Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

A chance comment by a fellow inmate at the nut house (read: McCann Erickson, Bangalore) got me thinking.

What the fuck is the point of Tuesdays?

I mean everyone knows about Mondays. Right? They're the penance assigned by (insert capo di tutti capi of the organised religion of your choice here) for all the good shit that happens on weekends. Mondays are kind of like American preisdents; everyone hates them, but we all live through them with a forebearance that's practically saintly.

What helps is knowing that one has truly earned that drink at the end of a Monday.

And Wednesdays are beacons of hope. People look forward to Wednesdays, with a "beer stein half-full" sort of attitude. You know that the good shit is just a couple of days away.

And this, of course, calls for a drink.

Thursdays are indispensible. They're prep night for Fridays. If it wasn't for the practice we give our livers on Thursday nghts, most of us would never survive Friday nights.

Drinks again. Many, many drinks.

Which brings us to that amazing entity: Friday. Without it, life would be utter crap. Mindless drudgery. Friday packs in sin and salvation. Sin, in the form of the utter debauchery we know we're going to indulge in. Salvation, in the form of the chores we promise ourselves we're going to tackle this weekend. For sure. Scout's honour. Cross our hearts, and hope to die.

Turly, amazingly, staggering amounts of drinks.

Saturday and Sunday need no introduction. If you feel they do, you're probably not yet past puberty, and should get the fuck off my blog.

Alcoholically speaking, they begin just about where Friday left off. And to hell with cirrhosis.

Given all this, Tuesdays perform no useful function known to rational man. They're kind of like a fourth tit (hey - I'm creative - I can picture interesting variations with three of the lil things.)

So, I hereby propose we ban Tuesdays.

A four day week would be more productive. A three day weekend, more fun. Pubs would flourish. Employment would rise. Leading to more conspicuous consumerism. Leading to more pubs. And more employment. And so on, and so forth.

If the powers that be don't buy into it, there's only one solution I can come up with to effectively combat the menace of Tuesdays.




When I was a little 'un, I spent a lot of time at my grandma's.

The lady who is my mother's mother, remains one of the strongest women I know. And she is a lady. The little that is good about me, I learned from her. One of which was respect for the written word.

One interminable Bombay summer, deposited in her unquestionably safe custody, I was leafing through one of her books (there were literally thousands). Carelessly flipping through the pages, the young brat (me) tore one of them.

For me, time forever pauses there.

Many an indulgent authority figure would have given me a metaphysical lecture on why this was unpardonable. Many more, especially those of the neo-liberal school, would have ignored it.

Grandma took one work hardened finger, held up my (then) miniscule palm, gave it one solid thwack and said "don't!"

And I never have, since then.

Recently, this lady lost most of her eyesight. As with every other cross she's borne, this too has met nothing but inimitable resilience.

On my last couple of visits, she's been giving me some of her old books. Thomas Wolfe. The entire Ramses Series. Claudius the God. I, Claudius.

Don't know what hit me harder. The fact that the lady who taught me to love and respect literature was giving me some of her most treasured companions. Or the fact that even though I walked into the room in broad daylight, she had to ask, to make sure it was me.

Either way, I know grandma would frown if I whimpered about it.

So I'll just say "Thank you, grandma."


Pink Elephants

There's something so reassuring about the feel of a frosty brew as it slips snugly into my hand, first thing in the morning.

It's the only thing that comes anywhere close to the taste of ice cold rum n coke washing away the minty after-taste of the morning's toothpaste (and the sins of the night before).

Just spent the weekend in Goa. I'm surprised they didn't stop my liver at the checkpost, and ask it for a liquor permit.

Some people find Jesus at the bottom of the bottle.
Some find pink elephants.
Me, I just find the bar. Again.

Bob and Jeff, of Change of Pace, have come up with the definitive Irish drinking toast. I reproduce it here for your dyspeptic pleasure:

Here’s to the wine we love to drink,
And the food we love to eat.

Here’s to our wives and sweethearts,
and may they never meet.

Here’s to champagne for our real friends,
and real pain for our sham friends.

And when this journey finally ends,
may all of us find peace.

Here’s to the women that I’ve loved,
and all the one’s I’ve kissed.

As for regrets, I have just one,
that’s all the one’s I’ve missed.

While women’s faults are many,
we men have only two:

Every single thing we say,
and everything we do.

I wish ya health, I wish ya wealth,
and happiness galore.

I wish ya heaven when ya die,
what could I wish ya more.

May your joys be as deep as the ocean,
your troubles as light as its foam.

And may ya find sweet peace of mind,
wherever you may roam.