Guilty, Three years, solitary...

If you were sentenced to three years, but were given one week off before you went it, what would you do?
Running away is not an option. You do not want to run forever.
Do you spend the time weighing the cost of every minute detail that you will miss out on?
Do you spend every minute living it like it was your last?
Do you just hold your loved ones and say sorry, again and again?
Do you steel your mind and heart and begin the sentence even before it begins?
Do you die?
What do you do?

And then there were ten...

I now need ten fingers to count the great musicians of my era left for me to see.
Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, Stevie Wonder, The Eagles, Dire Straits, Eric Clapton, Tina Turner, AC/DC, Billy Joel and Rod Stewart.
That reads like a heavy to-do list, but consider, the rest I have seen.
The latest being Axl Rose and his version of G’n’R.
Jaded and old, but with three spectacular guitarists and the best rock voice for 20 years still in fine screech, the rocker was a blast from a once-great past.
And a reminder, that we are all getting old.

NDTV: Barkha Dutt has to go

I was reared as a young colt in the journalistic stable of one of the toughest, meanest and almost-fanatically puritanical master trainers.
Then, as a budding thoroughbred, I joined the Times of India and for three years – lost the plot. At least on the journalistic front.
I abused my power as a journalist and now when I look back cringe like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.
My former trainers would’ve hung and quartered me, not bothering to draw.
So, when I say NDTV is disgracing journalism by not sacking/removing Barkha Dutt, I know what I’m talking about. Disgraceful.

That's not the story, guys!

I am amused this morning at the Indian press’ praise for Sachin Tendulkar refusing to endorse an alcohol brand, despite being offered billions.
In a true Barkhaesque tradition, the press missed the real story – an alcohol brand thought it made sense to have Tendulkar as its brand ambassador.
The truly smart story to do was: why is it ok for Sachin to advertise Pepsi? More harmful to more people by far.
Still, I can’t imagine his pip-squeak voice and less-than-macho image selling booze.
There was a time when PR ran behind the Indian media – now PR runs the press.

Pyrrhic victory

Life destroys, decimates, dismembers, disavows.
I mortally fear time.
It scathes, scalps, scythes and seethes.
While you spent your life getting a life, I spent mine, pissing it away.
And now I stand (or sit, mostly), quarter of half the man I used to be.
And that vision comes back: of the knight on a battlefield;
Carnage all around, bodies littered, blood splattered.
The knight stands alone and as the mist lifts, he looks around.
Has he won? If he is standing, he must have.
Except, all the dead are his. His own. His people.
Pyrrhic, pyrrhic, pyrrhic.

Fried about Freida

I’ve often said my wife is better looking than Freida Pinto.
Like about a 100 times better. And that is a purely social, anthropological observation.
So, imagine if any passion was involved.
Being at the right time, in the right place, with the all the stars and whatnot aligned in your favour is understandable.
I have not seen her act yet after Slumdog. I’m going to.
But, even for a person like me, who is naturally jealous of anyone from the Catholic-western-Indian-urban-landscape that makes it big, watching a recent TV interview of her’s was mind-boggling.
She is utter crap!

What now, Eminem? You ain't no Slim Shady no more

I love Eminem. One of my close friends and I, both as fat as Friday, used go beserk on the dancefloor, everytime Slim Shady played.
But the question is, what do you do when you’ve grown up? When all the angst has been sucked dry by years of platinum-selling, Grammy award-winning, aggressive rap lyrics?
What does the Slim Shady rap about five years on… when the drugs are gone, the guns are slient, the ghosts of the past laid to rest.
As Eminem threatens to sweep the Grammys the real test is the evolution of Marshal Mathers from here.

Barkha and Vir have slapped us all awake

I watch the Indian English media quite closely. Living abroad gives me a different, sometimes, more panoramic perspective.
However, anyone with half a brain could tell that Barkha Dutt lost the plot two years ago. In fact, as prophetic as this blog is, much before the Radia tapes, I have been keeping track of NDTV’s decline.
Watching Barkha Dutt’s defense on NDTV and reading Vir Sanghvi’s defense in the Hindustan Times I feel like I have been slapped out of my lethargy – the classic wake-up call.
Why did I become a journalist? What is the role of journalism today?

Apocalypse? Now where's Leslie Nielsen

Despite the apocalyptic state of my life – it’s news when everything is normal – Leslie Nielsen could genuinely bring a smile to my face.
He was an actor stored away in my subconscious and on the rerun list of movie channels, to be brought up whenever an apocalyptic scenario beckoned.
Nielsen himself would have played out an apocalyptic scenario with that deadpan expression and sparkly blue eyes that made you believe, without a doubt, he saved the world without knowing it was coming to an end.
What makes us laugh? I’m not sure. But, who? Nielsen was one of ‘em.

A story of my life

A friend who knows me (perhaps too well) only recently caught Californication, watched three seasons back to back, calls me and tells me “your life so far is on tape”.
Flattered I asked him to let me have season one. And you would say I’m being over-indulgent and myopically self-centered – but it is quite the story of my life. At least the last 10 years.
And I quote from it
Mother: “Your father has to realize that actions have consequences. That he cannot say and do whatever he wants.”
Daughter: “Mom, bail him out. He’s too pretty for jail.”

China's most dangerous weapon

The Chinese have a new weapon. It’s not nuclear and it’s not their currency.
It’s their Opening Ceremony for international events.
If you are another country watching the opening of the Asian Games in Guangzhou, you got to be shitting bricks.
It made the word spectacular look ordinary.
And there is a certain bluster and in-your-face without trying too hard, about the way they go about organising this shit.
It will strike nothing but fear into other countries who dare hope to compete.
The Indian opening ceremony seems like some rich kid’s birthday party in comparison.
To China, then.

Me having Koffee with Karan

I watched the opening episode of Koffee with Karan with as much comfort as a constipated kid facing a full day of school.
Aishwarya has always left me unmoved – even in her swimsuit round at the Miss World contest.
She is so beautiful that one cannot relate to her - not at a carnal level, or a creative, intellectual or even movie star level.
Abhishek has done well to survive being the Big B’s son, but would you marry a girl Salman Khan used to bang?
The whole show is incestuous. Like watching a family make out… verbally.

The Harley factor

The Americans are pissed off that Harley is going to manufacture motorcycles in India. The website that employs me is buzzing with angst laden comments from people across the US about Harley’s foray into India.
All this in the middle of Obama’s visit to India, where Indians created jobs for Americans by signing billions of dollars in various deals.
That juxtaposition quite simply sums up why Obama will not be reelected. And why the Democrats do not really represent the heartland of America.
Also, it struck me that both senators of Indian descent are Republican.
The Democrats are done.

My daughter's influence is not bad

I am a big fan of Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber.
That is akin to an Oprah Winfrey endorsement, albeit in a smaller microcosm. A much smaller one. Much, much smaller.
The people handling Miley Cyrus’ career may never let her go too close to that ‘real country’ sound, but what they should do is prevent the child star from becoming a Britney disaster during this cross over period.
Bieber on the other hand is wading through his adolescence with as much cool as a teenager can ever wish to hope for on this planet. And he sounds good.

Here comes the hot-stepper... cold

I’m in a clear minority when I say I believe Barack Obama is not a good president. And I am in a super-miniscule minority when I say, I preferred George W to Obama.
Many a get-together has ended with people sniggering as police had to escort me out of the venue for my own safety.
Successful political leaders are often linguistically challenged (English), poorly dressed and not socially networked.
Especially in developing countries.
But urban India likes its leaders to be well-spoken (English), well- dressed and on twitter.
Which is why middle-class India loves Obama. And the Shashi Tharoor-kind. Pah!

