Drugs, Sex and IPL

Every year, for almost half a decade now, the peace and serenity of our mundane lives is jolted by a spectacle entwined with glamour, pomp, scantily clad Eastern-European girls, in-your-face branding, deafening noise, more European girls and the odd sporting-skill. That is the magic of the IPL *trumpet fanfare*.

Now, that it’s over (having rolled onto the next year), I thought it’s the perfect time to reflect back on what has truly been a memorable cricket tournament. But, like the IPL, there will be very little cricket in the following post.

First off, let me start by congratulating the team led by a Delhi-ite, owned by Mumbai-kars, called the Kolkata Knight-Riders. This team has in many ways been the ‘Anna Kournikova’ of the IPL. Before this year, they hadn’t won anything, but have always got maximum footage at the event every time. Did I hear a ‘Why’ somewhere? Well, for one it’s owned by a man called Shahrukh Khan *trumpet fanfare*. Points 2, 3, 4 and 5 are the same as above. Yes, love him, hate him (or ban him), you can’t ignore him. The undisputed king (badshah) of Bollywood, is the face of the Kkkkkkk…Kolkata Knight-Riders. His mere association with the team lets out a Pandora’s box of stories, controversies, gossip and anonymous bloggers. His signature wave from the Eden balcony sends the crowd into waves of hysteria. This year was no exception. Even though, his team won, it was G-One who infused life into the tournament. Let’s start with the ‘Wankhede’ fiasco. Why did it blow out of control –

Faux-pas: 1 You never tell someone from Bollywood to keep off the grass.

Faux-pas: 2 (and most importantly) Don’t use authority to incite a drunk Delhi-boy. And always, always know ‘woh kaun hai’ (information about an odd relative or two couldn’t hurt your chances either)

The blunders were made and it didn’t go down too well with Vilasrao Deshmukh and the MCA, resulting in the infamous actor being banned from the Wankhede for five years (or till Ritiesh Deshmukh delivers a hit, whichever comes first).

Giving the KKR company on the controversies bandwagon was another high-profile team, owned by a man, who like the ‘Badshah’ likes to live life king size. Yes, ladies, gentlemen and disgruntled Kingfisher Airlines’ passengers – we’re talking about the king of good times Dr. Vijay Mallya and his Royal Challengers of Bangalore. Unlike the KKR, this team has many protagonists who can lay their claim on being controversy’s favourite child. Let’s get to know more about some of these charming gentlemen –

Contestant:1 Dr Vijay Mallya – After raking in the moolah by getting the country drunk, Mr Mallya decided he needed to diversify his business. So, The UB Group introduced their own airline – Kingfisher Airlines (for the benefit of this blog-post, I will not divulge into its functioning or lack thereof). However, Dr Mallya still felt incomplete every time he woke up (next to a woman the average man would jerk off to). So, he decided to venture into sports, giving us the Force India formula 1 team and the Royal Challengers of Bangalore.

Contestant: 2 Sid Mallya – The man epitomizes the word ‘Chu’. We all know a Sid Mallya. Every pretentious, rich brat, living off daddy’s accolades and wealth, going around in his fancy chauffeur-driven cars and treating women like arm-candies (in effect, your quintessential chu). Yes, with the qualification of being Vijay Mallya’s son, Sidhartha Mallya (the self-professed ‘Business Boy’) has taken over the reins of the RCB. Unfortunately, the son didn’t change the fortunes of the team. Hence, the only thing lying in RCB’s trophy cabinet is Deepika Padukone.

Contestant: 3 Virat Kohli – BEHEN…… MADAR….. Enough said.

Contestant: 4 Chris Gayle – This guy is as laidback as a procrastinator who’s ODd on Alprax. He’s the one who’s threatened to replace Deepika with silverware. He’s the one who has singlehandedly taken the tournament to a whole new level. He’s the one who made sure Priyanka Chopra turned over a new leaf in Fashion (Yes, yes, I know). Christopher Henry Gayle is the shite.

Contestant: 5 Luke Whatever-his-name-is – With such stalwarts in their ranks, it was a real dampener that some second tier Australian grabbed the limelight. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the only thing Luke Pomersbach grabbed this season. An Australian batsman, who primarily plays in domestic leagues across the globe, was elevated from the RCB bench to the top of their sleaze race when he tried to molest and assault and American girl and her fiancé respectively. Although, his potentially headlining acts had to play second fiddle to Chota Mallya’s sexist ranting on Twitter, Luke had announced himself on the world scene.

Next in line is my favourite team The King’s Eleven Punjab (Yes, I’m Punjabi. Guilty!). Led by the honorable Adam Gilchrist, with key players like uuuhhh…ummm…woh kaun tha..moving on. The face of the team has always been the same – in the form of one of their owners Preity Zinta (even though that face has changed drastically over the years). Preity (which thesaurus will tell you is a synonym for ‘bubbly’), has always backed the team which she started with her boyfriend (at the time) and heir-apparent of Bombay Dyeing – Ness Wadia.  Although, their relationship couldn’t stand the test of time *snort snort* (that’s neither Preity nor Ness crying), they’ve maintained their joint ownership of King’s Eleven. And King’s Eleven like a kid from a broken family have gone astray, scarring their hardened fans for life. The only solace for all Punjab fans is a mini-vacation they can get to enjoy, when they go to watch a game at one of their home-venues in Dharamsala (possibly the most picturesque sight since Pre-nosejob Preity).

