Ugly Fans of The Beautiful Game

man u t shirt

First of all, let me start by a simple acknowledgment – football is a great and beautiful game. Only a fool or someone who hasn’t seen that Maradona goal against England in the 1986 world Cup will disagree with this statement. Secondly, I enjoy watching football. I even played football, both in school as well as in college. Not as well as I’d have liked (or my captains would’ve liked either), I admit – but I had passion enough for the game to bunk classes and be caned by the school principal for such truancy on more than one occasion. Our gang spent numerous sleepless nights cheering for the exploits of Romario and Bebeto in medical college hostel. And I took a leave from my hospital to watch both the 1998 and the 2002 world cup finals.

The point of this rather pointless introduction is – I like football. I’m not mad or crazy about it – if you give me a choice between getting laid with Katrina Kaif or watching the FIFA world cup final live, the boys from Brazil would simply have to win it without my encouraging presence in the stands. But I like the game – playing and watching.

Now among the youth of India on Facebook and Twitter, there are a sizable number of people who say that they’re crazy about football. They claim that they go to sleep in a Messi jersey, and the girls claim that during their orgasms, instead of the ubiquitous “Oh God, Oh my fucking God!”, they scream “Oh my Ronaldo!” or “Oh my Nani!” Even while discharging their excretory functions, they practice balancing a football on their head. Such is their devotion to the beautiful game – or so they claim. I however believe that the overwhelming majority of these devotees are what we know as ‘Fake football fans’.

A large number of these people happen to be Manchester United fans. Whenever they watch Man U play, they make sure that the world knows through tweets and Facebook updates. The tweets are not what you’d call particularly witty. Sample a few:

GOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!

FUCK YOU REF! THAT WAS A PENALTY YOU CHUT!

PASS YOU IDIOT!!! PASS

FUCK YOUR MOM LINESMAN! THAT WAS CLEARLY AN OFFSIDE!

As you can see, the tweets are in all caps. You can also find these young men and women in bars in all the major metros of the country, keeping up an uproarious ruckus in front of a TV in a place where most normal men come for a few quiet moments of romance with alcohol.

Some of them are a little smarter than the rest, in that they actually know how to Google. So instead of being foolish enough to spoil their night, they Google the result of the game the next morning and put up the result as a status update on Facebook. Something like: ‘Yayyy!! The reds won 3 goals to nil!! Up yours Chelsea fans!’ They seem to believe that unless they proclaim this fact, the rest of humanity will be deprived of this stupendously important piece of information.

I humbly request these MU, or Man U, or Man Utd (or whatever the fuck do they consider it cool to call their club) fans to go to any of the maps easily available on a search engine called Google. They’re very easy to access – so easy, that even Rahul Gandhi has been known to access them. There they’ll find – to their immense chagrin I believe – that Manchester United FC is based in Old Trafford, which is an area of Stretford, in the Trafford Borough of Greater Manchester, England. That’s right. It is not a part of India. In fact, it never was. Not once. IT’S IN ENGLAND!!

Now pause for a moment and exert your grey cells, my dear fanatic fans. Is there really a point in being so devoted to a football club that is based in England? Can there be any earthly reason for being so emotionally attached to a foreign club? Yes, yes, I understand that the lads have played well on many occasions. In fact, they’ve been a great team. And they often have had some world class players. So go ahead, and admire their game. But such emotional upheavals that you pretend to experience with the rise and fall of the team’s fortune are, I’m sorry to say, completely artificial and contrived. Freud might have been able to give an explanation for your illogical behavior – maybe something like being stuck at the anal stage of psychosexual development, or some such highbrow stuff. I won’t even attempt.

The point is, if you love football, then love football. Enjoy the good football that Manchester United play. Or Chelsea play. Or Barcelona, or Real Madrid, or any of the numerous European clubs that play delightful, exciting football, play. Love the Tiki-taka of Spain AND the beautiful game of Brazil. By all means, admire the players and the clubs. Wear Manchester United T-shirts if you must. Idolize Robin van Persie if you feel like. It’s a free country. But please don’t pretend that Manchester United (or Chelsea for that matter) is your soul. Don’t think that pretending to be fanatic about football elevates you above the average, philistine Indian cricket fan. Don’t abuse the supporters of other teams and players. And for those of you who think that pretending to be a football fan will get you laid, don’t be deluded – only a moron gets laid with a pretentious idiot.

So my uncalled for advice to you is – don’t be so pretentiously fanatic. Someday we may hope that an Indian team will create a sensation in world football, and then your fanaticism will be justified. Then even I will be fanatic – but that will be because I will be supporting my country’s team. Till then, I will enjoy watching and supporting football – not any particular foreign club.

NB: I’d like to advise football fans that calling me a chut or a cunt or an asshole or similar cute names will not change the veracity of my beliefs (advise: Google veracity)

chelsea t shirt

 

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Posted in Satire

Time Travails

I’m always on time for everything. Except my work. I’m never on time for that. Doesn’t matter what time I’m supposed to report – morning, afternoon, midnight (quite usual during my residency days) – I’m never on time.

