Joy to the world, the bandwagon crashed!

I'll be honest. I've never been the world's biggest football fan. Ever.
Whether watching the sport, following it, knowing about its intricacies or playing it, it's always been no more than a bit of fun and entertainment. On the topic of actually playing the game; having my feet kicked out from under me and falling face-first in sludgy mud isn't exactly my idea of a good time.

That, isn't however to say that I don't find the sport exhilarating at times. That, also, isn't to say that I don't respect certain nuances of the game. And neither is it to say that I don't have a few teams that I particularly enjoy watching.

It is the last of these three that forms the basis for this particular post. And before you, gentle reader, sigh to yourself, wondering why you are consigning yourself to reading about me spew some claptrap about how much I love a certain team and melodramatically justifying why I identify with them and getting all sentimental about why they form my life blood, I'd like to clarify that this isn't what this post is about. However, you've got some nerve being so presumptuous as to assume that's what I was going to do. Remind me to slap you at some point.

Getting sidetracked again.

Anyway, this post is inspired by the fantastic Euro 2008 game last night, where a lacklustre Portuguese side were taken to the cleaners by an inspired and supercharged (I love that word) German machine. I was pleased by the result, partly because I'd like to see Germany win and Jens Lehmann get that victorious send-off he so craves, at the end of a fine career. Kinda like Imran Khan's send-off at the 1992 Cricket World Cup, where he triumphantly held aloft the trophy as his career came to a close.

The other reason I was pleased so so so much, was because the result appealed to my sadistic side. I cannot possibly count the sheer number of morons I have encountered who for whatever reason (glory-hunting, doing it because it makes them look "cool", because they're bored, because their friends are into it etc etc), believe that supporting Manchester United is the best thing to do. Fair enough, if you like the club, so be it. Each to their own.

My problem is with the hot-topic bandwagon jumpers who will probably possess a United jersey, a Detroit Red Wings jersey, an Australian cricket jersey, an LA Lakers vest (sense a trend?) and so on and so forth. Backing a side because they're winning. Whatever happened to backing the underdog, the no-hoper, the surprise package? (Big respect to Jonjo and his Derby County fixation) But stop. What do the Red Wings have to do with Germany's bruising of Portugal?

The fact of the matter is that most of these faux-United supporters automatically began to jump the Portuguese bandwagon, because, "Cristiano's so cute and he's such a good player... I hope he scores lots of touchdowns!!" (too cynical? maybe). It thrilled me to bits to see their maroon and green bandwagon crash into a masterfully engineered German machine and fall to bits.

But don't worry. I'm not entirely stone-hearted. The bandwagoners will get over their pain and suffering. After all, they now have the opportunity to discard their old United jerseys, which don't go with the new jeans they picked up at (Insert trendy clothing outlet name here) and buy brand spanking new Real Madrid ones!! Cool huh?

Electric... Electric... Electric

So much for all that guff a few posts ago about traversing the unknown and unfamiliar, eh?

I'm nearly two weeks into my job and I've got to say — Familiarity effin' Rules!!

Back at the publication I worked with in the past (revelation of names could result in lawsuits or rather less extreme mirth-making at my expense or something), living large and in charge, minus the "in charge" part. As far as corporate hierarchy goes, I think I'm somewhere just above the guy who makes tea and glares at me if I ask him when it's gonna arrive and why it's taking so goddamn long.

Regardless, I'd believed (foolishly perhaps) that going back to the same publication as before, could lead to a stagnation of style, thought and self. Therefore, it would seem by that rationale, that working at a different place is the way to go. Right? Not quite, but partially correct.

Partially correct in that one would gain new exposure yada yada yada with new people and new ideologies... but wait! That only works if one's been at an organisation long enough to stagnate, which clearly wasn't the case with me and so nullifies this argument and finds me out trawling the streets for stories in my new job as a reporter. A real reporter and not just one who covers music shows, art exhibitions and plays (honest to God, plays!!). Scouring the administrative process for a little lead that could translate to a story is a lot more fun than I'd previously imagined or believed. But it's early days yet; everyone loves their job at the very very start.

I still didn't have the whole life-affirming, grab you by the nuts, take no guff from these swine, supercharged and electrified vibe. The little buzz inside or a tiny click that lets you know you're in the right place. Until, of course, Friday night with notorious miscreant Maavesh Kumar.

For the umpteenth time, I saw what is fast becoming one of my favourite bands in the world (good enough to break the top 5 soon), Pentagram live. And for the umpteenth time, they blew me away! It wasn't that it was a particularly great venue or that the Duke-Gonzo (in the absence of the regular Gonzo) act we tried to pull on the venue's owners was a great success or anything. Or even that as a member of the press, I got respect or anything. Far from it. In fact, that's another gripe for another time. The ol' "Why Broadcast Journalism and Journalists Suck Ass" debate. You are all invited to participate in the same.

It was the reminder that I can be a serious reporter dealing with serious issues and handle the fun stuff as well. Duality. Familiarity with the organisation led them to believe I could handle both and so here, I am going to see bands for free on one hand and hassling the administration and the authoritaah on the other.