I don’t mind me a Tea Party

The American Tea Party amuses me. It is a tight slap on the face of all who forget that life on this planet is in the end cyclical. And to bring back a quote from an earlier post of mine – evolution without morality leads to self-destruction.
I may not agree with what specific Tea Party candidates say, but I love the overall movement, which is basically away from big money, big corporate, big party politics.
Voters are no more numbers in the Tea Party, they are people, and that’s what they feel and that’s why it is so popular.

No, please, no, not the karaoke

What is with karaoke?
Like the internet, is it really empowering people –people who would not dare whisper to sing (or in the case of the internet, turn billions of average Joes into faux-know-it-alls)?
Or, is it creating a generation of irritating music zombies (no disrespect to Rob) who suck the blood out of every living song (and some dead ones).
Every party now, after two drinks (and sometimes even before), the karaoke comes on and I have to suffer the murder of everyone, from Metallica to Mariah Carey.
Karaoke is like Christmas – should be done once a year.

The cost of not letting go

Now I know what my children felt when my wife and I did not divorce.
However, there's a price to pay when deals are struck: whether that be corporate, a cut-throat agents’ fee or the emotional roller-coaster of lovers.
Manchester United will pay Rooney (me, in the hubby-wife analogy) 250,000 pounds a week to stay.
Alex Ferguson (the analogus ‘wife’) ensures the family (players, fans, sponsors and his own sanity) stays United.
Does everyone win?
I’m not sure. Sometimes you need to let people go so that they realise – that they are wrong.
And that time dispenses with everyone.

The great divorce

Now I know what my children would have felt if I had divorced my wife.
Me being Wayne Rooney, and my wife being Alex Ferguson.
They would have mourned the star going, but stayed with the coach.
I will not go with Wayne Rooney, but, boy, will I mourn his leaving.
I often joke that Fergie is unofficial godfather to all my children (this is with no disrespect to my kids’ official godfathers), but that he just does not know it yet.
He exudes trust, confidence, security and righteousness.
It’s what success – whether football or life – is built on.

Me anna, wokay?

Through a quirk of circumstance I now find myself eating an idli-sambhar breakfast most days of the week and, after a month, I’m still not really fed up.
Which is what got me thinking, maybe I should let the anna out of the pseudo-western-urbane-Indian-Roman-Catholic in me. I am half South Indian.
My wife used to often refer to me as a Madrasi, with a certain amount of scorn. She is Goan.
Goans think they fell out of Vasco da Gama’s arse. And that it’s a good thing.
I trace my heritage back to a Pillay line from Tamil Nadu.

Do not fuck with the BCCI

I’ve always been a bit sad that India did not have a true mafia-style operation.
Sure we had Haji Mastan, the Shakeels, D-Company, C-Rajan and bandits of the Chambal. But, nothing that oozed that ruthless, organised, mafioso efficiency.
Well, now we do.
It’s called the BCCI.
The manner in which it has destroyed Lalit Modi will shrivel the balls of even the toughest cookie out there.
Rather than hire someone to castrate him, they have deconstructed his empire brick by golden brick, million by tarnished million.
Do not fuck with the BCCI.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, we hear you.

GaGa over Florence and the Machine

About six months ago an Ulsterman, no less, introduced me to Florence and the Machine.
So when her Dog Days performance at the VH1 Awards moved her into the larger public consciousness, I indulged in a bit of bourgeoisie, ‘me-the-classess you-the-music-massess’ strutting around.
As I often do on this site.
Nevertheless, Florence, with her Sinead O’Connor- meets-U2-via-the-Cranberries sound has begun to appeal me as the evolved man’s answer to Lady GaGa.
GaGa has plateaued, musically at least, and is channeling so much of Madonna right now she is in danger of losing that very unique, deviously simple, pop sound.

The dog days are not over

Not with the first flush of beauty, Nor the rush of dark pain;
Not with the hollow of emptiness, Nor the seasoning of shame.
Not till the healer is released, To work upon the maimed.
Will my life bear meaning, will the chaos be tamed.

Not with the taunts of truth’s burdens, Nor fallow reasoning of blame;
Not with the blighting of the spirit, Nor the mind’s trivial games;
Not the failing of the sprit, Nor the body’s end game;
Not till the keeper of my conscience gets her chance at the wheel
Will love, joy and peace finally prevail.

Bring it on! (Oh dear)

I never thought I’d live to see the day when Manchester City was higher up the table than Manchester United.
As a modern United fan, I hate City. I would rather see Arsenal, Chelsea and Liverpool above United than City.
However, I did predict at the beginning of the season that this one was going to be difficult. A true test of faith and loyalty in the face of relentless disappointment and pain.
Quite like my life actually.
Nevertheless, if United have a record against you, this is the year to break it. Fulham, Everton, Sunderland, who is next?

NDTV’s brain-dead cricket coverage

Is it just me (it always is), or is there something in the water at the NDTV studios. Dean Jones and Ajay Jadeja spoke about the Indian cricket team looking like world beaters – this after a disastrous performance.
India dropped more catches than a paid-for Pakistan fielding side and basically handed the game to Australia.
The appalling insights were only aided by some pathetic anchoring by that mummy’s-boy-looking apology for a TV host.
Sample this question: Is this really the best feeling for an Indian – to be on top of Australia?
Yes, I kid you not.
Brain fucking dead.

A rare beauty

The most beautiful actress in Bollywood right now is Soha Ali Khan.
She captures her mother’s grace and her father’s presence in an aura that envelops her with a sensual beauty that transcends mere sex-appeal.
What I mean to say is, she is hot.
It’s not often that someone with such an acute nose allows it to fall in perfect line with the rest of her feminine bearing.
There are those that have the je ne sais quoi and Soha Ali Khan is one of them.
In Bollywood, where even beauty is often crass and over-dramatised, she is rare.

The truly premier league

The English Premier League has had its best start in years. And even though my beloved Manchester United is unlikely to win it, from a football perspective, the game is at an all-time high in the league.
Dimitar Berbatov, Florent Malouda and Joe Hart have all shown that form is a movement towards excellence – one that gathers pace with time and practice.
Sooner or later a gap will develop between the great teams and the rest – but for now, anyone can beat anyone.
Two games will decide the season – Man Utd vs Chelsea, home and away.
Glory, glory, United.

Thank Stephen Hawking for God

I would love to say that Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time was a watershed moment in my cerebral evolution – it wasn’t. I labored and labored and labored and still could not make past page 10.
Now Mr Hawking is at it again, in a much more understandable avatar.
The Grand Design’s primary aim is to dispense with the notion of God. And yet, it has the opposite effect. It affirms by negation.
Mr Hawking has probably done more to establish God’s credentials than any other scientist.
Check it out and let me know what are your thoughts.

Stick, twist or shout?

What can you do, when, crippled as you are at the knee,
Hobbling along the floor of your dreams,
Walls closing in, sinking sand sucking you within,
What can you do, but thrash and tremble,
Pray and beg and hope for redemption.
It won’t come you know it, at least not in a painless shot of morphine,
or a lucky number worth a million dollars.
It won’t come you know it. Not like a knight in shining armour,
Or a knife to the heart in surrender.
What can you do when the bottom falls out?
Stick, twist or shout?