It’s totally inexplicable. Not that I hate my work or anything – which isn’t like saying that I’m absolutely in love with my work. I mean, you won’t find me exuberantly wishing my boss a cheerful good morning or holding his pudgy frame in a bear hug and kissing his blotchy cheek with fraternal affection, my eyes shining with gratitude for having been given the chance to save the sick and comfort the miserable of humanity. Not really. I like my work because I’m good at nothing else, and it gives me the means to maintain the subsistence levels of the upper class poor of the US of A. And I can afford to take my wife shopping on weekends (provided of course that the stores have a discount sale on).

Earlier my boss used to prowl around the entrance to the hospital to catch me coming late. As soon as he saw me, he used to glance at the watch pinned on the wall over the receptionist, and shake his head with a particularly mournful expression. But needing to pretend that he had other work too besides stalking me, he couldn’t do his ‘catching the thief red-handed’ act every day. So one day he installed a biometric machine at the entrance. It was a rather interesting piece. I mean, who wouldn’t like it when a pleasant female voice says “Thank you” when you insert your finger correctly into a particular orifice? After about a month of this, my boss called me into his office.

work cartoon blog

“You know Doctoratlarge, I hate to have to say such things to a responsible consultant like yourself, but the biometric machine says that you have been late EVERY SINGLE DAY this month!”

“Indeed! Haha! These machines, I tell you! They’re actually taking over the world. We humans are already becoming their slaves. And soon it will be Skynet and Judgment Day and we’ll have to find our John Connor.”

The boss remained dour-faced and silent. Obviously he didn’t get the joke.

It’s not that I get up late or anything. I usually get up well in time. But things happen to me. I mean, sometimes it’s the newspaper. I get the Times, and I tell you, I hate that newspaper. A completely rubbish newspaper. Especially the color supplement. They always publish these pics of nubile young actresses and models in a rather advanced state of undress. And if it is Katrina Kaif or Nargis Fakhri or Scarlett Johansson, I just have to go to the bathroom and waste my time there. These things are beyond a man’s control. Old Adam and his original sin have ensured that men will continue to waste their times in bathrooms for eons to come.

And if it’s not the paper, it’s Twitter. Every night when I sleep, I generally find myself aghast at the amount of time that I’ve wasted on Twitter. And when I think I might have spent that time in discovering an enlightening philosophy, or creating a body of literature that would uplift the entire human spirit, I feel sorry for humanity for having been deprived of the fruits of my genius. And I always promise to myself that whatever happens, I won’t check my Twitter tomorrow. Which of course means that the first thing I do on getting up in the morning is to check my Twitter notifications. And I usually find that some football fan has taken umbrage to one of my tweets about Wayne Rooney, or some feminist has called me a misogynist pig, and by the time I’ve poured some more sarcastic boiling oil over these outraged people, I find that I’m already an hour late.

Sometimes an evil angel inserts the thought into my mind that my ass is getting too fat, and then I determine that I should get some exercise. I usually choose to cycle. Firstly because, I’m too lazy to jog. But mostly because my wife is constantly reminding me that the expensive bicycle that I’ve bought is doing nothing but gathering rust (though God knows that the bicycle cost no more than half of what she manages to spend in a single excursion to the local mall).

I don’t mean to indulge in excessive self-praise, but when I start on some project, I put my heart and soul into it. So when I start cycling, I try to lose all my excess fat the very first day. So I travel so far down the road less travelled, that I find that I simply have no more energy left to ride back, and have to trundle the bicycle on foot. Which of course means an hour late for work and going off to sleep while examining a patient.

Once I bought a gym membership, and it was so expensive that I hauled my ass every single morning to get it literally burned off by the sadistic trainers at the damned place. Things were going alright, when one day a really curvy young thing started coming to the gym at the same time as I did, and that sort of took my focus off. Now don’t mistake me – I’m not such a pervert as to see a curvy young thing and immediately rush off to the gym bathroom. Like the perfect gentleman, I always rushed off to the bathroom at my home. And that of course meant that I started getting late to work again.

One day I finally decided that enough was enough. Never again would I be late for work again. I put my alarm clock to go off at 4:00 am. The clock obviously thought that I was just trying to pull off a prank on it and simply didn’t bother to go off. Not to be daunted by such minor problems, I set the alarm on my smart phone. For three successive nights, the alarm went off at 4:00, but the sound failed to penetrate the dense fog of my sleepiness. I know the alarm went off, because the third morning my wife threatened to break my smartphone on my head if it disturbed her sleep again at such an unearthly hour. Which led me to request my wife if she would wake me up at 4:00 the next morning, which led her to ask me whether I thought I’d married an alarm clock. I said, I wished I had, because it would have tickled me mightily to clonk her on her head to press on her snooze button. But of course I didn’t SAY that. One doesn’t say such things to one’s wife if one wishes not to be mowed down in the prime of one’s life.

