Go ManU!

And so it all comes down to this. Ninety minutes of football. An entire year of heart break, euphoria, discussion, forecast, analysis, calculations and never ending chatter and its down to one match. By 8 pm my time, either Manchester United or Chelsea will be crowned Premier League Champions. I always rate winning the premiership higher than winning the Champions league. It calls for more consistency. After all its 37 games that the team plays, as against the 10-odd for the Champions trophy. And to win both, is truly to be the best club in the world. Go ManU!

I, May

May has always been more than a month for me throughout my life. During school, it was the month for summer holidays and therefore, was easily the most eagerly anticipated 31 days for 12 years of my life. Summer days are longer and the sun would refuse to set, at times till 7 in the evening. That meant more time to play. However, later in life, May came to mean the month that dragged on and on. The month never seemed to end and next month’s salary always seemed very distant. In the Gulf, it drags on even longer.

The F-finger

The joys of parenting are pockmarked by milestone moments of infinite discomfort felt by the parent. Like this for example. My daughter, all of 7 this June, comes home from her coed school and asks me to explain what the F-finger is. I told her such a finger does not exist. She then holds up her middle finger to me with all the panache and attitude that is needed when resorting to the ‘up yours’. A boy in her class showed her the finger and called it the F-finger. I told her I’ll get back to her. Any suggestions?

Pedigree

I’ve said it before. To win in the Champions League, besides a million other factors, you need pedigree. Manchester United yesterday showed their pedigree. How do you get pedigree for a team? Well you get a coach who has the ability to buy and train players to be the best, who then mate on the pitch with the ball to screw other teams, creating the necessary pedigree.
Liverpool have pedigree. Not Chelsea. That is why I expect Liverpool to beat Chelsea. Just because you put on a tux and come to the party does not mean you belong there.

Over rated

Among my more modest ambitions is to win an Oscar, a Grammy, the Booker and the Pullitzer. I would add all in the same year, but as an admirer once pointed out, that’s not technically possible. A song, a film and two books are still all ruminating in my creative juices. Meanwhile, I critically appreciate others’ efforts. My eye for sometime has been on Indian writers in English and, English writers of Indian origin; knowing that I might one day make one or both categories. Both have some wonderful exponents. And, some pathetic. And, some over-rated. Like, Jhumpa Lahiri.

Fry that Bhajji

Harbhajan Singh slapped S. Sreesanth. In my opinion, Bhajji should be castrated. I now understand why Matthew Hayden called him an obnoxious weed. Sreesanth of course, is the kind of guy who seems to be begging for a slap most times, but that’s not the point. Conduct on the field is of utmost importance and Bhajji behaved like a typical crass Punjabi, forgive the racial slur. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Bhajji for an interview. He put on a pretty decent show for the press, but one-to-one, you could sense and smell the air of obnoxiousness around him.

Retiring at 45

Just been through another wedding in the family, and as weddings go, this one was right up there with the overindulgence in all good things – food, wine, love, nostalgia, the scraps and the splurging on clothes.
Another family member committed marriage and now that the dust has settled, I find myself struggling to get back into the routine.
Why can’t life always be one big party, with breaks for church and funerals and a little exercise?
I set myself a target of becoming editor of a newspaper by 35. I was at 33. I aim to retire at 45.