The racist in me

There’s a racist in all of us. You just have to put your ear to the ground and listen carefully and you will find it in you.
I discovered it playing Scrabble. Of which I play a lot online.
If the player is from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Africa or any East Asian country I expect to beat them. Easily.
I am fuming if I lose. Not because they are better, but because I expect I will know more English words than people from these countries.
If the player is American or Aussie or British losing is more palatable.
That’s racist.

Vincenti Dabitur

My grandfather went to school there. He jumped the length of the long-jump sandpit.
My father went to school there. He was a corporal in the National Cadet Corps, and a distinguished sportsman.
Seven uncles went to school there. All mostly geniuses and national-level sportsmen.
Four cousins went to school there. One is a millionaire, a couple in Princeton and Harvard.
My brother went to school there. He was a once-in-a-generation footballer.
I went to school there. I was sergeant in the corps and half-decent at everything else.
Now, my son will go to St Vincent’s High School, Pune.

Money or me... so it's me

I am in a dilemma. I have realised that when I have nothing, I have everything.
Don’t dismiss that as standard-issue, trying-to-be-wise psychobabble.
It’s a profoundly earth-shattering discovery for me.
When I am completely broke and stripped of all material proprietaries, then I find I am able to think clearly, act normally and do that stuff that really leaves me at peace.
One thing for sure, I cannot ever have money with me.
It is has never bought me happiness.
Sure, the problem is me. But, it’s easier to get rid of money than to get rid of me.

Here's a FB status update...

First the disclaimer: I am an anti-facebook facebooker.

Think of me as someone who would own a hummer but plant a tree. Someone who would buy cocaine from a Nigerian but contribute to Aid for Africa.

So, when you’re facebook status for relationship says ‘complicated’ what it really means is 'fucked up'.

And when you describe yourself… don’t.
Because what your description really says about you is that you are pompous, self-indulgent, driveling, tunnel-visioned, head-so-far-up-the-ass-you-can-eat-and-shit-at-the-same-time, naïve and narcissistic.

So don’t bother describing yourself. If I find you and connect with you I will discover exactly who you are. Ok?

Me and Man-fucking-chester United, and why i cannot afford passion any more

I have allowed myself to become so hung-up on Manchester United that I am physically sick when they play badly and emotionally disturbed when they lose.
It can’t be healthy. But, then, passion, in general, is unhealthy.
It is an essence of youth which if you carry over into your middle life, you are likely to suffer heartburn, financial ruin and a nervous breakdown.
All of which can be disguised by a half decent occupation, a little social savvy and plenty of bluster.
I am 37. That is fucking old. I cannot afford passion any more. Or vice versa.

For whom the keyboard is struck...

A journalist writes for four people: His editor, his fellow journalists, his mother and the reader. In that order.
The modern news consumer is so far removed from the age of journalism where it was the conscience of society - that it needs stating that the order should be in the reverse.
The internet offers the chance for practitioners of the ancient art of this journalism to, well, practice the art.
What it does not offer is the imprimatur of a masthead and a pulpit that commands the attention of nation.
And no editorial checks and balances either. So?

Who will tell the Muslims?

There is only so much that one can slag Jennifer Aniston. Then, it’s time to get with the programme. One of the major challenges of this the 21st century will be how the world is going to interact with Islam.
With extreme political correctness in play, the chance to tell Muslims that if they don’t allow their religion to evolve – if they don’t start now, 100 years after everyone else – they will increasingly find themselves polarised, has passed.
It is now up to the really radical Muslims inside Islam to bring about the renaissance. Or else, we’re all screwed.

Oh no, Jen!

I’m having a Jen week. Like I did not have enough of my own problems.
I saw the Bounty Hunter yesterday – she and Gerard Butler, him of the 26-pack, 300 fame.
Out of sheer grit, the kind needed to make the last 500mts to Mount Everest when your oxygen tank is empty, I sat through the entire movie.
It is, by some distance, the worst movie I have ever seen. Good ol' Jen, she can’t act. Seven seasons of friends proved that.
But Mr Butler can (see Law Abiding Citizen). Maybe he just had his Jen phase as well.

Oh Jen, no!

I always knew Jennifer Aniston was kooky in the head. Some people just set themselves up to be losers all their life. (Ask me). And Jen, poor thing, is the poster child for this genus of human being.
Living in her own little world, I am trying to recreate the conversation with her agent, or friend (oops) or enemy (posing as friend, oops) who suggested her recreating the classic Barbra Streisand pose. See here: http://www.emirates247.com/entertainment/celebrity-gossip/jennifer-nixes-ai-baby-rumours-2010-08-10-1.277305
Woman, I can’t even come up with a metaphor to make fun of your attempt at copying Streisand... get it. Get a life! Please.

Is this the end?

I feel like time is up for this blog. It needs to evolve now and move on. When I was working for a print publication writing a blog seemed a novelty.
Now, I work for a website and working as I do, 24/7 online, writing online does not seem such a novelty.
Also, my life is going through its ‘shedding of skin’ phase. Like a snake, every five years my life sheds its skin and starts anew.
In the midst of all this, I just am struggling to write regularly.
Am I being lazy or is this the end?

The four corners of music

Every puzzle – the ones where you put pieces together – has four key corner pieces. As a kid I went through my puzzle phase doing some pretty fancy 1,000-piece ones. I always remember looking for the corner ones first.
The other day while listening to a Simon and Garfunkel ‘live’ (they managed to get the Everly Brothers to perform as well) CD it got me thinking – what were the four corner pieces of the modern pop music puzzle?
Who were those four influences that held it all together for the rest to fit in?
Elvis, Jackson, Miles and one more…

Ad infinitum

Going from print to online (only) is like a country boy going to the city to work. And while I will always be a country boy, at heart if not at work, the city is really intimidating. There’s too much going on all the time. There is no structure, no rules, nothing except this continuous explosion of words and images every single second.
Into that mix throw in your site and it’s like dropping a droplet into an ocean and expecting to see a tsunami.
I can also, for the first time, see why print is headed for extinction.

My kind of Hurricane

You did not learn snooker to be World No 1, at least not in Pune. You devoted 15 hours a day to the table because of the aura of machismo that surrounded it.
The smoking, drinking, gambling… and the stories. The snooker table was always surrounded by the old pros with stories. Of them, Alex Higgins, who died this past week, was legend.
He gave snooker its ‘cool for bad boy to play’ status. As the old uncles told it, he drank, smoked, threatened players, made millions, lost it all, and all the time, played magnificent snooker. R.I.P., Alex.

Oh, get on with it

At 37 I’m done, dusted and ready to be trusted. Or, should that be still can’t be trusted.
The skepticism that accompanies old age is beginning to fester into a frothing fountain of bitterness.
Alas, I’m Silas Marner trapped in Ozzy Osbourne’s body.
Only India can save me now, I feel. And only I can save India (but don’t tell anyone in India yet. They may not believe you).
A PC has replaced my Mac, I’ve been reluctantly forced back onto Facebook and my kids are going to Oz for a holiday.
The randomness of life, I tell you.

What Bhajji said about Murali

I spoke to Harbhajan Singh here in Dubai some years ago about the veracity of Murali’s bowling action. Bhajji, as we know, not one to shy away from a tight slap or a frank comment, said he had no problem with Murali’s action. He felt the secret to Murali’s success was not his action, per se, but the angle at which he bent his wrist. This increased the number of revolutions on the ball and therefore, he got more spin than any other bowler. Add that to his variations and you begin to see the magic that made Murali.