Still to come – The Chennai Superkings, The Delhi Daredevils, The Mumbai Indians, Rajasthan Royals, Deccan Chargers, The Pune Warriors and Sidhu’s Sidhuisms – “Hope is bigger than the pope, it’s a tope”

Run, Fatboy, Run (part:1)

27th November, 2011..A date that will be etched in the sands of time (or, at least in my Pocahontas Diary). It was on this day, that a dream was realised, a desire fulfilled, inhibitions were shed, sweat glands were liberated, calves were numbed. It was the day I ran 'The Airtel Delhi Half Marathon' (echo).

It all began on a rather 'Lazy Sunday' (ironically enough). I don't remember the exact sequence of events, that led to the formulation of this ingenious plan. Perhaps, the smell of breadpakodas got me from my bed to the dinning table in record time. Perhaps, my narcissistic Punjabi genes were tugging at my egocentric frame of mind.
Whatever it was, it happened. The mistake was made. I enrolled myself for the marathon, about four weeks prior to the event.

I did realise (about 20 minutes later) that I had made a huge blunder. At the end of the day though, I couldn't be too hard on myself. Afterall, whether you choose to call it stupidity, naivety, misfortune or premature ejaculation; we all make mistakes

Next came the training (after about a week of living in denial). I decided to test the waters and set out on a trial run, to see the extent and depth of my stamina levels. Unfortunately, I lasted as long as Shakti Kapoor's self control in a room full of supermodels (Shakti Kapoor on viagra). However, aided by the 'Rocky IV Training Montage', and a lot of free time on my hands, I kept at it.
So, with 3 weeks of amateurish training, and a lifetime of weight related baggage, I decided to take the plunge.

Finally, the D day arrived. For the first time in my life I had seen the world at 5 A.M., on a Sunday morning (i.e. in a sober state). Before that day, I had been very curious to know, what a person thinks about, on the morning that he has to run 21kms. Whether he thinks of the divine powers/forces he believes in, his family/support system, or (at the risk of being a tad dramatic) does his entire life flash before him. And there it was...The Answer..."what does someone think about on the morning, he/she has to run a marathon"..The one thought that superseded all others -"Gosh, I really hope I'll be able to take a dump". As crass as it sounds, you don't want to be running on the streets of Delhi, alongside 9,000 people (and Bipasha Basu) with a 'turtlehead' (look up urban dictionary for the meaning).

Once at the startline, I started to scope out the competition/people who would be piggy-backing me to the nearest medical facility. There were people of all age-groups,  different shapes & sizes, varied schools of fashion (from the ganji clad Sardar, to the honeymoon-saree with P.T shoes wearing mahilas). All of India's diversity had amalgamated at The JawaharLal Nehru Stadium.

It was a sea of people, with company banter flying back and forth "East or West, KPMG is the best" (not the most imaginative lot). You could smell an aura of anticipation in the air (mixed with body odour). Everyone got in line, waiting for that elusive gun-shot, to signal the start.
The shot was fired, and it trigerred a stampede. It was as if the race was going to be decided in the next six minutes, instead of sixty. You were, but merely a passive participant in a chaotic design. As I was nearing the 'Start' banner, I saw the people in front slowing down and/or coming to a hault altogether. Absurd as it may seem, that is the effect a 'Shahrukh Khan' has on us mere mortals. Half the people seemed to forget, that they were in a 'race', the other half didn't have the patience to remind them with a 'friendly tap on the shoulder'. Then ofcourse, there were the ones who got caught in between the two (no prizes for guessing where I was).
Once the dust settled and I checked whether I had all my limbs intact, I was almost at the '1km' mark.
The first few kilometres went by quite smoothly, with 'rock' bands and refreshment points at every nook and corner. The different bands' members looked so identical (long hair, goatee, t shirts with printed messages about how awesome 'grass' is, about 3 sizes too big for them), I actually thought I was running around in circles.
The refreshment counter attendants were obviously given a brief to egg on the runners. Hence, everytime you'd cross a refreshment point, you'd be ambushed by a barrage of people, chanting phrases of encouragement after giving you the fright of your life.

AND then on the 10th km my bladder gave in ........(watch this space for more)

Haye, kinna kamzor ho gaya hai

When an unstoppable force (a ladoo craving) meets an immovable object (an obese punjabi kid), the result is an obnoxious lard, who sits on the bedroom couch (with an ass impression that would humble the grand canyon), PSP in hand, shouting out for "Chotu" to get him some cheese balls (with a kind of desperation that would be reminiscent of a man trapped in an inferno).