Suddenly, the concept of being a working stiff doesn't suck so hard anymore!

Enough is Enough!!!

If it wasn't bad enough that this great nation is already in thrall to the sport of cricket...

My sentence tapers off at this point as I furrow my brow in a vain attempt to work out just how many times these words have slipped out of my mouth in the past few months... weeks... days? Anyway, it goes without saying that you stand a greater chance of seeing Cristiano Ronaldo sign up with Mohun Bagan AC for the princely sum of Rs 24, than you do of seeing any other sport ever flourishing in this country, under this present state of sports hegemony (or is 'monopoly' a a better and more appropriate word to use in this scenario — Yes, I'm aware they mean 2 different things). Nevertheless, the fantastic, brilliant, action-packed, dazzling, glamorous, spell-binding (I can't remember any of the other adjectives used repeatedly by SET MAX's 'glorious' commentary team) spectacle that was the IPL was a welcome distraction from the usual claptrap on TV today. 

The cricket was for the most part, of excellent quality, the matches were fun, the hoop-la and shenanigans were amusing (albeit, mildly so) and such like. Now it's over, and everybody involved (except the consumers who paid through their noses for tickets and were forced to stand in a rundown stadium, with minimal to no amenities) finds their wallets far heavier than they were only a few weeks ago. 

But like all things good or bad, the IPL too must and did come to an end. 

What refuses to come to an end however, is the abject shit that still flows through the airwaves and is being marketed as 'cricket-related programming'. I'm not going to go into just how abysmal the presentation of the IPL was; with shitty commentators — the man with the tiniest dictionary in the world, that probably runs a page and a half before wrapping up and dying, Mr Arun Lal and the man with 6 catchphrases to suit all occasions with a penchant for referring to Sri Lankan players by their first names, Mr Ranjit Fernando — a pathetic presentation team with geniuses like Shonali Nagrani and Lekha Washington (what a name) who still believe that preening and gushing with profound stupidity and asking deep questions like "So... that was an amazing performance, no?" is what sports presentation is all about — innumerable invasions of advertising — Someone needs to hunt down and slap the taste out of the mouth of that stoopid Havell's electrical switches kid whose hair is all Static-X-like and standing up because he was electrocuted — and non-stop visuals of Preity Zinta jumping around whooping and screaming like a moron while Ness Wadia stood in the background sadly and silently contemplating (I can only presume) the answer to the question, "Why Lord why? Why do you play this trick on me?"

Phew! And just when you thought it was all gone, the shitty excuse for 'cricket-related programming' rears its ugly head once more! This time, it's in the form of a new television show, described by the biggest Indian news web-portal (could I be any more specific?) as follows:

"Cricket Tadka Marke as the name suggest (sic) would dish out the sport with a dash of spice. This show focuses on crazy fans, gossip about cricketers, fun trivia and other happenings in the world of cricket. The Cricket-Bollywood connection would be exposed here."

So... where do I begin?

I happened to watch a bit of this travesty today for want of anything else on television while I was tying my shoelaces. The devastatingly asinine nature of the show made me sit up and watch a few minutes more in mortified paralysis. The basic premise of this piece of televisual excreta is some dumb-ass called Archana Vijaya (apparently, she won some beauty contest a few years ago) being forced down the consumers throat as eye candy, rambling inanely about stuff no one really cares about. 

Going back to how the show was described... 

"Dish out the sport with a dash of spice"? OK, I haven't seen that yet. Next. 

"Crazy fans"? Perhaps not crazy, but idiotic, certainly. Can't say I consider Archana much of a fan though. 

Moving on. "Fun trivia"? If lines like "I bet you didn't know that Bangladesh has its own film industry!" coupled with a faux-shocked expression, constitute fun trivia, then... well I don't know exactly but the world would be a terrible place to inhabit.

"Other happenings in the world of cricket"? Forget about other happenings; how about ANY happenings in the world of cricket and not happenings in the lives of the weird little creatures that live in the skull of whatever jackass conceptualised and created this show?

And this next part is my personal favourite... "The Cricket-Bollywood connection would be exposed here" Shock! Horror!! Awe!!! The only reason there is any connection of that sort is because of the kind of money-grubbing muppets who create some connection to add "a dash of spice" to a sport that really could do without all of that. Add some of that spice to football or hockey or even invest more in the tennis circuit. You gotta love the way it says "will be exposed here"; a phrase that's really more at home when saying, "At the conclusion of this part of the experiment, you will have yourself an acid and a base. The relationship between the acid and the base will be exposed here."

Now, add all this nonsense, if you will, to the fact that the show's "jokes" are actually quite offensive. I'm guessing some hick of a producer sat down in his air-conditioned cabin, sipping some tea with loud slurping noises, clutching a pack of Goa or Manikchand in the other hand for a post-tea treat and laid this down on his team.

Hick: So... what's the gossip? What's new? 

Team Rep: Well Sir, the cricket team is in Bangladesh now.

Hick: Oh yeah!! *slurp* That's that there place where they done talk funny like... with they stoopid accent and missed pronounc-ation. 