Sex with kids

The quote of the day comes from Maureen Dowd (who, believe it or not was once used as a comparative descriptive for Shobaaaa De. An insult Dowd has survived). She says: If Polanski was a priest he would still have a job.
The fight against child sex abuse has suffered two sickening blows. Roman Polanski is still a free man and the Catholic Church refuses to step outside its comfort zone and condemn its own guilty priests in an unequivocal manner.
I often look at my kids and wonder what world I am leaving them to inherit. Morally bankrupt.

So!

I want to get Miley Cyrus in front of a camera going, ‘So?!’ to all of the following news stories. Miley Cyrus, because she has that perfect innocent ‘So’, which actually means ‘Who gives a F@#$%!’ without saying so. So, most of them concern the US… So, here we go:
The Iran spy who was sent home. So!
The Russian spy exchange. So!
Clinton in Pakistan. So!
Obama family heads home after weekend getaway at resort! So!
There was a time when these things mattered. Now, who gives a shit about spies. They are so dated. Like the US.

Online media whores and pimps

As I ease into the medium I pretty much would rate last on my list of ‘ideal medium to work in’, I am alarmed at the lack of need for quality or propriety or any sense of originality even.
It reminds me of TV except the time scale is magnified a billion times. In TV you fight for eyeballs for a programme, online you fight for hits, trillions by the second.
It makes media sites online media whores and pimps. It’s scary for a newbie like me. Especially coming from print where being original still had some pride attached.

Like Holland and Mickey Rourke

I have been away because of the World Cup.
That, coupled with writing a column, saving my job, relaunching my newspaper as a web-only product and relocating my family has left me bereft of any strength and sapped of all enthusiasm and emotion.
Like Holland, I am left with nothing. Which is quite something.
I love this blog too much to let it die without a fight. Like Mickey Rourke, in The Wrestler. So, come back if you’ve stopped.
And know, if you’ve ever seen a one-trick pony in the field so happy and free. Then you’ve seen me…

In print, no more

I am a diehard print media person. But, life throws you these curve balls, despite me doing my best to complicate things on my own… so my print publication is going online.
For the first time in 12 years I will not be working for something that is not printed and distributed before being read.
When people who met for the first time used to ask me, “So, What do you do?”
May answer would be, “I decide what 100,000 people will read first thing in the morning. What do you do?”
Not anymore, at least not in print.

What the Goa boys are saying...

Indian women are by and large uncomfortable wearing a revealing swimsuit. Display of skin in public is by and large considered uncultured. Which is why Indian women go to Goa. In Goa, the rules change, especially for the young singles. Away from the prying eyes of a society that knows them and their family, the babes shed their prejudices and their clothes. Within reasonable limits. These limits have been changing, or so the Goa boys tell me. Until recently the Goa boys look to lay the foreigners predominantly.
That is all changing now. It’s the Indian chick in demand.

99 words to describe England's football team when only one will really do - turgid

Dumb, despairing, desperate, pathetic, puke-worthy, plain, cringe-worthy, heartless, broken, piss-poor, class-less, drab, dreary, depressing, disjointed, dull, callous, cold, hopeless, miserable, gloomy, measly, faithless, stuttering, wooden, dour, acerbic, bitter, blind, dastardly, bastardly, dicey, sleazy, pitiful, pointless, degrading, debasing, distasteful, disgusting, contorted, futile, grim, cowardly, listless, stifling, suffocating, spineless, spastic, spasmodic, futile, childish, miserable, sad, despondent, crap, shit, soul-less, dirt, garbage, dastardly, deviant, diabolical, nasty, noxious, nauseating, nerdy, nervy, knobby, knotty, tacky, filthy, degraded, exasperating, infuriating, maddening, vexing, annoying, galling, irksome, irritating, tiresome, tedious, wearisome, bothersome, worrisome, difficult, incommodious, obstinate, pigheaded, inflexible, mulish, obdurate, insolent, squalid, seedy, sordid, dodgy, shady, slimy.

Economic gibberish

What I really regret not doing is my Master’s in Economics from LSE or Harvard. Or from somewhere where, the metrics of the global economic system grind out the numbers that feed the accepted norms.
I have the concept but not the research and the grammar, the syntax of the whole thing. I just don’t have that, in economic terms.
For example, the stock market is now no more an indicator of real economic growth or health. It is running parallel and can only harm not help in putting food on your table.
Time to redefine creation of wealth.

...in heaven

So this is heaven.
Wake up, have breakfast, potter around till lunch, then watch the first of the day’s World Cup matches.
Potter around some more. Order coffee and settle in for the next match, played early evening.
Wrap up whatever pottering around it is you do, get dinner in front of the TV with lots of desert and watch the last match of the day.
Unfortunately, I’m off the sauce, or else it would really have been like dying and going to heaven.
But, that’s what life is like these days. Everyday. For the next 30 days. Heaven!

I am...

I am impressed that other sports, cricket in particular, have the balls to conduct tournaments that clash with the football World Cup. I’m biased, but cricket looks like some pissy shit compared to what’s going on in South Africa.
I am disgusted by how people become football fans and some even experts (read Facebook postings), just because the World Cup is on. Fookin’ posers!
I am disappointed with England coach Fabio Capello’s decision not to play a central midfielder and go with a punt-or-cross attack.
I am a selfish bastard. This last one is just by the way.

Vuvuzela-ed out!

And so it begins. A million people, I estimate, will be writing a billion articles on the World Cup. But, you will find mine only here. And on the website of the paper I work for. But, to maintain the figleaf of anonymity, I don’t link the two.
The world cup, as in the matches, have started on a discordant, ear-splitting, atmosphere-destroying note. I have written about this before here, and as always, my prophetic vision comes to pass. Or, in this case to ear.
The vuvuzela is making watching the matches on TV a pathetic experience. Truly sad.

Robin and Rafa

The Swedish press have rightly gored into Robin Soderling. He had the bull by the horns, more than once, in his French Open final against Rafael Nadal. He just did not have the big match mentality to put him away. He needs a coach who can give him that.
Meanwhile, unless Rafa thinks the sight of him pulling his underwear out of his ass-crack is entertaining, he should loosen his shorts. This has gone on for years now and it’s got me thinking that maybe he enjoys it. Maybe it’s like part of his on-court persona. A lucky charm.

Crazy schedule

I sensed it the first time I saw the schedule of warm-up matches before the World. I should have said it then. But, hey, I’ll say it now. Have all the team managers gone mad? Do they have to be putting them through such a hectic schedule one week before the World Cup, risking injuries to key players?
Consider the fallout… Arjen Robben (not sure), Didier Drogba, Martin Skrtel and Rio Ferdinand.
I have to question the wisdom of teams going to the most important sporting event of the decade playing warm-ups one week before the tournament begins.

Disgusting!

India plays cricket with Zimbabwe and it speaks of the sickening double standards of our collective national conscience. More people are dying and suffering in Zimbabwe than anywhere else in the world. Yet, the game must go on. And with cricket a game becomes soul-destroying stuff… an opiate on the nation.
India will not take part in the T20 event at the Asian Games because of prior international commitments. Is there anything more important than winning a gold medal at the Asian Games? There is. The Olympics. But don’t hold your breath. That will clash with the great IPL.

I just don't get it!

