An Evening To Remember

I often think of the wonderful times I have had, drunk. At some point I was even considering chronicling all these wonderful times in this blog. But then I realized that there were too many wonderful times to chronicle, since it has been a good three years or so since I started drinking, and every time has left behind its own fond memories, is specially special for some reason or the other, except for that once when I was too drunk to notice all the fish disappear down one co-party-er's oesophagus, too drunk to hold the drink in, the only time I have ever puked after drinking...

In any case, here's a memoir from one of those wonderful evenings.

It was the world cup of football, 2006. I was supporting Brazil. Spoiling my eyes watching the late matches on my computer with the help of a TV tuner card. Laughing my head off at 'Duniya Gol Hai' (I loved that show, though everyone else I know found it silly).

As the semi-finals approached, a friend of mine got gifted free passes to an HSBC evening of 'drinks, cocktails, Kababs and football'. I remember having replied to my friend's 'Who wants to go?' mail in seconds.

It was an invitation to watch the Portugal-England semi-final. Though it would have been better if it were for the Brazil-France one. But Brazil-France was the later match, too late in the night.

My friend, I, another friend and his wife landed up. Invitees had been encouraged to wear the colours of the team. My friend was wearing Portuguese maroon. I had gone looking for found a Brazil jersey - consumeristic I know, but Brazil are going to be around next world cup too, and the next and the next!

Fosters is a wonderful beer even when you have to pay for it. When it is free, and when there is a chap who is opening bottle after bottle at your asking, it becomes the best beer in the world. Imagine for a few hours, the world pays for your existence. It's even better than being King-emperor.

An enthusiastic, optimistic, compere was trying to distract us from the beer, the seek kababs and the pre-match analysis by doing arbit things like separating, geographically, the Portuguese fans from the England fans. We did his bidding, joined the Portugal camp, and drowned the rest of his prattlings in more beer.

I may be speaking lightly, even condescendingly, of our master of ceremonies, but really, I have the greatest respect for him. He did some interesting things, like conduct a quiz on football. And to hold your own, to speak even, when the audience wants you to stand somewhere where you don't block the TV, speaks of extreme will-power and self confidence. I would have chickened out at the mere thought.

Getting drunk on beer is nice. Getting drunk on whiskey makes you sober, philosophical, creative and in the mood for blogging. Getting drunk on beer, especially good, free beer, makes you extremely cheerful, jovial, reckless and good naturedly rebellious.

So when the compere encouraged people to shout 'Portugal! Portual!' or 'England! England!' (imagine!), I, out of contempt for him and for the tame contest on-going, cheered 'babe-max! babe-max!' in honour of a pretty Indian girl sitting with an undeserving Firang close by.

It was a tame contest, as I said, and got the finish it deserved. A penalty shootout! At least Portugal won.

On our way out, another drunk, Brazil supporter, generally came, yelled 'Brazil!' or something like that and hugged me!

What degenerate debauchery you might think of the above account. Obviously, my friend, you have'nt had a sip yet.