I've been inundated with TV commentary on the greatness of Sachin these last couple of hours that I've been watching TV. It's not something I normally do, watching TV, I mean -congenital defect - but today, I've been stood excellent beer by an old friend, who is also a bit of a Sachin-is-god pill, and one is obliged to indulge one's hosts.
"Sachin", he told me, over an ill-suppressed beer burp, "is God Himself". I had surmised as much, given the gushing quality of the commentary pouring over the tube.
"Really? I don't see HOW he is significantly better than, say, Hayden or Ponting" I rashly responded.
"Ponting? PONTING?" my friend foamed at his mouth "You are lucky I am not Henry the Eighth, or I would have you beheaded"
"A fate reserved for his wives, as far as I can tell". The beer had made me needlessly reckless
"No, no. A vast majority of the people he sent to the executioner's block were chaps like you, with unsound views on cricket. Ponting, it seems!" And with the aid of a julienne of carrot and a peanut, both thoughtfully supplied by the restaurant to its beer consuming customers, illustrated how Sachin had dispatched an Andre Nel delivery to the cover boundary, a feat, apparently, beyond the cricketing capabilities of messrs Ponting and Hayden.
Just not my day, in short. Earlier, the missus dragged me out shopping for bed linen.
"We want duvet covers", she told me, "and they have to be bought NOW".
"It's like the Nike slogan, Annie" said the younger one.
"Nike slogan?"
" Just duvet".
He nimbly evaded my attempt to slosh him one and disappeared into his room singing "Duvet, just duvet" to Michael Jackson's "Beat It"
We went to the most insanely crowded square mile in Bombay, the square mile around Crawford Market, and bought, along with the duvet covers, bed sheets, turkish towels, door mats, dupattas, salwar suits and one box of mulberries
On my way back I was stopped for breaking a red light (Bombay is REALLY changing) by what must be the nicest policeman I have ever been hauled up by. "Sir" he addressed me, and you could have knocked me over with a feather, "can I see your licence please?"
I kept the poker face
"Here"
"Sir, you jumped a signal"
I smiled my most ingratiating smile and, proffering him my licence, muttered conciliatory things in Marathi. To no effect. He firmly and politely told me to cough up the princely sum of Rs. 100, wrote me a very legible memo recording the transaction, and wished me happy divali.
The missus was not unduly upset. The successful procurement of duvet covers seemed to have mollified her. With a distracted "I wish you wouldn't drive like a doofus" she continued gazing at the package containing the duvet covers.
The day, all said, seems to have turned out all right
"Sachin", he told me, over an ill-suppressed beer burp, "is God Himself". I had surmised as much, given the gushing quality of the commentary pouring over the tube.
"Really? I don't see HOW he is significantly better than, say, Hayden or Ponting" I rashly responded.
"Ponting? PONTING?" my friend foamed at his mouth "You are lucky I am not Henry the Eighth, or I would have you beheaded"
"A fate reserved for his wives, as far as I can tell". The beer had made me needlessly reckless
"No, no. A vast majority of the people he sent to the executioner's block were chaps like you, with unsound views on cricket. Ponting, it seems!" And with the aid of a julienne of carrot and a peanut, both thoughtfully supplied by the restaurant to its beer consuming customers, illustrated how Sachin had dispatched an Andre Nel delivery to the cover boundary, a feat, apparently, beyond the cricketing capabilities of messrs Ponting and Hayden.
Just not my day, in short. Earlier, the missus dragged me out shopping for bed linen.
"We want duvet covers", she told me, "and they have to be bought NOW".
"It's like the Nike slogan, Annie" said the younger one.
"Nike slogan?"
" Just duvet".
He nimbly evaded my attempt to slosh him one and disappeared into his room singing "Duvet, just duvet" to Michael Jackson's "Beat It"
We went to the most insanely crowded square mile in Bombay, the square mile around Crawford Market, and bought, along with the duvet covers, bed sheets, turkish towels, door mats, dupattas, salwar suits and one box of mulberries
On my way back I was stopped for breaking a red light (Bombay is REALLY changing) by what must be the nicest policeman I have ever been hauled up by. "Sir" he addressed me, and you could have knocked me over with a feather, "can I see your licence please?"
I kept the poker face
"Here"
"Sir, you jumped a signal"
I smiled my most ingratiating smile and, proffering him my licence, muttered conciliatory things in Marathi. To no effect. He firmly and politely told me to cough up the princely sum of Rs. 100, wrote me a very legible memo recording the transaction, and wished me happy divali.
The missus was not unduly upset. The successful procurement of duvet covers seemed to have mollified her. With a distracted "I wish you wouldn't drive like a doofus" she continued gazing at the package containing the duvet covers.
The day, all said, seems to have turned out all right
2 comments:
take my advise: write a wodehousian book on sachin mania!
at least one buyer guaranteed (promise i wont download/ buy pirated copy on the footpath!)
seriously!!!
Thanks! :D
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