Sometimes, I just don’t get it. The stuff I don’t get is often considered classic, cult or genius.
It’s pretty scary to stand up and say, ‘You know what, I thought Easy Rider was a gigantic fucking waste of time. I just don’t get it.’
Dennis Hopper’s passing away brought Easy Rider back into the mainstream of my consciousness. I had hidden it away, in the ‘Don’t-get-it-but-embarrassed –to-say-so’ box.
I also don’t get Henry Miller’s ‘Tropics’. I mean, are you kidding me??!! Really?!! Was there some genius involved there?!! Maybe it’s me. But hey, I just don’t get it.

The German way

I went to a school that was funded, founded and run by Jesuit German and Austrian missionary priests. That’s not to say we were going Heil Hitler, but, we certainly learnt German and were raised to have a die-hard love for football. In India, that can only be achieved by banning cricket in school, which was the case with St Vincent’s.
However, the school work ethic was, as they would say in German, fleisig, which translates into industriousness, but has a totally different feel to it in German. Which is why I totally get the German ban on short-shelling.

All gone

The beat is gone. So is the vibe, the DJ, the bass player and the guy at the end of the road.
‘Emptiness within’, in the vocal style of Elvis Presley, echoes. A lot of ‘f’ words come to mind, when actually only one will suffice, really.
‘Ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘what-might-have-beens’ swirl about the consciousness like locusts threatening to swoop on the imagination and devour any fertility that might exist there.
Dour. Life is dour. Like a blanket soaked in the ocean it drenches the skin in unforgiving coldness. There is no warmth. There is nothing. All gone.

Pet peeve

I am not overly fond of pets. I am surrounded by people, who, for the most are. Dogs, birds, fish…
My one personal attempt at keeping a dog ended in heartbreak. It was a Dalmation (no less) of prize-winning pedigree.
Unfortunately, I was on drugs at the time and had to give him away. Even though we had been together for just a year, I cried like a baby when they came to take him.
So, when my boss came in this morning saying his dog had died, I sort of empathized. I knew, that must hurt bad.

Too much hood in the Robin

Gladiator is the best action-adventure movie ever. Sadly, the Robin Hood legend itself does not lend in any way to a canvas on which Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe could recreate that magic. The legend is just too frivolous. It is fraught with buffoonery and the action lends to too much tomfoolery.
So, despite a clever script to give this Robin Hood a serious mission and greater ambition, the film falls flat.
It takes itself too seriously. Unlike the Robin Hood we all know and love.
Crowe is the better action hero, Kevin Costner is the better Robin Hood.

Get ready for the Brazilian Viennese Waltz

This will be the first Brazilian team in my living years where the defenders are the best players.
Lucio, Julio Cesare, Maicon, Danny Alves, Thiago Silva are all marquee names in football today. All defenders. Even Kaka, probably Brazil’s current most famous player, is an attacking midfielder.
Which means, what? For the first time we will see Brazil not conceding goals instead of merely outscoring opponents.
If you’re looking for the Samba at this World Cup you might be disappointed. You might get a stiff Viennese Waltz instead. Not as sexy, but may still be effective in the end.

I predict...

I have rarely been spot on with my World Cup predictions, because I have always supported England.
Nevertheless, this time, I predict four of these five - Brazil, Argentina, Holland, Spain and England will make the semis. I have two dark horses: Australia and Serbia.
Which means powerhouses like Germany, Italy and France are out of my reckoning, as are promising Portugal and upstarts like South Korea or the USA.
My head says Argentina or Spain will win it. My heart goes with England. My underdog to win is Holland. Come back in three months and applaud my judgement.

A love story

I’m finally reading my first 'love story' novel. Every novel more or less has a love story, but when I say 'love story' novel I am talking Mills and Boon-type.
Thankfully the author is Thomas Hardy (Far from the Madding Crowd) and the love is really between the English language and the author. The characters, the scenery, the plot, merely flesh out Hardy’s passion for the word.
If you must be verbose (and believe me, as a writer of 99 words a day some paras never seem to end) then be as magically compelling and charming as Thomas Hardy.

A Liver-puddle-ian tale

If Liverpool’s would rather spend five years outside the Top 4 than help Manchester United overhaul their 18 league titles then it suggests the great club has lost the ‘great’ mentality all together.
If the pride is in the fans, it certainly does not reflect on the pitch.
I suspect the woman who chose to have my last name and bear my children is a closeted Liverpool fan. In my house your either a red Mancunian or you're out (I suspect my son is a closeted Chelsea fan). Maybe after this performance today, they will see the light. Red.

The disgrace of Scotland

Would you rather have a champion who has a nasty temper, is an alcoholic and a struggling father? Or, would you rather have a world champion who is a squeaky clean teetotaler, happily married with two kids – who accepts money to throw a game?
John Higgins has all but destroyed snooker for the near future. Match fixing in snooker has long been under the scanner, but not by the world champion.
He will be dethroned by Monday night as he lost to Steve Davis in the second round. But this expose has dethroned him forever. A bloody disgrace.

My girl is ready

My daughter is about to receive her First Holy Communion.
So I sat her down for that talk. You know - the relevance of the whole thing and why it is a ‘spiritual milestone’.
When a sinner begins to talk about God it’s always interesting. There is an acute awareness of the chasm between where one is and where one wants to be. And it’s amazing to sit in front of your child and say, “I’m pretty messed up. But, you don’t have to be. And God is probably a great help. As is the Church.”
She totally agreed.

Not me, not you either, I hope

I hope I am not the one they were speaking about when they said, “Build it and they will come.”
It implies I am part of a herd, with no discernment. A slave to the prevailing ethic.
I feel the same way as an Indian cricket fan. The attitude that how the IPL is held, built, played and structured does not matter. As long as there is cricket for two months, “they will watch.”
The great Indian (upper) middle class has long been lulled into a herd blinded by materialism, hurtling towards chaos, driven by media frenzy. Not me.

Fixed!

Pritish Nandy wrote in his column for the Times of India city supplement, quoting Deep Throat – Follow the money.
A cousin of mine who is a big better and I did this for the Deccan versus Chennai semifinal. Follow the money in cricket always, always leads to the bookies. At the break, with Chennai scoring 142, the odds for Deccan were still 40 paise. And Chennai was 2-1. That is off. Way off. Deccan should have been 20 paise at most and Chennai at least 4-1. Then there is Deccan dropping Chaminda Vaas and ten catches. It stinks man.

Negating Messi

I have now watched two teams contain Lionel Messi. Espanyol and Inter Milan. So it is possible.
How I curse Michael Carrick for costing Manchester United a semifinal spot. Alas this also exposes Arsenal for the team they really are – technically-gifted kids. They will always be a team of kids if they don’t learn that the aim of football is to win. It is the only thing that matters.
It seems strange watching the Champions League semifinals without Man Utd in it. They’ve been there so often recently. Perhaps this year is all about reality checks. Oh, dear.

Political speak

Can’t escape the Tharoor-Modi controversy. In a true coup de grace, Tharoor delivered his statement in Parliament with all the style, panache and sincerity of a seasoned diplomat. Problem is, not many in Parliament would have understood the words he used. Of course, it was not for them that he spoke, but for the millions of middle-class admirers he (and NDTV) claims to have.
I enjoyed Supriya Sule’s statement much more. She spoke in clean, clear English, without the shwazz, but will all the intent that someone who really has power (and knows it) brings to the table.

Can you feel it coming...

