Learn a lesson from us Desis

Whoever said that cricket was just a game of bat hitting ball, obviously never played the sport. Eleven men in whites, dressed in their Sunday sweaters chasing a leather globe, scratching their groins at every two-minute intervals, do make up a perfect English cricket team. The stiff upper-lipped spectators who love their tea, and pint as the case may be, spread out the picnic basket to watch an interesting game on a leisurely Sunday afternoon. An occasional applause when the leather globe wins the chase over the boundary, coupled with an ooh or an aaah, when the wickets kiss the grass. Get the picture? A sound quite dull, if you’re a Desi bugger, doesn’t it?

But that is the scene on the other part of the world. Step over to this side, and we’ll teach you a thing or two about Cricket!

It’s most likely that the first thing that hits you (firang) as you step off the plane at Mumbai airport is not the strong whiff of human crapiosa, but a red cherry struck firmly by a slumdog playing on the tarmac a few hundred feet away from the landing aircraft.

Ouch, you say. Welcome to India, we say!

In these parts of the world, the ones often called as ‘hell on earth’ by your white-arsed ancestors, Cricket is not a sport. It’s a religion. Hard to comprehend, is it?

Well, to understand why we call it a religion is these fancy parts of the subcontinent, that your white-arsed forefathers once ravaged, one must journey down to the hot and humid subcontinent to realise that the game referred to as ‘bat hitting ball’ is by far a religion, passionately or rather let me put it this way, madly followed by over a billion brown-arse inhabitants of this ‘hell-hole fit to send your mother-in-law to on a one-way ticket’.

Let’s just give you a little lesson in history before we go any further. Your white-arse jhonnies invented this game. Way back in the 18th century, you guys and your yellow-bastard cousins spent years playing each other over 22-yard strips. Whacking the cherry around, running like school-girls between the wickets and growing beards that went way past your little johns, was the best you could come up with for over a century.

However, all that changed when we ‘brownies’ entered the picture and ruined your frame!

We brownies taught you a lesson in ‘stroke-play’, our southpaws made you dance to our ‘reverse’ swing, and of course we made you watch our ‘spinning’ cherries till the last minute, even though it bowled you neck and crop. But, well, what the hell. You had your own umpires, who obviously went blind when your bearded white-arsed pommies played before the wickets, and where wrapped plumb on the pads. And of course the same blind white-coats were more than happy to give our brownies out to outswingers that should very well have been called wides!

So, when you have been playing a sport with 13 men on the field, it doesn’t make for a very rosy picture, does it?

Cut to the new version of the game, the limited overs version. The story was pretty much still the same. At the first two World Cups, the Windies blew the living daylights out of your yellow-bastard cousins, and your white-arse pommies. “They bowled bouncers, you know,” was the standard excuse that your batters used to ‘hide and duck’ a sad performance.

Then came the era of the Desis! The 1983 World Cup, India made it to its first final and won the World Cup. Such was the excitement and euphoria that an entire nation went berserk in celebration. And that celebration has lasted over 25 years! The players from that playing squad became legends overnight and have been milking advertising revenue till date from that one single victory. Can you or your forefathers claim anything of this magnitude? Of course not!

The 1992 World Cup finals, whoa, pyjama cricket at its best. You do remember those Pakis, right? Left arm around the wicket, ball darts back into the leg stump. Baffled Alan Lamb and an open-jawed Chris Lewis walk back to the pavilion. I bet Chris Lewis would be staring at the ceiling of his prison cell, still thinking about that Wasim Akram beauty. Do you remember the time, eh Lewis?

And that my dear pommie, was the last time your team came close to a World Cup final. After that it was all Desis versus your yellow-arse cousins.

The Lankans, with a fat cunt as a captain, took away the 1996 World Cup from Mark Taylor’s Ozzies. Mad Max taught the yellow bastards valuable lessons in aggressive batting, and by God, can that man bat!
Smashed to smithereens!

Then came the era of the Twenty20 version. Now, here too, this version of the game was invented by your white-arse pommies as a Sunday attraction to rope in the crowds for County matches. It worked wonders for the counties, and it did help put bums on seats in the local stadiums. But here too, we Desis hijacked your plot, and showed you how it’s done better.

Why do you think that the first two World Cup finals were fought between us Desis?
India and Pakistan met in the inaugural T20 finals, and the Indians won it in a nail-biter. (That Mallu in every corner of the world and all…)

The second version of the T20 World Cup wasn’t any different either. The Pakis took on the Lankans in the finals. Surprised? Why should you be? The bloody Dutch kicked your white-arse in the first game. Wasn’t that shameful, enough?

If you guys really want to stand a chance of winning something significant, come on over to our land, and we’ll give you a lesson or two in how to win a World Cup. Don’t forget, we got two on the shelf, and you, my white-arse friend, have nothing to show for 150 years of Cricket!

Howzzat!