Yes maybe, not stuffing that last morsel of food in his mouth has actually made the putar kamzor, but that's a drop in the ocean, which only dadi's ageing eyes can spot.

Maybe, I'm being a bit hypocritical. Back in the day, I was a fat ('halthy') kid, who could polish off 10-15 dosas in one go, without breaking a sweat. My after school favourite was moong ki daal-chawal (Harmless right??). Except, my version was called 'shooo ki daal-chawal' (and my sister and I would only eat it once mum had put enough ghee in the dal, for it to make a 'shooo' sound). If that made some of you sick in the stomach, I do apologise.

Primary School was awesome, with me being picked first in a kabaddi side, and having my classmates flock around me and my fancy tiffin contents during recess (their drool enough to make a barren desert fertile).
By Secondary School, their fascination with my tiffin was replaced by the length of Akanksha's skirt. However, my acrobatic abilities (or lack thereof) still weren't found out, courtesy me covering most of the goal and not letting the ball go through.
Realisation however, kicked in, when in senior school, the first girl who I had a crush on (yes, had to be a girl somewhere) grilled my aspirations of dating her, like the beef jerkey I had eaten for lunch that day. At that point, it was clear that my '8' figure was not a perfect '10' with the ladies. My athletic achievements had also taken a hit, when I didn't make it through the auditions for our school mascot. However, much to my amusement, every time I would visit a distant relative or family friend. 'main kamzor ho gaya hota tha'.

My "growing age", lasted quite a while (with my pot belly, being the only constant growth).

By hook or by crook (but mostly by firing Shyam, the cook) I lost most of the weight.

The current picture is not very rosy though, 'mere face par koi glow nahin hai', ' main apne Englaaaaand waley cousin se height mein maat kha gaya' and apart from my underpriviledged 3 meals a day 'main kuch nahin khata'. All I have is a healthy heart and the ability to walk ten paces in less than an hour (FML).
Par knowing my Punjabi genes, this bleak situation is only temporary. For I have promises to keep, and portions of butter chicken to have before I sleep.  

Aada Pada Kisne 'Prada'

This isn't one of those 'him vs her' battle of the sexes, posts. For that matter, not even one on a rampage to oppose materialism.
This is simply a cry for help, from every guy who's mustered the courage to go upto a girl, only to be cock-blocked by her handbag; every boy who's ever had to buy an extra ticket at the cinema for an inanimate object; every dude who's had to apologise to an animal's carcass (or leather, if you may) for keeping him/her (not it) on the floor, whilst his girlfriend pees ("kyon ki Louis bura man jata hai").

This is from everyone who's had to bag this absurdness (excuse the pun).

I completely get the fascination one has with their fashion accessories (I mean hell, I flaunt my wrist-watch from time to time). However, where I do draw the line is, when you start having full fledged conversations with them. Such monologues (which is exactly what they are) give me the jitters. It is very reminiscent of the creepy little girl in horror movies, who starts talking to her stuffed dolls (and we all know how that ends for her).

I'm sure in an ideal world men, women and handbags would be able to co-exist in harmony. However, let's not flirt with this dynamic in our flawed existence (for the consequences may not go down to well with 'Louis' or 'Prads').

So, take a pledge to resort back to the good old days of the 'self defence handbags'. The ones that would keep lecherous eve teasers on guard, and let go off the high maintenance wimps.

I apologise, if this post has hurt anyone's (not ANYTHING'S) feelings. Until the next time, keep the laughs going.    

Myself, Blogger

Welcome to 'Laugh Out Loud (zzz)', your one stop shop to crass, witless and unrefined  humour (and then some).
Plagiarism will give me an ego boost, you a lawsuit.

About the Author:

23 year old, homely boy, with cute dimples and occasional pimples (especially after a night of whiskey and kebabs). I'm an aspiring (polite term for out of work) copywriter.

Technical Skills: As the late, great Steve Jobs would say,  'I - Not'...never been a big fan of technology (except for a week after the infamous 'DPS MMS' scandal broke through)...Although, at the risk of bragging, I can tell an I phone from a Blackberry.

Inspiration: As much as I would love to romanticize this part, I'd rather be honest with my audience (remind me to talk about my rock hard abs and dynamite areolas). So, no there is no getting back at any ex-girlfriend and letting the world know her bra size (classy stuff, Mr Zuckerberg).
The only genuine inspiration behind this, is me being a bit of a bum right now..or as some of my friends would say 'Bums', refering to each butt cheek as a seperate bum.."kyon ki do hote hain yaar...beech mein partition nahin hai kya" (now there's an infallible argument, if I ever heard one).

I shall stop here, since I promised myself, that I wouldn't let my narcissism get the better of me (at least not in my first post). So, hopefully with the grace of God, the love and adulation I get from you guys, and Thesaurus, you shall be hearing from me soon.
So, watch this space for more and keep on laughing (the post felt incomplete without a cheesy sign off line)