Don’t tell me that you cannot sense the earth cranking up for one major, species-altering disaster. Just look at the global natural chaos. A quake almost every other day. And how terrorists would love to get their hands on an active volcano!?
I am about to go to my banks and tell them I am too big to fail, so they can stop bothering me with payments until someone comes and bails me out. They will probably jail me. But, that pales in comparison to the global natural disaster that is knocking at our doorstep. I mean, Jaysus!

Cringe with me

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at Shashi Tharoor’s resignation. To make matters worse I took the past week off and was tortured in minute detail by the whole Modi-Tharoor-Sunanda saga, as I made my way from bed to dinner table to couch to bed, the TV forever on in the background.
Politics as farce, cricket as politics and carpetbaggers are backed by overlords. A truly cringe-worthy affair almost making me wish I was not an Indian. And believe me that takes a lot.
But I’m back, none the wiser, a few pounds heavier and slowly dying.

Get over it!

What do you do when your team loses in the quarterfinal of the Champions League?
Do you go get a life? Do you drown your sorrows? Do you stalk the opposing team’s star player, rape his mother and wife, then cut his penis and make them eat it? No? Then what?
Perhaps, you try to let it go. You try to learn to live with the pain and disappointment and hope for a better result the next time. It’s been three days, and it still feels like shit. So I’m headed for UFC 112, ‘live’. Maybe that’ll do it.

Go crazy! Genius at play

If you didn’t watch Lionel Messi last night then you missed something akin to, I dunno, Haley’s Comet? Not quite, because Messi will play again. In fact, he will play a lot between now and August, when the World Cup ends.
But, catch his display, and catch every kid you can, and let them watch what is surely the crowning glory for us homospaiens – genius at play. Genius - for whom the word exists. Genius – who lifts your spirits and leave you awestruck. Genius - of the caliber of Mozart and Van Gogh. Sheer, pure, magical, genius.

Save the church

I am a Catholic and I am embarrassed by the way the Vatican is handling these allegations of child sex abuse by priests.
I can only shudder to think the kind of cover-up that may, and I say this completely hypothetically, have been enforced in other parts of the world, especially in third-world countries.
I have been reasonably closely involved with the Catholic Church in India to see first-hand how a belief becomes an institution and then that institution becomes the belief. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just evolution.
Only the church – us - can save the church.

Spectacular, spectacular

To get it spectacularly wrong, you must get it spectacularly right enough of times.
Once that adjective is your prerogative, there is no such thing as a minor goof-up. All one’s frailties are played in major keys by an orchestra of gleeful naysayers. The word really is schadenfraude.
Of course, I speak not entirely of myself, but to an extent of Dubai, and basically about Sir Alex Ferguson grand-god-father to my children (though he doesn’t know it) and the boss of my beloved Manchester United.
The team he picked to play Bayern Munich should have played Chelsea and vice-versa.

Ladies and gentleman, Mr Elton John!

Elton John is a cuddly, teddybear of a man. For all his diva-esque mannerisms on stage he still has the heart of rocker. In an intimate ‘live’ performance (only a thousand-odd people), Elton John lit up a weary evening with a mind-blowing piano performance. Yes, he can sing and he can write, but you have to watch him play piano to truly appreciate his genius. A ten-minute Rocket Man performance capped for me why he is truly one of the greats.
Rod Stewart next. Then? Who’s left? Clapton. The Eagles. Billy Joel. Stevie Wonder. Bruce Springsteen. Sigh!

A bunch of ass kissers

When I recently proposed a boycott of all things American to my friends I was laughed at.
I’m pretty sure these Indians are representative of the urban collection that were stoked when Oh!Bummer became President.
The US is shielding a man who has clearly perpetrated terror attacks on India and is responsible for killing Indians.
If that is not enough to make one despise American hypocrisy I don’t know what is.
I also once suggested on this blog that Iran has more balls than India because they don’t ass-kiss America. Coz that’s what we are – ass kissers.

Sirji... no thank you ji...

A classic example of the sycophancy that dominates Indian cricket is Sreesanth referring to Lalit Modi as Lalit Sir! Sir!
For God’s fawking sake, did he teach you how to bowl Sreesanth?!
For the same reason I have never joined the Bollywood fraternity. I would never be able to cut it with the Amitjis and Salmanbhais. It’s a creepy-crawly yucky they way they go on there. You can refer to someone respectfully without kissing his ass in a pseudo-ji manner. And don’t tell me it’s a cultural thing because I am Indian and I still don’t get it.

The greatest sense of all

A sense of style, however skewed, is a must to be cool. A sense of the theatrical to lift the dourness of routine will leave your life embellished. A sense of timing – whether with a compliment, joke or tricky dance step – will set you apart from the ordinary.
A sense of the spiritual, the fact that there are mysteries out there unanswered but within our realm of experience, will evolve you.
A sense of beauty, whether it be art, people, poetry or music, will humble you.
However, without common sense all of the above are pretty much useless.

Male Bond-ing

I have finally read my first James Bond novel (not Ian Fleming). It’s the latest one by Sebastian Faulks.
I am a diehard Bonds-man. Not so much for the contribution 007 made to humanity, filmdom or literature.
I love the ethos. Simplicity of plot, directness of attack, predictability of outcome, but above all, the indulgence.
The incessant smoking and drinking, the attention to food and clothes. And the joy of women.
Our lives are too politically correct today. Which is why we increasingly lack soul. A modern Bond would be a non-smoking, bisexual, vegan. Watch out Daniel Craig.

Shobhaaaaaahh!

I missed the Emirates Literary Festival in favour of the Dubai Football Sevens (a quickie version of the game), but the sexy beast Shobhaaa was there, spewing the same pseudo literature she churns out in print, with the same aplomb. She has to be the sexiest 60-year-old on the planet. Even Dame Helen Mirren can’t match her oozing appeal. I have said this on the blog about 30 times so far. Just so you know, I’m aware.
Also saw Sting ‘live’. He is really old, but his voice and his guitar, are like they were stuck in 1984. Rocking!

Hmmm....

When life consumes you, be consumed.
When the burden gets too much, lie down and let it crush you.
Be a reed, not an oak.
If it seems pointless, it probably is.
Don’t fight, don’t struggle, don’t dig in (unless it’s food and it’s free).
In all things be a child. Breathe like a child,
deep down to your stomach, not your chest.
Have neither faith, nor hope, nor love. Of the three, fear love the most.
Be like the ocean. Be constantly moved by things that don’t matter.
Above all, always, always, give in, give in, give in…

Ouch, yawn, what!?

Some classic crap I’ve come across recently. I love to share the crap. Goodies, I keep to myself.
Get your barf bag.

Author Chetan Bhagat in his ToI column:
“Forget budget, we (Indians) love analysing everything. If we had a global shoe brand, its logo would be Just analyse it”. (If you found that funny don’t come back here.)

The bass player of the Brand New Heavies, a great funk band, at the jazz fest in Dubai:
“Anybody who used to be called Patrick here tonight? No? I hear there are a lot of ex-Pats here.”

Just not funny.

...and then flatters to deceive

If hockey wants to go from being an old flame to a forever-love India needs to start winning. Watching them crumble against Spain was a nightmarish déjà vu. We were back in the early 1990s, where basics like trapping and passing had to be dealt with. As for tactics, ours were non existent. Spain took Arjun Halappa out of the game and waited. And then scored.
Everyone came out to back Indian hockey before the start of these world championships – especially the cricket fraternity. However, nothing works for the popularity of the sport like victory. Ask cricket.

