that reminds me of mustard which reminds of Nerula’s double cheese pizza.
• Over and out.

An Open Letter to Mr Bejan Daruwalla (The Worlds Most Sensational Astrologer!)

Dear Mr Daruwalla,

Allow me to say right away, dear Sir, that I am your biggest fan. I have read your daily horoscopes in the Bombay Times ever since I could remember, and I’ve been awestruck by you everytime! Not only is the daily prediction for Capricorn (my darling zodiac sign) relevant, EVERY sign is relevant. TO ME!!!

You see, Mr Daruwalla, I grew up thinking I was a small and weak little struggling life form in a big bad world that turned regardless of my antics. I never knew that agents of change like the stars, the sun, the moon swayed like drunken Pareira’s and determined things in my life. For me to see how every zoddy (that’s my pet name for ‘Zodiac’, isn’t it cute? Heehee) is relevant to my life fills me with pride and love for you, dear Mr Daruwalla. 

You see sir, I write this letter to you now because my friend, a man by the name Nonem (what sort of a dumb name is that?) just told me that these zoddies (that’s the plural of zodiac. Double-cute, no? Heehee) mean nothing and that you’re just a old fat phoney bastard out to hoodwink idiots.

Dont worry Sir, I told him off! This is my exact speech, which I thought you’d like to see.

Look Nonem, firstly, you have a really stupid name. Everyone with half a brain knows that basic Numerology dictates that a name cannot be made up of the 13th, 14th and 15th letters of the alphabet. Here’s the scientific proof,

It’s because the sum of 13 and 14 is 27.

2+7=9

9+15=24

24-9=15

15=”DOOMFORYOUMOTHERFUCKAH!” according to the ancient scriptures.

Unless you add an ‘A’ to the end of your name to negate this, you’ll never be able to see this beautiful world God made for us, with all its Paris Hilton home videos, all its Al Gore home videos, and above all, all it’s ‘Osim’s Electric Saddles for Women’ home videos.

Now listen, you.

I read Mr Daruwalla’s website, and did you know Mr Daruwalla predicted Sachin Tendulkar’s rise when he was only 21 or 22 in 1995. You see, and I quote, ‘His planet, the Sun, was in the 4th degree of Taurus’. This equated to a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow which in turn foreshadowed Sachin’s eventual wealth! Can you believe he predicted that Sachin would be immensely rich at the end of his career? At that time, Brian Lara was considered the best batsman in the world. Tendulkar was just 2nd best. Do you need anymore proof, NonemA?

What’s more, he also predicted Aamir Khan’s eventual success in the mid-nineties when he only had movies like Andaaz Apna Apna, Joh Jeeta Wohi Sikander, and Hum Hain Rahi Pyaar Ke under his belt. Here’s the logic, direct from the website, in case you dont believe it. ‘Aamir is a Piscean. Pisces is under the control of Jupiter and Neptune actually mens imagination inspiration images therefore Neptune is the boss planet of films.’ 

You see how senseless your scoffing is? There is logic behind it, you idiot! Nonem..phahh! Like that’s even a name!

This speech really shut him up, Sir. I think he started believing a little because his eyeballs rolled slowly up into his skull as if he were in a trance.

Truth be told, Sir, I think he’s just jealous because you are so successful. He’s also jealous that your son has now become such a successful astrologer like yourself, guruji. He kept calling it a dynasty of fraud. I could just hear the bitterness creeping out of his voice.

It’s with great sadness that I now tell you Sir, men like him will never change. No matter how many logical examples we put forth, no matter how much scientific evidence we show them, no matter how much we try and appeal to their reason, they will never change. They will keep disbelieving, Sir. Like fools, they’ll keep living in their little worlds of doom where men must carve their own niche and not have a roadmap to do it with. I tried to change him, Sir, I tried for your sake.

That’s all Sir. I’m going to now guard myself against venereal ailments (my BirthStar Profile said I might be vulnerable) by not having sex for the rest of my life. I’d never have done this were it not for you, Sir. Thank you very much.

 

Yours Sincerely,

                   Your Biggest Fan

Not to be formulaic and all……

According to a BBC article, women pick up body odour better than men. Now before you fall off your chair out of the sheer shock value this bit of news carries, I must point out, that is not the point of my post. 

The hilarity of the piece lies in the little photograph that accompanies it.

Just in case you didn’t believe women had noses. Or perhaps, to better illustrate the point that women do in fact pick up body odour better. SEE, there’s a picture to prove it.

 

Is the female nose more highly attuned to body smell?

