--- The Tell-e-graph (26th May, 2008)
A lot of newsprint has been wasted in the last few weeks about a few players being picked again and again, inspite of their far-from-impressive performances. Experts have scratched their heads, beards, microphones, wallets and each other's backs, thinking their brains dry to explain why some people would be repeatedly selected in the team inspite of their sincerest efforts to contribute to the team's win - the opponent team's, that is.
We caught up with the greatest expert to have ever walked this Earth and probably Mars too, ace Roy-terse correspondent, Purr-knob, to throw some light on the matter.
Purr-knob writes:
We know now. Even the Eucalyptuses in my prince-mega-tonne campus know.
That IPL for Gourav stands for I Profess my Love (for Mahakaash). The manner in which they became inseparable entities, both on and off the field, reminds me of the great legends of Row-meaow and Julie-ate. The conclusive evidence was found in the last match, ably reported by a renowned daily, where the two of them, ran in perfect slow motion towards each other, without a care in the world and with eyes only for each other. Damn the ball. Damn the dropped catch.
You could almost visualise them running through the lush gardens of Europe or mustard fields of Punjab a la Yash Raj films, accompanied by a typical romantic background score. Then they collide, and sparks fly (in this case, the ball flies).
Their jodi is made in heaven; sanctified by Bow-canon.
As one great poet has said:
We caught up with the greatest expert to have ever walked this Earth and probably Mars too, ace Roy-terse correspondent, Purr-knob, to throw some light on the matter.
Purr-knob writes:
We know now. Even the Eucalyptuses in my prince-mega-tonne campus know.
That IPL for Gourav stands for I Profess my Love (for Mahakaash). The manner in which they became inseparable entities, both on and off the field, reminds me of the great legends of Row-meaow and Julie-ate. The conclusive evidence was found in the last match, ably reported by a renowned daily, where the two of them, ran in perfect slow motion towards each other, without a care in the world and with eyes only for each other. Damn the ball. Damn the dropped catch.
You could almost visualise them running through the lush gardens of Europe or mustard fields of Punjab a la Yash Raj films, accompanied by a typical romantic background score. Then they collide, and sparks fly (in this case, the ball flies).
Their jodi is made in heaven; sanctified by Bow-canon.
As one great poet has said:
Teams win, teams lose,
But to love you need no excuse;
Non-performance is of one's volition,
Long live, mid-air collision.
But to love you need no excuse;
Non-performance is of one's volition,
Long live, mid-air collision.
This is where Purr-knob ended his article.
When we asked him about the poet he quoted, he gave us a dirty look and said,
"Don't you see the stamp of class? I would have got the "no-bail" and not Tagore, had my manuscript reached on time. "
"How old are you?" we asked.
"It's not about the age, it's the mileage!" he said.
As we were wondering where we had heard this dialogue before, Purr-knob started running to catch his personal aircraft and collided mid-way with Mahakaash, who, incidentally was running to catch the next UFO to where he came from.
When we asked him about the poet he quoted, he gave us a dirty look and said,
"Don't you see the stamp of class? I would have got the "no-bail" and not Tagore, had my manuscript reached on time. "
"How old are you?" we asked.
"It's not about the age, it's the mileage!" he said.
As we were wondering where we had heard this dialogue before, Purr-knob started running to catch his personal aircraft and collided mid-way with Mahakaash, who, incidentally was running to catch the next UFO to where he came from.
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1 comment:
long live "purr-knob"
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