So many things conspire to make me late. Sometimes it is a torrent that I simply have to download to conclusion to see if it’s good quality. Sometimes it’s the highlights of the late night tennis match that I missed. So many things that a man has got to do in this life, and so little time to do them in. The only thing that doesn’t make me late is early morning sex. Married men don’t get to indulge in luxuries like early morning sex – not after 10 years of marriage.

But persistence has its rewards. And once for a whole of 25 days I was able to reach work at exactly the right time. The female voice that said “Thank you” on fingering her orifice seemed especially pleased at my persistent punctuality. Even my boss very nearly threatened to give me a smile in appreciation of my sincerity. I began to have hopes that the miser might be persuaded to give me a raise if I could keep up the good work for a month. On the 26th day, when I was about to drive off in my car, perfectly on time, when suddenly through the windshield I saw my pretty neighbor Mrs P sashaying down towards me with a seductive smile on her face.

“Excuse me Doctoratlarge”, she trilled, “Would you mind sparing me a little bit of your time? I’m feeling a little niggle about my chest that I wished to consult you about.”

“Why sure Mrs P!” I said, jumping out of the car with alacrity. “I’m bound by the Hippocratic Oath to help a patient in dire need”

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” She purred, with a dazzling smile. “I sure hope I’m not making you late”

“Oh no Mrs P, not at all. I’ve plenty of time”

“Oh, but you’ve left the door of your car open” She said. I went back to slam the door shut, and then hurried to lead her into my consultation chamber. I let the car remain in the middle of the road. I wasn’t letting some irritated and irate morning drivers prevent me from discharging my chivalrous obligations.

Well of course I got late that day. Very late. And the scowl on my boss’s face was enough hint that the raise I’d hoped for wasn’t very likely to come to me next month. And anyway, who needed my boss’s raise, when Mrs P had already given me a raise?

 

 

 

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Posted in humour

Shayari – 1

कहने को तो हर तरफ़ है समंदर बिखरा हुआ

पर रूह की प्यास बुझाने को एक कतरा भी नहीं

 

एक तूफां ने बिखरा दी है ज़िन्दगी कुछ इस तरह

की मुख़्तसर लम्हों में अब में ढूंढ पाता भी नहीं

 

न जाम में नशा है, न हुस्न में अब दिलकशी

किस तलाश में हूँ मैं, अब ये जानता भी नहीं

 

कुछ पल का सुकून तेरी बाँहों में था पाया

पर दिल – ए- मुज़्तर को  राहत अब ये पनाह भी नहीं

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Posted in poem

The Meaning of Life

What is the point in burning oneself

To make a few wisps of smoke,

When the swirling gusts of smiling time

Will scatter them with a careless stroke?

 

Desperately, some meaning in life

It’s our vanity that makes us see;

Life is too busy in living itself,

To indulge your little fantasy.

 

Not that I know not that life

Is no more than what I can see,

Yet the mind keeps fooling itself,

That this cannot be all that can be.

 

No deeper meaning awaits your quest,

The rainbow ends in a place empty,

The leaden pain of a gnawing heart

Is all that your reward will ever be

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Posted in poem

Stuck

I know that

Each moment is a new life,

But mine is still entangled

Like a piece of gossamer

On the rosethorn

Of that moment that you parted

From me

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Posted in poem

Elegy To A Memory

I forgave her a long time ago actually.

I realized, she wasn’t at fault anyway;

She just chose wrong, and walked away

On realizing it. I guess, I was kinda silly,

Too emotional, and not really good

At anything, except to dream and brood.

 

And her instinct kicked in to save her.

The book says: a female needs a mate

Who can provide as well as procreate.

I hadn’t material inclinations to persuade her.

And he listened well, but judged it right

When her dad said my prospects weren’t bright.

 

And with what could I tilt the scales of fate?

Reminding her of her first tender kiss laid

On my unshaven chin; or our first date

In the ice-cream shop, for which she paid;

The card I drew, which she said was totally mad?

Against her instinct, and wisdom of her dad.

 

 

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Posted in poem

Boys In A Tea Stall

Unwashed, uncombed, they sit

On the rusted benches,

Sipping strong tea on credit.

“To class go the wenches

Dressed, snooty, trying to look classy”

The talk soon turns to philosophy:

 

“Girls read, not for love or sense

But to get marks, and marry

Not for love, but a pretense,

Boys who’ll be fat and dull with worry

Paying EMIs to enjoy marital bliss.

What’s true love for girls like this?

 

“Why dress up for such as these?

These puffs of friendship taste better.

That ass of hers is so meant to squeeze

Wish that one’s tits were a little fatter.

What do they know of love, these girls shallow?”

The boys laugh loudly, because it  sounds hollow

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Posted in Uncategorized
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