The IPL is an amazing venture. Though much has been written about about its pros, cons and con artistry, my issue is with the bastardization of cricketing language as we know it.
A sixer is a DLF maximum, a catch is a karbon kamaal catch and pretty much anything qualifies as a citi moment of success, including the time Ganguly tried to take a quick single and was run out or Yousuf Pathan hits a six. In fact there are CBZ xtreme sixes as well...so is it a maximum or a six? This has commentators debating the same with Barkha, Arnab and that screeching terror on IBN. Rajat Sharma is busy looking for the yeti in the badlands of Andheri.
In fact I would not be too surprised to hear commentators say this next.
Ultratech cement number 4 attempts a dlf maximum but a superb karbon kamaal from mountain dew number 23 has given the royal challengers a citi moment of success.
WTF!!!!!
Whats next? Tata nano singles, Run out Reliance, victoria's secret bouncers, even the government might jump in with GOI ducks, Ford stumped and so on...perhaps a viewsandabuse hit wicket.
I have heard rumours of commentators taking special orientation classes to unlearn IPL lingo for other cricketing series. One cannot have Ravi Shastri at the Oval during the Ashes saying "thats a citi moment of success." Especially when its sponsored by Barclays!
While drinking at "The Old Goat' pub the other day, I overheard Danny Morrison and Ian Bishop (respect) saying that there is a box of lights in the commentary box, each pertains to a different sponsor capturing the moment and lights up to remind the commentators to use these phrases.
In fact one would not be surprised to know that the commentators get extra bucks everytime one of these phrases is used. This is how Harsha Bhogle kicked Michael Kasprowicz in the nuts and had his woven hair ripped out.
And Laxman triple-deity needs to pay off those gambling debts it seems. Reminds me of a line in Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye, where a reporter keeps saying sansanikhej over and over.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
aaj rapat jaye...
And so the big debate for the week is the Big B of course. It seems each of his actions constantly need to be examined by a media microscope. But of course, Bachchchchan’s shenanigans with Parveen Babi or Rekha don’t matter of course. He was being a mard (or was is merde) after all.
But this time it was Modi, we have to be specific nowadays, the Gujarat ka sher Modi, Narendrabhai of course. There was some tomfoolery about Bachchchchchchan becoming Gujarat’s brand ambassador and the congress smelling some brownies with the grand begum, condemned it. Then begum asked Chavan to get Bachchchchchan’s autograph with a line below it saying ‘aaj rapat jaye toh hamein na utahayo’. So the controversy blew over.
For most of us.
The media smelled something else. They smelt blood, the way predators of yore and the 1421 types left in India do. There were debates galore on all television channels.
“Is Big B endorsing Modi’s politics?” debate: kjhbjbswjbcjbskcjbekjbkjbk (ad infinitum)
“Is Bachchchchchan only an actor or is it deeper than that?” debate: jfevjhejw (ditto)
“How can bachchchchchchan appear with congress and BJP leaders?” (ditto)
When will there be food security?” aaaaaaaahahahahahahhahahahahahhahaha….
How…ahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahha
And so on.
NDTV’s left, right and center (catchy name, but it could have been called directionless instead. Reminds me of the colosseum days when a man was tied to four horses in different directions and ripped apart. But all that’s ripped apart on the show is of course the interested viewer).
Coming to you live tonight a new NDTV LR&C starring-
Abishiek Manu Singhvi (in this 4037th performance)
Swapan Das Gupta (ditto)
Vir Sanghvi (ditto minus 302)
Mahesh Bhatt (He was free and Chandan mitra or Teesta were not available)
So the usual rubbish began, Singhvi first, Gupta retorts, Sanghvi gives his centrist point of view and Mahesh mouths all their comments in some other form or the other.
But the most interesting segment was when Nidhi Rajdhan looked Gupta square in the eye and said.
“Swapan tell me, honestly, honestly, some random question.”
OK.
First of all the guests on this show are primarily spokespersons for various political parties, not their agents of consciousness or their ideological devisors.
So repeating the word honestly over and over again, probably only caused her guests some minor nausea. Honest for most of these guys is only the name of a restaurant found in Baroda. Or perhaps shorthand for hornet’s nest. Or even a den of promiscuity if we were to consider American urban slang.
But this time it was Modi, we have to be specific nowadays, the Gujarat ka sher Modi, Narendrabhai of course. There was some tomfoolery about Bachchchchchchan becoming Gujarat’s brand ambassador and the congress smelling some brownies with the grand begum, condemned it. Then begum asked Chavan to get Bachchchchchan’s autograph with a line below it saying ‘aaj rapat jaye toh hamein na utahayo’. So the controversy blew over.
