This Fake just can’t Fake it

It's happened. No one's watching the IPL. No one means except the morons in depression desperately celebrating recession. The ad guys. Those traders and money-lenders who are making tonnes of filthy money. And, those who are not reading that one blog which will mark the epistemological rupture of the final funeral of this fake anti-catharsis called IPL.

Damn the big sold-out media. This is true subaltern democracy. And, we must have it.

That is why, everyone's hooked on www.fakeiplplayer.blogspot.com. Because this is where the spoof is becoming bitter realism, authentic sarcasm, uncanny caricature, on-the-spot satire, high and low art, and sports tabloid journalism at its best: free, frank, fearless, with basic instincts intact. For the first time, perhaps, the sham that is IPL has been decisively exposed, scandalised and slammed by insiders. And with it, the absolute and stunning degradation and prostitution of an incredibly nuanced game like cricket, which has been reduced into a hit-hit-kiss-bang-bang multi-billion cash-carnival by cricketers, managers, commentators, cheer girls, ad agencies, corporate honchos, corporate journos, corporate media, and sundry tycoons and failed actresses strutting around the dressing rooms as if they are the chosen ones because of their high IQ, great method cinema and 'queer' proclivities.

The fake player blog is all the more an interesting deception because the writer claims to be a team member of the Kolkata Knight Riders (KKR) and is, therefore, in the know of how most cricketers in his and other teams seem to have lost their self-respect when it comes to dealing with the 'owner' and his/her 'hare-brained' Sancho Panzas, like 'Dildo's coachie', for instance, as if players have sold their soul and body to their master in a total slavish culture. Why? Will they sell their country one day for money or for a morbid, method actor who is singularly out in this world to make money?

What has been successfully achieved is that this entire IPL manufactured hype and showbiz has been decisively deconstructed, dismantled and dispatched to the ropes. Owners have been shown to be megalomaniacs, cricketers are seen to be soulless, selfish, small, cynical, non-committal, without self dignity or basic knowledge systems; commentators (mercenary ex-cricketers etc, Kishen Kanhaiya et al ) have been shown to create excitement through high-pitched hyperbole because the TV cameras don't show you the empty stands - that is, when they are not betting on Sandy Mandy Babe. That Lordie still lords over despite having sold his legendary reputation for a few bucks more, or that Dildo and his coachie are clueless about the finer sensibilities or tactics of the game, is graphically described in no-frills language.

That the author is a perpetual loser is a major relief in this perverse recessionary realm of collective losers where only one man/woman is a winner and everyone wants to become that one man/woman. But the loser proves that even a loser might have more in his brains and soul (and in his balls) than all these dodos and dildos chasing dirty money 24x7 - and, you know, all that scintillating stuff in the seductive South African landscape. Read the infamous night-life scenario called Opium. Read all and every bit of every opiated diary. This is the first ode to joy against this grotesque and perverse melodrama, destroying the best traditions of the game, floating on millions, when tens of thousands have lost jobs in India and the world, their families on the verge of infinite despair.

No wonder thousands have clued in to the blog with a vengeance and their comments are as loaded with black irony as the blog itself. One reader says that KKR can only make it if Karan Johar is made the coach.