 

Study involving vials of armpit sweat + Glorious picture of female nose + Nose-hair + Buggers = COMPLETE COVERAGE

Man Utd 3 – Aston Villa 2

I haven’t uttered as high-pitched a scream as I did last night since I sang the ‘Allright’ part of  ’Everbody (Backstreet’s back)’ in the 5th grade. Ok fine, I sang it a year ago as well, but I was really drunk and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t as high pitched as I was back in the glory days. The ‘dropping testicles’ epidemic of ‘98/’99 seriously impaired my BSB (that’s what the cool kids call the Backstreet Boys) game.

Anyways, embarrassing personal confessions aside, it wasn’t a sensational match in terms of the quality of football. The Manchester United midfield looked out of sorts and were outplayed for large parts of the game by the excellent Gareth Barry. Ashley Young and  Gabriel Agbonlahor proved to be constant threats to a United defence that was lacking the pace of Ferdinand and the strength of Vidic. Up top, big John Carew, as he’s referred to by some rather idiotic commentator, did the business when he nodded in Villa’s equalizer in the first half. He was never going to be troubled by Gary Neville who is only rivaled in the ‘Forgotten Man of Manchester’ stakes by a certain Mr Hargreaves.

Cristiano Ronaldo once again proved that he is man for all seasons. He’s never been the touch-me-not preener he’s been made out to be by the English press. He’s always responded well to the team playing badly and falling behind, but this was just another opportunity for him to do the business when it mattered most. 

Now this is all very well, but there’s only one question on everyone’s minds right now:

Who is Federico Macheda?

Young Italian strikers at Manchester United who were not called Giuseppe Rossi were thought to be a dying breed, nay, a dead breed. Giuseppe Rossi himself only exists at Old Trafford in the form of a buyback clause in the transfer agreement that took him to Villarreal.

Federico Macheda came through the Lazio youth system and was poached by Manchester United in 2007 at the age of 16. Offered professional terms at the start of this season when he just turned 17, he certainly looks an impressive player. He seems fairly well built, has a good touch on the ball and plays with the assurance and confidence of a far more experienced player. When he turned and scored the winner that he did, I couldn’t help but think back to Wayne Rooney’s debut as a 16 year old against Arsenal. Rooney’s was probably better in terms of technique, but in terms of the match situation, I cannot think of many more timely and dramatic winners than Macheda’s masterstroke (I didn’t alliterate on purpose, I swear). This season has seen last season’s two starlets, Anderson and Nani, take a bit of a beating. They haven’t had great seasons for whatever reason. However, the emergence of Danny Walbeck and now, Macheda, is a promising sign of the depth that’s available in terms of youth for United. I can’t wait to see how Macheda develops over the next few seasons. Not every promising young player becomes a Rooney or a Torres so his development is far from inevitable. Let’s hope he lives up to some measure of the hype that’s going to come pouring in from all quarters.

This season has obviously been a great one for United so far but I haven’t enjoyed it as much as seasons past. There have been far too many 1-nils for my liking, and while I certainly dont mind us winning that way, I just haven’t felt the excitement I did last night in a long time. Irrelevant though it is, I seem to have rediscovered my loving feeling. 

 

The BBC wont let me be…

So, I was browsing through the BBC home page the other day and I came across this headline:

Woman called Nutt over-run by squirrels

I clicked through, like I always do when I see something that seems promisingly idiotic. Sure enough, there it was.

An entire article about one woman’s courageous battles against the odds. One woman’s path to salvation. One woman’s redemption. One woman called Mrs Nutt and her squirrel problem.

I can just imagine the scene at the BBC news website when this article came up.

Staff writer, whom we shall very arbitrarily call Dick from now on, bursts into the Chief Editors office. He looks at the Chief Editor, a pudgy old pipe-smoking, handle bar moustache-toting, overstuffed leather armchair-using  sorta old bat, with glee and bursts out, ‘I say, Sir. Do I have a new story for you’. 

(You might be wondering why they sound like they’re from the ’20s. If you are, I’m afraid I cant help you. They are what they are. We must simply accept them as they are and move on. Plus, it seemed funnier this way)

‘What is it, laddykins?’, the old pie-faced Editor replies.

‘Well Sir, I just heard about a woman who has a serious squirrel problem in Moira, County Down, Northern Ireland. Her house is full of the little grey buggers. They run about the place and absolutely wreck her house. To be honest, I do feel for her. Poor woman doesn’t know the first thing about squirrel…..’

‘Is there a point to this, Dick?’, interrupts the old muffin-top Editor, with a sigh.

Dick squeals with excitement. ‘I haven’t told you the best part, Sir’, he says with an excitement-induced quivering. ‘You see the best part is that there is a twist in the tale. Everything is not as it seems. There’s more to it than meets the eye. There is a …’.

‘The story, Dick’, the Editor interrupts again with a rather nasty look.