For most of us.
The media smelled something else. They smelt blood, the way predators of yore and the 1421 types left in India do. There were debates galore on all television channels.
“Is Big B endorsing Modi’s politics?” debate: kjhbjbswjbcjbskcjbekjbkjbk (ad infinitum)
“Is Bachchchchchan only an actor or is it deeper than that?” debate: jfevjhejw (ditto)
“How can bachchchchchchan appear with congress and BJP leaders?” (ditto)
When will there be food security?” aaaaaaaahahahahahahhahahahahahhahaha….
How…ahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahha
And so on.
NDTV’s left, right and center (catchy name, but it could have been called directionless instead. Reminds me of the colosseum days when a man was tied to four horses in different directions and ripped apart. But all that’s ripped apart on the show is of course the interested viewer).
Coming to you live tonight a new NDTV LR&C starring-
Abishiek Manu Singhvi (in this 4037th performance)
Swapan Das Gupta (ditto)
Vir Sanghvi (ditto minus 302)
Mahesh Bhatt (He was free and Chandan mitra or Teesta were not available)
So the usual rubbish began, Singhvi first, Gupta retorts, Sanghvi gives his centrist point of view and Mahesh mouths all their comments in some other form or the other.
But the most interesting segment was when Nidhi Rajdhan looked Gupta square in the eye and said.
“Swapan tell me, honestly, honestly, some random question.”
OK.
First of all the guests on this show are primarily spokespersons for various political parties, not their agents of consciousness or their ideological devisors.
So repeating the word honestly over and over again, probably only caused her guests some minor nausea. Honest for most of these guys is only the name of a restaurant found in Baroda. Or perhaps shorthand for hornet’s nest. Or even a den of promiscuity if we were to consider American urban slang.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Stomach in, chest out
Exercising is not an inexpensive hobby or trade or necessity. In fact, my long years of research into the topic (14 minutes) has brought me to the conclusion that more often than not, it is the after effects of the same, which really causes wallet anorexia.
Take for example the case of Welfed W/ Westlin.
As with most people who fall into the above mentioned necessity category, Welfed had taken a liking to Bengali, Coorgi, Kashmiri, Rajasthani, Gujarati, Malabari, Canara, Chettinad and above 20000 Kcal type food. Be Indian buy idiyappam he said. And as with most people who share the same tastes, Welfed’s sides soon extended the capabilities of most doors in his house and after some seriously good looking women, with a fetish for paunches and jelly bellies turned him down, decided to retrench his adipose tissue. Welfed thought of it as his contribution to the corporate cut-down of the 2008 recession.
But Welfed was wary, having heard of the term trade unions while dealing with GAP garments, watching Battleship Potempkin, in a slightly more than less inebriated state, and serving notice for tax evasion. Welfed said to himself, “Gyms are for losers who want six packs, either to emulate their obscenely rich matinee idols or for genuine body builders and I am neither.” So Welfed chose the subaltern path.
After some serious hacking, which included dangling a subway veggie delite in front of the subject, I managed to get into Welfed’s email account. Yes it was Gmail, beanpolewillie@gmail.com to be exact. In Welfed’s task list I glimpsed the following.
1. one kg potatoes
2. 5 kgs beef
3. 15 eggs
4. a crate of Budlite
wrong list
The relevant list contained
1. Wake up, curse the world and sleep
2. Wake up again curse my decision to exercise
3. Curse the paunch fetish women for not inflating their fantasies
4. Autobots, roll out.
5. Skip for 30 seconds
6. wave hands in a random fashion for another 30 secs
7. push ups (Mwhahahahahahahaha)
8. Chin u……zzzzzzzz
9. Check pulse
10. call doctor friend if 9 does not exist or sounds like Death’s cover of Painkiller
11. treadmill (part of initial investment)
12. more skipping
13. call doctor again
After three full days of this above strenuous workout, Welfed felt confident, his pants felt looser and he could actually reach across the table for strawberry jam without using a Howjow patented magnetic magic stick.
Here is slimmer Welfed’s attempt to demonstrate the birds and bees story.
Bee: Wassup
Bird: tweet
Bee: Oh Mr External Affairs MOS, sorry
Bee: hows it hanging
Bird: whats it to you?
Bee (Whilst rubbing now flatter abs {snigger}): rub a dub, you and me in a tub
Bird: And what tub is that? The Arabian sea? Hehehe
Bee left Stung and buzzing, while admiring the sheer poetry in that brush off.
