There are many who believe that birthdays and anniversaries hold no special significance, treating them with a devil-may-care attitude reminiscent of Yana Gupta’s relationship with her underwear.
However, I’m not one of them, which is why I’m so kicked about the fact that this column is now two years old. And mind you, that’s two years in a mainstream newspaper – a medium where humour is a very low priority, usually discarded in favour of more important journalistic themes such as ‘Analysing Sunny Leone’ (she may have also starred in a movie with a similar name)
Now before this piece ends up sounding self-congratulatory, let me just say that I know what a privilege it is to be here every fortnight. I can almost see readers turning to this page for their regular fix of sharp, informative and effortless writing. Then once they’re done reading Ayaz Memon, they go further down to see me talking trash about people who are often more talented, more hard-working, and in the case of Poonam Pandey, more naked than I am.
People often ask me why I do what I do. I tell them I do it for the money, after which we laugh like retarded hyenas, because everyone knows that freelance media rates are the reason people flock towards more lucrative jobs, like selling bodily fluids. No, I do this because it’s great to have people laugh at the constant garbage spewed out by one’s brain (or as Digvijay Singh calls it, Tuesday)
I understand that two years is but a fleeting instant. It is the career equivalent of Kim Kardashian’s wedding. Having said that, ‘The Blunder Years’ has changed my life in many ways. For starters, I’m under a lot more pressure now. See, once you have a regular byline, people expect you to know what the hell you’re talking about. It’s unfair. I mean Manmohan Singh never has to face this problem.
Also, now I know (and there’s no way to say this without sounding pompous) what it feels like to be recognised. Over the last two years, absolute strangers have come up to me at bars, coffee shops, loos, on the street, bars, bookshops, bars, bars and oh did I say bars? If you think that sounds good, well, you’re wrong, because it’s PRETTY FREAKIN’ AWESOME! I don’t mean to brag, but I think that at this point, I am actually more recognisable than the Bachchan baby.
(Of course, this will change as soon as she gets her first endorsement. And that can only happen when Grandpa stops hogging all the brands)
Another fun side-effect of the job is going through all the reader feedback. Actual names that I’ve been called include, and I quote, “pea brain”, “Congress agent” and “F*c**ng A**H*le” (although aren’t these just synonyms?)
Most readers have been incredibly nice though. From those who invited me to parties, to others who, after having read a piece, turned up at my stand-up shows and had great things to say after (“You’re funnier than Russell Peters. Also uglier”) and many, many more – you have all made an egomaniac very happy. May all those promises made to you by spammers finally come true.
Also, to the wonderful people at HT who have always allowed me to go nuts with this space, all I’d like to say is, thank you for being on drugs.
P.S. Now can we do something about the money situation? I’m running out of bodily fluids to sell.
(Note: This is my HT column dated 20th Nov, 2011)