‘Right Sir’, a visibly embarrassed Dick realizes that the tomato red complexion of said Editor isn’t all sunburn and genetics. ‘The woman’s name, Sir’, the quiver’s back in his voive. ‘You wont believe the woman’s name, Sir’.

‘Well maybe if you just told me I would, you blithering idiot!’

‘Nutt, Sir’

‘What did you just say to me, you little…’

‘No Sir, THAT’s her name.’

‘What?’

‘Nutt, Sir. Her name is Nutt’. The quiver is back now.

‘By Golly! Are you serious, man?’ The porky little Editor is on his feet now. There’s a quiver about him too. Only, his belly seems to be the primary quiver-generator.

‘YES SIR’, cries Dick, completely losing the plot now.

‘My god man. You did it, you young bastard. You did it!’

‘Thanks you Sir’, says Dick graciously. It wasn’t every day the Chief Editor of the BBC called him a young bastard with such affection.

‘I always knew you had a spark about you, kid. I always knew you’d one day bring home a story people would want to read. I just didn’t know that day would be so soon…’, chokes out the old turnip. He near tears. ‘Come and give me a hug, boy’

Dick crosses over to deliver the hug. Silence descends over the office of the old raddish of an Editor. With the hug done with, an awkward silence descends, broken by the Editor yelling, ‘By George, we must stop the press!’. Then another awkward silence follows as they both realize that the truth about the modern world  of news websites is that there’s never any presses to stop. 

And that brings me to my situation. A 600 word article about a woman facing squirrel problems on the home page of one of the most famous and reputed news outlets in the world. A woman so remarkable, she had this to say about her illustrious enemies:

“Up close they are quite frightening – they look like puppy dogs with big hands, they growl and bark at you, they’re vicious things. They’ll go for you.”

Perhaps the case of the barking squirrels was entirely newsworthy by itself. Perhaps the woman’s name being Mrs Nutt has simply shorn a jewel of a news article of all its sheen. All it’s genius. All its in depth coverage and insight. Alas, we will never know.

What we do know is this:

• There are squirrels in Northern Ireland. 
• Squirrels can bark.
• A woman called Nutt being over-run by squirrels is wildly ironic.
• If this woman ever goes clinically insane for any reason -the squirrels, maybe- the headline on the BBC website will read, ‘She’s NUTTs’.
• If Dick ever changes career and becomes an architect, a headline will one day read, ‘Dick’s Erection’.
• The BBC delivers REAL news.

Oh Pakistan! *sigh*

A couple of days ago, terrorists invaded a police academy on the outskirts of Lahore. Ofcourse, this is hardly news. Pakistan’s slow descent into complete chaos is hardly surprising anymore. What still manages to surprise me however, is the delusions with which administrators still manage to get away. 

Interior Ministry chief Rehman Malik said that 14 people had been killed, including eight policemen and two civilians, and 95 people had been injured.

Four militants had been killed and three arrested, he added.

Two of the attackers are believed to have blown themselves up.

Mr Malik called the assault a “planned, organised, terrorist attack”.

“This shows the extent to which the enemies of our country can go,” he told the local Geo TV station.

But he added: “It is wrong to say that law and order has collapsed in Pakistan.

Wrong to say that law and order has collapsed? But ofcourse. Police academies getting raided is quite the norm in most civil societies. POLICE academies should hardly be feared more than other targets. What’s more, apart from the numerous attacks by ‘enemies of the state’, the army just ceded Swat Valley to the Taliban.

Now before we go, ‘WHAT THE FUCK’, we must remember, this isn’t the bad Taliban, guys. This isn’t the guys who just go about conducting summary executions if Sharia law isn’t obeyed. No no no. This is the good Taliban.

Firstly, unlike the bad guys, these guys announce  the names of the dudes they’re about to kill on the radio. What if they’re not ready to go? Bursting in and killing them would be plain rude.

Secondly, their goodness extends to hanging out the dead in the village square. Now before you say, ‘that’s barbaric!’, just think. What if you were looking for a buddy to play a round of marbles with. (Now you might ask, ‘why the hell would I ever want to play marbles?’, but kindly refrain. It’s Swat Valley. Marbles is the new X-box.) So, there you are looking for your buddy the whole day and you didn’t even know the guy’s already been eaten by the vultures. What a waste, right? But it aint a problem with the new guys on the block.

What’s more, remember the time you thought the young girls of this world were getting too much of education outside of Oprah? Not a problem anymore. They don’t go to school now.

As we can see, it’s no wonder the army let these guys be. They’re far too charming to disturb. Utopia needs no policemen. 

Yes Mr Malik. Law and Order has not broken down. The term ‘broken down’ implies that the structure is still present, it’s just broken and not operational. Evaporated is a far better term.