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The Rossogolla Awards 2010 – the award ceremony begins

(written in June 2010)

What with large quantities of the stuff that cheers and also inebriates sloshing about my interiors, it has been some time since I could get myself off the sofa, pull up my smelly socks and send back a report to you all from my perch in the Himalayas. Actually, it’s not so high up in a small building in the neighbourhood of the airport in Mumbai, but I like to believe that altitude (physical) is not important – mental altitude is all that counts.

However, the unholy caterwauling from Vuvie, my dearly beloved lady wife, got me off my sofa, interrupted my healthful nap, and rushed me to update you mortal souls about what’s been happening in the War of the Sphere.

So, here goes…

The Le Deluge, C’est Nous Award

has, of course, finally gone to France. As if there were any contenders anyway. Oh wait!! did someone say Italy? Well, OK, grant you that. They get an award too, don’t worry.

Anyways, it was obvious that the French were unbeatable in this one. Look at their team – they had the slow Lloris, some Falouda, Henry Hands and the whole of Abu Dhabi in the team. Can anyone seriously expect this lot to play football, especially Falouda? Bombay wallahs know that we consume Falouda like mad every summer; and how did they expect to fit in all the people from Abu Dhabi into their eleven? No wonder there was bad blood in the dressing room!

And the whole thing ‘managed’ by a Dominican old monk! Laughable it was! ‘Incroyable! Comique! Drole!’ as les Parisiennes put it.

My usually reliable spy tells me from under the French President’s bed that for this year’s Bastille Day celebration, Madame Lakozy has planned a traditional theme party. She plans to go back to the glorious days of the Revolution and will bring out the French team in this

and take them to this

where the presence of Henry, Falouda, Lloris and co will be celebrated by their countless fans like this

Vive La France!

The Spaghetti & Meatballs Award

has gone to Italy, where the population went feverishly through their history books to find out whether there had ever been an Italian Revolution. Finding that there had never been anything of that kind in their country, the whole population is in tears – they would have loved to have emulated the French in celebrating the return of their Cannavaros, buffoons, pepes, and other playing staff, coaching staff, cleaning staff, boring stuff, preening staff, and other kinds of staff which could be better used stuffing the players.

Anyways, finally, the decision is that Bologna will hold a great spaghetti festival, where they chefs would serve real meatballs (46 of them counting only the players, must be more than a 100 counting the other lot) – I am told that these guys are on a train through sub-Sahara even as I write this; the train will visit such areas of tourist interest as Darfur, the Somali Coast, and the bottom of the Rift Valley.

The Lost and Found Award

Fabo Capello is a strong front runner for this. After the first two games, the England coach apparently complained to the cops that the players who played in the English jersey were imposters, and not his boys at all. I don’t know who they were, but on TV, Gerrard looked like Gerrard, Ashley Cole looked like Ashley Cole, Lampard looked like Lampard, and so on. All of them had the familiar little boy lost look that comes over English players in serious and heavy internationals – they look as if their bones have been replaced by Singapore noodles, and their brains with some cheap cauliflower substitutes. They missed the ball with the same familiar flair and panache. And they played their wrong passes with the aplomb we have come to expect from genuine English football players.

Anyway, I guess Daddy (read Capello) knows best – probably by smell if not by look. After the English scraped past Slovenia to their certain death against Germany (‘Dirty Hun!’ ‘Englander Schweinhund!!’) , Capello was all smiles and told the world that he’s got his lovely babies back, adn how proud he was to be the father to that squalling squad of brats.

The There is God After All Award

The final clinching proof that God exists is here

I had occasion some time ago of celebrating the Miraculous Hips of Shakira, which move in mysterious ways their wonders to perform (see here)

And not a man who will take issue with me on this. God exists!!! Amen!!!!

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About thecrestedjay

I am passionate about football, jazz, classic rock, classic movies, crime, science fiction and P G Wodehouse. And also about NBA, western and Indian classical music. Since the wife will also read this blog, I cannot reveal my other passions in public. Have one son who plays the guitar, spent some time as an animator and now works for a digital marketing and advertising company. I also have one (1) wife. I spent a lot of my time on my music and books collection. I also have a passion for travelling but not a great deal of time and money to spend on this. Hopefully, in the future, I'll be able to do so.

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