Team Rep: err...

Hick: Yes yes! Find some random piece of ass.. you know, so that the average Indian male will watch the show, give her a low-cut top and i'll write you a script tonight

Team Rep: Are you sur-...

Hick: Now where's my Manikchand?!

I'm not kidding. They actually mocked the Bangla accent in the first part of the show. Now take this vicious cocktail and add in a dash of the worst scripting since Gigli led Pastry to contemplate suicide and you have Cricket Tadka Marke all sussed out. I am certain NEO hired some former classmates of mine. I just know it. I could recognise that "style" of writing a script anywhere. Lines like, "What's up, guys? .........So..... *pause*..... India is playing a tri series in Bangladesh..... *pause*.... Isn't that rocking?......... Yeah......... Bangladesh is India's neighbour...... *pause*...... It's right next door!...... Isn't that unbelievable?" sound like they've come right out of the play-books of certain people I've had the distinct honour of knowing in the past 3 years. That's not a rude slap-down or me being mean, by the way. It's an honest observation.

An honest observation like the fact that watching that dumb show has probably caused the IQ of every single person who watched that show to drop by 3 or 4 points, at the very least. May God have mercy on our souls.

P.S. — A humble plea to Archana Vijaya, Shonali Nagrani, Lekha Washington, Arun Lal and Ranjit Fernando: PLEASE FIND A NEW JOB!!! I'll be happy to forward your CV's to everyone I possibly can, but please get the F off my TV screen.

"Don't take any guff from these swine"

The Indian Premier League drew to an epic close this Sunday in a high-octane and tension charged finalé with the mighty Rajasthan Royals pipping the gutsy Chennai Super Kings. As good a match as it was, it did lay one thing to rest as far as I'm concerned (after I was forced to eat my words) — Twenty over cricket is here to stay. I won't go as far as to doff my hat to the almighty Rupee (at least in cricketing terms, it is almighty), but well done, BCCI. You once again showed how crappy infrastructure, shitty production values, infinite advertising and dumb-ass presenters and commentators are nothing compared to the sheer will-power, gusto, enthusiasm and energy of the common Indian cricket lover.

With that out of the way, I'd like to segue right to the thrust of this here post. Yes Paste, it most certainly is a blatant steal from Hunter S Thompson, but it's also the theme of my latest diatribe.

How many roads... asked Bobby D at some point when in his drug-addled stupor, he made a tiny iota of sense. The real question, dear reader, isn't about roads walked down or cannon balls or ermm... what else did he sing about? Anyway, the real question has more to do with one's own self-respect. How many times must you keep being slapped down, insulted, spat on (literally or figuratively), deceived, tricked, stabbed in the back or bitched about until you throw down those gauntlets and think, "Right, that's it... This means WAR!!"?

Now, I've dealt with facetious, insincere and spiteful people before and more often than not, I've laughed it off. I've probably been called every insult under the Sun, from the M-F stuff through racially-fueled stuff to some downright bizarre stuff like a word that begins with a J that is usually used to describe childish behaviour. But, as mentioned earlier, more often than not, I've laughed it off. But, then it reaches a point, when you actually see these lovely (!) people getting a rush from making you their patsy, from using you as their magnet for spite and from using you as a punching bag to dissipate their own insecurities. It wouldn't be so bad if these people were inconsequential piss-ants (maybe it's time they were relegated to that category), but these are people you knew, could relate to and even considered calling "friends". Yeeesh!!! And still... you continue to take it with a pinch of salt.

A long talk with a dear friend revealed to me said friend's absolute refusal to take the vengeful path and chart out (and execute) a plan to get back at those aforementioned lovely (!) people. Which, it should be added isn't necessarily a bad thing if being Gandhian or living life the Dr Martin Luther King Jr. way is your thing. So, you go along with it... for a while, until...

Until that pounding and serrated blood music begins blasting its way through your system. Yanking your stomach from where it sits comfortably under your diaphragm and out your throat with that bitter and nasty bile ebbing and flowing forth unchallenged.

Disenfranchisement.
Resentment.
Red Mist.
The 'Roy Keane Syndrome'.

"Listen you fuzzy little shithead. I've been F'd around in my time by a fairly good cross-section of mean-tempered, ill-mannered and nefariously nasty people... And now... it's MY turn. So fuck you, Sir/Madam/child... I'm in charge"

A bit of paraphrasing here or there never hurt, but hopefully, the gist of it isn't lost on you, dear reader. The fuzzy little shithead, as has probably already been guessed, is a summation of and metaphor for all those people ranging from the plastic smilers to the air-kissers to those that insincerely spout "I love you"s at anyone they see to every other facetious bastard who dared to mess with you. And that paraphrased line is an ode to all of them.

Because tomorrow is a new day.
I start a new job.
I pick new fights.
I gots me a cool new colour scheme.
Not to mention, a funky new game and a kerraaayyyy-zeee new pet.
And the fuzzy little shithead needs to find a new hobby.
My cards are firmly in my hand.
I raise.