The flame is catching nicely

Hockey again.
C’mon, an old flame needs more bearing than just one post.
Vikram Pillay, scorer for India against Australia yesterday, comes from a Pune suburb called Khadki, a nursery for hockey (Dhanraj Pillay comes from here).
I was thrilled to see him score. A couple of us hacks at the old Pune rag I used to work for made a concerted effort to give hockey a new lease of life years ago. We regularly put hockey on the front page, especially Vikram. So, good to see him in action still. And this world cup is really cooking now.

An old flame returns

After ages I’m watching hockey, and the world championships at that. It’s like seeing an old flame, who you thought you had forgotten, at the supermarket one day. It all comes rushing back. I played a lot of hockey and we were crazy about the sport. It meant as much as cricket to us growing up. And then India winning the cricket world cup and India losing 7-1 to Pakistan at the Asian games finals in hockey, changed it all. It was all cricket after that. But, it is still a fantastic game to watch and play. C’mon India!

Baba, you should have said no to Qatar

M F Husain is an artist who belongs to the world. I am not surprised at the Hindu Taliban hounding him out.
I AM surprised that the artistic elite have chosen NOT to speak about the other side of the painting, to force the allegory.
Why has Husain not painted the Prophet? Because it is simply not done and he knows it, being a Muslim. Because, forget Qatar, he would not be alive had he done so. By that measure, there is an argument for lack of sensitivity.
Had he done so though, India would have been his refuge.

Is the end nigh?

A tsunami hurtles towards Hawaii as I write this, still updating my newspaper with the death toll from the Chilean earthquake, which at plus 8 on the Richter is a monster. There is a storm here in the UAE as well. A strange storm it is as well, sand storm mixed with thunder storm. Yeah, all kinds of shit happens in Dubai. Point is, you have to feel like there is a major global catastrophe brewing. Maybe the Mayan Indians (or was it the Incas) got it right, Maybe the world is going to end in 2012. Can’t wait!

Let's talk about sex, baby!

Check this out http://oxbridgesex.blogspot.com/
Now tell me, is it better than 99? A chick writing about sex, and badly at that, has already made headlines across the world. It's just not interesting.
Boy, are we suckers for sex (every pun intended).
Of course I’m tempted. Of course I’ve thought about it. But what would I call the blog.
Sexcapades of a 36-year-old diabetic, recovering alcoholic-drug addict, prone to massive debt and gambling, journalist, father of three?
Is that how I see myself? No. But that’s a blog you’d read, right? The art of sex writing, here I come.

I mean, really, what did i think was going to happen?!

The name for my book – What did you think was going to happen?!
It’s about my life and me challenging common sense, power of convention and the two-plus-two of life with the vehemence of someone trying to disprove the law of gravity. I mean, really, what did I think was going to happen?!
The romantic notions that make up my persona and cloud my judgement suggest lying down and dying like a martyr (cue Dido’s White Flag).
But, that would make me like the Irish then, who would much rather die for their beliefs than live for them. Tempting.

Thank you for the music...

I’ll say this for the UAE: it allowed me the chance to watch almost every great musician of the last 30 years 'live'; especially from the '80s, the ones that I grew up with.
I get this sense that my tour of duty in the Gulf is coming to an end. I also get the sense that if I stick around, I will catch every great live act alive. The place is a piss-poor excuse for anyone with half a soul. But, Sting will be here soon, and then, Rod Stewart. Now dat is da shit I’m takin’ ‘bout.

Right call, wrong life

I love to see predictions of mine come true. Or, general behaviour have a certain societal effect that I saw coming when I was in my mother’s womb. However, I like to see this happen ‘out there’, in other people’s lives. Mainly because my predictions are dire. I mean, who really gets excited about a happy ending?
So over the past two days when I found the butterfly effect unfolding in my life, I was horrified. Heard about the train crash in Belgium? Well the butterfly effect is that I could lose my job stemming from that. Stay tuned.

Why save the tiger?

Is the whole global warming saga the biggest lemon being sold today? I’ve been watching the saga unfold and have put off having any more children or buying
a car for now.
For the first time man is interfering with evolution of a world and multi-species. The homosapien is trying to determine the outcome of a process s/he did not start. Is that good?
Maybe we should not save the tiger. If you were around when the velociraptor existed would you want to save it? So why save the tiger? Just because you don’t live in the jungle anymore.

Ain't that a kick in the balls!

Have you ever set yourself up for the biggest kick in the balls ever? I’m talking way beyond going out on a limb, eggs in one basket, bridges burning and the kitchen sink flying through the air.
I’m talking about living in such denial of an event eventually happening, that when it does, it’s like… you have no reaction because it was just, so, not in your sphere of reality. There is no point of reference to have any comprehension or reaction.
I should be bent over gasping for breath, in pain. But I just do not get it.

Al Qaeda in Pune? Quite easily

After 9/11, my publication at the time did the entire gamut of why Pune is a hard terrorist target. I then went undercover to look at the possibility of Al Qaeda sleeper cells in Pune. Far-fetched? Not to someone who lives, breathes and eats the city. Pune has for long been home to thousands of foreign Islamic students.
Sure enough, in one of the African ‘clubs’ near Quartergate, frequented by Muslim Sudanese and Somalians, I found evidence of Al Qaeda support.
I informed my cop contacts and they took over. I moved to soft-core journalism shortly after. Sadly.

My name is Khan, and I am, Bollywood's, hammiest actor

Maybe I’m just born skeptical, or insanely jealous of people who are famous. Consider that the disclaimer.
Shah Rukh Khan has to have a character that is either a raving lunatic, or with a severe disability, for him to have any hope of putting in a decent performance. They have a professional word for actors who only have those two performances in their repertoire – hamming.
Bollywood is going through its sickness and disability phase – Paa, Taare Zameen Par and now Asperger. Oh please! I wonder if there’s an acting disability that can describe SRK… and that’s terminal.

Goras bombed in Pune

Finally, terror strikes my hometown of Pune.
I have long resented the manner in which Koregaon Park, where German Bakery is situated, capitulated to the gora and the greenback.
The cops are still deciding whether it is a bomb or whether it is a Muslim-linked terror attack; or whether someone like me overreacted to getting attitude from some Indian prick at the counter and bombed the place. Believe me, I have come close.
If it is a terror attack I’d hate to be in Pune right now. My beloved city does tend to over-react. Here comes the bandobast.

It's the price you pay for selling out, Mr Barry

I’ve been watching Gareth Barry for some time now, the manner in which he plays for Manchester City. It’s like he is almost embarrassed by the fact that he made the switch from Aston Villa (because of money). It’s like he is not sure if he can live with that choice. It’s like a shadow that chases him down on the park when the lights are on. He just can’t shake it. It reflects most in his game. He’s not the booming, thudding, fast, give-it-all midfielder he was under Martin O’Neill. It’s the cost of selling your soul.

My sisters were good students and me and my bro had no pressure

As a parent I believed I would never push my children to academic excellence merely for the sake of it. If they did their best and reached their potential that was enough.
Yet, as they move into higher classes I find myself increasingly worked up when I don’t see 90-plus marks.
And all the time I’m reminded of how good my parents were to me growing up. There was never really any pressure.
Given that they had an in-your-face, naughty-by-nature terror and a sly-fly for sons, they were remarkably cool. A few good thrashings, but no pressure.