Back to the drawing and quartering board.
After several months of following the list to the number and letter, with particular emphasis on point 3, Welfed had actually lost weight.
Bee: Hey you, you aminal
Bird: OoOoOOoo La la la
Bee: What say we bust this joint and do the cha cha cha
Bird: Let me get the bill
Bee: make it quick
Cheers all around.
Three months later, in keeping up with the trend of small saving businesses, Welfed filed for bankruptcy.
Turns out that Welfed, who had forever been used XXXXXL clothing had now reduced to XXXXL and Welfed had to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Which cost a pretty paisa. And with his newfound confidence needed some swanky, snazzy design design stuff. However, the investment cost him much more than he could afford, all the while credit card companies kept reminding him that his unobtainium credit card was waiting, which he took and maxed out.
Now out on the street, Welfed was reduced to eating only at McDonalds, since Subway and bistros were out of his reach. Three days later, Welfed had put on all that weight again and now needed another new XXXXXL wardrobe.
Now Welfed can be seen late night on India TV where he endorses Munir Khan’s medicine.
“I swear, I reduced. I was 400 kgs some time ago now Im only 350 thanks to Body Revivial,” Welfed says everyday.
Take for example the case of Welfed W/ Westlin.
As with most people who fall into the above mentioned necessity category, Welfed had taken a liking to Bengali, Coorgi, Kashmiri, Rajasthani, Gujarati, Malabari, Canara, Chettinad and above 20000 Kcal type food. Be Indian buy idiyappam he said. And as with most people who share the same tastes, Welfed’s sides soon extended the capabilities of most doors in his house and after some seriously good looking women, with a fetish for paunches and jelly bellies turned him down, decided to retrench his adipose tissue. Welfed thought of it as his contribution to the corporate cut-down of the 2008 recession.
But Welfed was wary, having heard of the term trade unions while dealing with GAP garments, watching Battleship Potempkin, in a slightly more than less inebriated state, and serving notice for tax evasion. Welfed said to himself, “Gyms are for losers who want six packs, either to emulate their obscenely rich matinee idols or for genuine body builders and I am neither.” So Welfed chose the subaltern path.
After some serious hacking, which included dangling a subway veggie delite in front of the subject, I managed to get into Welfed’s email account. Yes it was Gmail, beanpolewillie@gmail.com to be exact. In Welfed’s task list I glimpsed the following.
1. one kg potatoes
2. 5 kgs beef
3. 15 eggs
4. a crate of Budlite
wrong list
The relevant list contained
1. Wake up, curse the world and sleep
2. Wake up again curse my decision to exercise
3. Curse the paunch fetish women for not inflating their fantasies
4. Autobots, roll out.
5. Skip for 30 seconds
6. wave hands in a random fashion for another 30 secs
7. push ups (Mwhahahahahahahaha)
8. Chin u……zzzzzzzz
9. Check pulse
10. call doctor friend if 9 does not exist or sounds like Death’s cover of Painkiller
11. treadmill (part of initial investment)
12. more skipping
13. call doctor again
After three full days of this above strenuous workout, Welfed felt confident, his pants felt looser and he could actually reach across the table for strawberry jam without using a Howjow patented magnetic magic stick.
Here is slimmer Welfed’s attempt to demonstrate the birds and bees story.
Bee: Wassup
Bird: tweet
Bee: Oh Mr External Affairs MOS, sorry
Bee: hows it hanging
Bird: whats it to you?
Bee (Whilst rubbing now flatter abs {snigger}): rub a dub, you and me in a tub
Bird: And what tub is that? The Arabian sea? Hehehe
Bee left Stung and buzzing, while admiring the sheer poetry in that brush off.
Back to the drawing and quartering board.
After several months of following the list to the number and letter, with particular emphasis on point 3, Welfed had actually lost weight.
Bee: Hey you, you aminal
Bird: OoOoOOoo La la la
Bee: What say we bust this joint and do the cha cha cha
Bird: Let me get the bill
Bee: make it quick
Cheers all around.
Three months later, in keeping up with the trend of small saving businesses, Welfed filed for bankruptcy.
Turns out that Welfed, who had forever been used XXXXXL clothing had now reduced to XXXXL and Welfed had to buy an entirely new wardrobe. Which cost a pretty paisa. And with his newfound confidence needed some swanky, snazzy design design stuff. However, the investment cost him much more than he could afford, all the while credit card companies kept reminding him that his unobtainium credit card was waiting, which he took and maxed out.
