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…