Given the recent fuck up (sorry, there isn’t another term in the dictionary for what Mr. Lalit Modi’s IPL perpetrated) of rather monumental proportions that (very understandably) raised the heckles of our good neighbors across the border, there is this hilarious article I stumbled upon.
Before I post the article, I just wanted to say to any Pakistani who stumbles across this post – straight up guys, we fucked up. IPL, the government, the team owners – everyone did. Sorry!
The IPL is a party and Pakistan aren’t invited. This news has been met both sides of the border with several knee-jerk responses – the operative word in many cases being “jerk”.
Basically, the Indian franchises snubbed the Pakistanis because they didn’t want to spend the money (and their limited, coveted spots) on potential no-shows.
Fair enough, but instead of saying this straight up, the IPL decided to invite the Pakistanis, wait till they’d donned their dinner jackets and knotted their bow-ties, then called them just before they left home to say, “Sorry, you know, actually we decided something would probably happen to you on the way over, like you crashing your car or getting an upset tummy, so we’re gonna ask someone else. See ya around.”
They’re not happy here in Pakistan. The National Assembly has refused to send parliamentary delegations across the border, former batsman Zaheer Abbas wants his country’s hockey team to withdraw from the World Cup in India, and the real tragedy, I’m sure you’ll agree: Pakistan’s kabadditour to India has been called off.
Oh, Zaheer and everyone else, ab bas karo.
In India, some team owners have said the decision was tactical and purely cricketing, i.e. the Pakistanis don’t quite cut it on the pitch. Shame that a few of these owners have apparently gone under the knife. It would have been fun watching noses grow all the way from Mumbai to Karachi, providing immense footbridges for peace across the Arabian Sea, paving the way for fraternal love and mutual understanding.
What’s the big deal, though? Maybe this is best for everyone. Pakistan is like a little brother to India, and nobody wants their younger siblings at their party. What if they embarrass you? Worse still, what if your friends actually like them? Every child dies a little at the words, “Hey, your younger brother/sister is sooo cool”.
When the cricket world wakes up, hungover and bleary-eyed, to another Twenty20 World Cup in May, the Pakistanis will be fresh, lively and desperate to remind the world that no matter how good your party is, without an impromptu 5am limbo dance, it can never, ever be called great
For Pakistan, there’s no use being bitter. Everyone wants an invite to the biggest party on the block, but are these overblown gatherings ever that fun? They’ve got loads of food and drink (which one overdoses on, out of feelings of social inadequacy), the sound system rocks (but the music, catering to the lowest common denominator, is awful), and they’ve got the hottest babes (but you always go home alone).
I guess we could throw our own rival party on the same night, but asking people to come to Pakistan is a bit like inviting them to a party in the most crime-ridden area in the city. People will suddenly remember work dinners and their non-existent children will get migraines. It’s nothing against us, just where we live.
I suppose that as India’s next-door neighbour we could call the police, complain about the noise and get the whole thing shut down.
Actually we couldn’t. The police are in India’s pocket. They’re called the ICC and they’re to be found in uniform outside the party house, downing hooch and having a merry old time between doffs of the hat to the lord of the manor, Mr Lalit Modi.
Still, the party will be worse without Pakistani players. We’re the crazy eccentric, the person most likely to lead an impromptu limbo session at 5am. Are the other guests enough?
England is the type of person you’re always pleased to see at a party, because he is a bit dull but very nice, so a) when you have nobody to talk to and are feeling insecure you can always find him at the back, alone, and pretend to be interested in what he says, and b) he makes you feel like a rock star.
Australia, the loudmouth in the Hawaiian shirt who’s a surprisingly graceful dancer.
India, the owner of the mansion, who flits between having a great time soaking up the faux love and wondering what all the ruffians are doing spilling red wine on the carpet.
West Indies, of whom I cannot think of a good description, but I know the word “lithe” should be in there somewhere.
The rest make up the numbers, of which Pakistan have been counted out.
But maybe the Pakistan players’ early night will be advantageous. When the cricket world wakes up, hungover and bleary-eyed, to another Twenty20 World Cup in April, the Pakistanis will be fresh, lively and, most dangerously of all, desperate to remind the world that no matter how good your party is, without an impromptu 5am limbo dance, it can never, ever be called great.