Now out on the street, Welfed was reduced to eating only at McDonalds, since Subway and bistros were out of his reach. Three days later, Welfed had put on all that weight again and now needed another new XXXXXL wardrobe.
Now Welfed can be seen late night on India TV where he endorses Munir Khan’s medicine.
“I swear, I reduced. I was 400 kgs some time ago now Im only 350 thanks to Body Revivial,” Welfed says everyday.
Monday, November 2, 2009
splitting hairs
Many people claim a night at the cemetery is the most scary experience, others believe true horror is when you're parents masquerade as you on shaadi.com or bharatmatrimonials.com and chat with prospective brides or grooms and later innocuously arrange a meeting at Shanti Sagar (in the south) or Moti Mahal (in the north), still others insist that Katrina Kaif's acting is the most chilling thing they have endured. There are also those who claim terrorists waiting to bomb the next door paan shop or that the sensex fell by .009 points sends them into nervous spasms, but nobody listens to them.
But true horror, unbridled, unending, kidney-exploding, bowel voiding horror is when one foolishly walks into barbershop, without realising that an India vs Australia cricket match is on. And India is batting. And Sachin Tendulkar is on strike. And your barber is down with swine flu and his three-day-old protégé, wearing a Sahara India t-shirt, smiles at you like Dr Dang in Tahelka.
After a critical examination of my mane recently on the windshield of a passing vehicle, I strolled into my neighbourhood barbershop hoping for some good clean scraping and an oil massage for my head. The television set, a 14-inch black and white, Solero, inside was blaring out an ad with SRK endorsing some skin whitening cream.
“Like he needs it,” I thought.
“I agree,” relied the psychic barber to my unpleasant surprise.
I looked around for R, my usual scraper, scalper and resident head howitzer. But R was back at home, resting in isolation, suspected swine flu could even be ebola people whispered. Later on I would say lucky him.
After the necessary adjustments to the seat, head-rest and picking a clean towel, I was ready for my shave. D, the protégé, approached me with a pair of scissors in one hand and a bottle of dettol in the other. Was destiny written already?
“Shave, shave, shave, daadi banana hain,” I cried repeatedly stabbing at the growth on my face, smiling idiotically at the same time.
“Kya banana hain daadi ko?” he twittered and began to laugh, splashing some dettol my my shirt.
And thus began the process.
First the lather. But before that, D claimed he had learnt some new methods and pulled out a box of white, ammonical cream. The hair is too long, this will soften it up a little he said. Yes indeed like feeding goats before Bakrid.
The cream was applied and rubbed into my face and washed off, incinerating my eyes and scalding my skin and the lathering began just as Yuvraj singh on the non striker end was run out.
The lather entered my nose as a furious D began uttering oaths and curses, my mother told me never to utter, whilst giving the TV the finger and I began to scream. D was also screaming and figured I supported his views on the Indian team’s dismal running between the wickets.
Commercial break. Never was I happier to see a commercial break.
The horror began. He thankfully replaced the blade with a new one and told me to stay still and submit my facials muscles completely to my will. I wish he had said the same about the afore-mentioned kidneys.
The blade weaved menacingly in his hand, a swipe there and a swish here, unable to choose between his victim and the TV, so he devoted all his attention to Solero. I could see the match in the mirror, where Dhoni is left-handed.
My life flashed before my eyes with every ball that was bowled.
“Swine, why is he swinging blindly at that ball? We just lost a wicket, should he not get his eye in,” he shouted furiously at Solero. The blade still weaved in front of my eyes, always inches away, like an adder waiting to strike.
A boundary, that moron Dhoni could he not just defend the damn ball till the shave was done.
“Manga. Manga. Manga,” D yelled, his sword hand sweeping with the umpires. This was later explained as the words he used whenever someone scored a boundary, during his formative years in UP.
Our father, who art in heav’n…, asatoma sadhgamaya…, ya allah…, mazel tov….
I shut my eyes and prayed to Gods who did not even exist up until then and promised them all gifts and a leather-bound version of Hitch-hiker’s guide to the galaxy. These were my gods remember. They do not want, coconuts, money, revenge or virgin sacrifices. They are cool gods.
But since they do not exist, D continued his swordplay as another ad began.
Strangely enough it was only during these frenetic minutes in-between the match, when SRK, the Big B, little B and the parivar spoke benevolently to us that D managed to get any shaving done.
So after 54 commercial breaks he was done and so was I. I was well done and ready to be served.
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