Rocking all over the world

There is something pure and soul-cleansing about good ol’ rock’n’roll. Especially when played in the uncompromising and uncomplicated manner that Status Quo does. The shocker on the night came at the post-concert dinner, where trivia teasers revealed the band’s biggest hit, Rockin’ all over the world, was actually written by CCR’s John Fogarty. Still, Status Quo rocked, in that manner that 60-year-old stalwarts do.
It was a measure of age (and taste) that my gang of mid-to-late-30-somethings preferred Status Quo to Nickelback; who rocked their perfomance, by the way.
Nickelback is the Bryan Adams of tweendom today.

Don't be naive

I dislike the Shiv Sena as much as the next sensible person, but on the issue of Pakistan’s cricketers and Shahrukh Khan’s comments, sad to say, I agree with Balasaheb. Urban educated Indians approach Pakistan with much naivety. Peace they believe is a bus ride, and few exchange visits and hugs away. The Aman Ki Asha campaign is a classic example of this.
After a point, you cannot separate the good apples from the bad. With nations it’s the whole basket or nothing. So with Pakistan, for them to know we are serious, all niceties must stop. Especially cricket.

Either be a leader or a playya!

Can we really separate a basic moral code from professional capability? No. The financial meltdown is a classic example of what can happen if we do.
If that is a ‘no’ for mortals, then leaders, whether of a family, political party or football team of a nation cannot, for sure, shag their best mate’s girl.
John Terry has to step down, or be asked to do so.
Sure, there is forgiveness and people can be serial offenders (ask me) and still have hope of change. But one cannot lead without resolving breaches of a basic moral code of conduct.

Comme ci comme ça

Is it just me, or are the Grammy awards getting flatter by the year. Bon Jovi’s performance was zing-less, Roberta Flack and Maxwell were odd, at best, and the Michael Jackson tribute was as jaded as me on the dancefloor after midnight on December 31. He left too early, he loved the earth, he loved the fans, he loved the children (we know) and…. yeah, yeah we get it, can we move on please.
The show was saved by Lady GaGa, and Lil Wayne and Eminem. My all-time favourite Grammys is the 1984 edition - http://www.rockonthenet.com/archive/1984/grammys.htm
Top that!

How not to interview a Pakistani minister - by Barkha Dutt

NDTV’s Barkha ‘the emoter’ Dutt played right into Pakistani foreign minister Qureshi’s hands. He used NDTV as a platform to espouse the Pakistan cause in a more forceful way than if he was given the chance to give India’s Republic Day address.
Ms Dutt went in all brimstone and long earrings and was taught a mean lesson in the quickstep of political ballroom dancing.
Somebody from the government should call Prannoy Roy and explain to him that freedom of the press becomes freedom to op-press the general intelligence of the nation in Barkha Dutt’s hands. A how not-to lesson.

Back! But only just...

I’ve been away on jury duty. I was called to judge my own conscience. Ever a tricky thing, hence the time off. Conscience was on trial for justifying my choice of getting wasted on my son’s birthday, after having taken a decision to stop drinking.
It was a hung jury. Not as hung over as I was, but the court adjourned and gave everyone the week off.
Yesterday, Conscience was given a suspended sentence pending my behaviour and choices on the next big occasion.
Which should be this weekend. Nickelback and Status Quo in concert is ideal testing ground.

Once we were British

Reverse colonialism or just a country that realizes, having ruled extensive parts of the world once, that nationalization is an old-world concept. The new global village recognizes only one currency – currency itself.
Most of Britain’s marquee/legacy brands are now owned in part or full, but other nations. Cadbury, a 186-year-old British pride is the latest to go. It follows the likes of Jaguar, Beefeater gin, Rolls Royce, Tetley Tea and the list really goes on and on.
Then there are all the foreign-owned football clubs.
Curry is the national dish. Let’s just take over the damn island.

So what really was great about Jyoti Basu?

India has not learnt the art of the obituary. I have now read pretty much every major English paper and watched tribute shows on three TV channels. And I have still to see anything other than overcooked, fawning, oh-what-a-great-man clichés that destroy reportage of every milestone or event.
Frankly, name one great thing that Bengal has done or achieved since independence. Yeah, not the strikes. To me, who did not personally know Basu, his name is synonymous with how stuck-in-limbo ideology can hamper progress. Somebody tell us about the real man. Especially if what he achieved is so sketchy.

A headline writer's dream

As a headline writer, among my many other journalistic avatars (and notice how all the spongy Indians have gone from saying av-taar to av-a-tar), I say this England cricket team is the best, possibly the best ever, sporting collection.
Consider the names: (in order of your ancestors-were-obviously-publicity-hounds-when-they-decided –on-this) Sidebottom, Cook, Bell, Swann, Broad, Trott and Prior.
When you have seven players in a team that can each hold a 45-point six-column headline on their own, it’s tempting fate.
Alas, not even one of them did anything worth mentioning as England lost the fourth Test to (p)lucky South Africa.

You got a what...?!

Is it me or are the Black Eyed Peas smoking some dumb shit!? I listen to their latest hit ‘I gotta feeling’ and I compare it to ‘Where is the love?” and I almost can’t believe it is the same band.
It’s like someone told them, ‘Guys, guys, no intelligent stuff. Keep it simple.” Duh!?
Now Lady Gaga, she has the pulse of the future of syntho-pop, electro-gooky, funky-house, trippy-trash, insane-reality sound. You gotta love her.
As you gotta love Rihanna, or Rascal Flatts for that matter.
Me, I am set to hear Nickelback live next week.

My take on the 3 Idiots' credits' controversy

The fact is Chetan Bhagat has written a book (maybe ten) and I haven’t. The fact is he has made millions and I haven’t (I have spent a million though, at least twice). The fact is he has a fan following and I don’t (I prefer ACs).
However, the fact is, he is possibly India’s worst writer in English. The ToI runs a Sunday competition for the worst Indian writers in English – Bhagat vs Shobaa De. A tough call.
At least De is still sexy at 80. And tops my list of cougars I want to be eaten by.

Here we go, then

If I don’t do it now… well, I’d probably die. And that’s not a joke. So, my project this year is to pull my body back from the brink of death… one miserable cell at a time.
For an addiction specialist like me, perhaps an entire blog chronicling the experience, (or atleast the attempt), might be deserving. But, not to get ahead of myself, I reckon one post a month here might do it.
No drink, no smoke, no drugs, no sweet, no meat. Only exercise. And water. And exercise. I must warn you I could get very pissy.

A moan about mobiles

You know the Axe ad, where the guy gets lucky in the elevator… well that can never happen nowadays. Basically because the moment someone steps into an elevator, they reach for their mobile phone. As if on cue, like when they have a moment to themselves, humankind has occupied that space as well with another modern-day gadget – the mobile phone.
The elevator used to be a place to say hello, gather ones thoughts, check out people, and who knows, maybe even get lucky. But now, lift door opens, every one gets in, and reaches for their mobile. Sad.

India wins

My office sits humbly in the shadow of what will tonight be the world’s tallest building. I should be marveling at the Arab race’s great achievement. I should be awestruck at the technological prowess and architectural genius that makes this possible. Yet, all I seem to do is yawn and go… what a bore!
Maybe it’s jetlag thanks to a seven-hour flight delay. Maybe it’s the India hangover. Yes, India, the land where pre-conceived notions and sanitized lives are crushed by the sheer size and weight of a billion lives, a billion realities. If size matters, then India wins.